Back in My Hay Day

I remember the day of my birth.

Folks from miles around converged on this property, driving wagons laden with hand forged tools and roofing material. The lumber arrived the day prior, drifted down the Mississippi. My logs were lashed together and floated down river as giant rafts. A log driver steered, utilizing powerful oars. On the day of my barn raising, those handy with hammers and nails started building walls while the lady folk set out tables spread with feasts fit for kings. By noontime, my walls stood firmly anchored to the ground; by nightfall some stacked hay in my loft while others lead horses into their new stalls.

Over the next few days, neighbors dropped by to slap on some bright red paint. I became the talk of the township. My owner spared no expense. My interior included ten stalls and a farrier's quarters. Interestingly enough, no farrier ever bunked down here, but the owner's son often fell asleep on the goose down mattress, bedding down near his favorite steed, Rusty.

For my first few years, I was the hub of activity. In the Summertime, the Caldwell Brothers helped my owner and son bring the hay in. On many occasions they worked well into the night, stacking bales neatly in the loft. The Mrs. delivered glasses of ice water in between loads and often times the workers sat in the cupola with their legs dangling over the hard ground below. After a long day of haying, the boys tossed a rope over my central rafter and swung wildly around the barn. The horses flicked away flies, paying no attention; the barn cats skittered away as the boys screamed and hollered.

During the winter months, a pot bellied stove heated my interior. Winters in Minnesota drove the most hearty indoors to escape the brutal cold. The owner enjoyed whittling by the fire and singing Old Dan Tucker. His old Blue-Tick Hound slept near the stove, kicking and growling at squirrels and rabbits invading his dreams. Those were the days. I felt needed and I loved the company of the people and animals.

My fondest memories are from the Autumn. On cool Fall nights, the community gathered and square danced. Young loves twirled around while older couples demonstrated the Quadrille. The caller barked out instructions and I watched as the pairs Promenaded and Do Si Do'ed. At the end of the night, young suitors stole a quick kiss goodnight. I watched as young love blossomed and new generations sprang from their unions, young'uns now versed in the dance as well.

Life takes unexpected turns.

A few years passed and my owner suffered a heart attack. He survived but the country doctor ordered him to slow down. A few months later, an auctioneer came and sold everything, lock, stock, and barrel. Farmers from near and far bid on the house, the wagons, the hay rake. The horses found new homes. I was suddenly very much alone.

The new owner seemed nice enough, but knew little about upkeep. My paint started peeling, my doors started squawking, and rodents once chased away by the cats, took up residence. Before long, ornate cobwebs hung in the corners. A decade passed without housing anything but a couple of old rusted wagon wheels and a couple of holey buckets.

During a violent wind storm, the farm's large oak crashed through my roof. No one exerted efforts to repair my gaping hole. Wild animals and vermin slept in my empty stalls; an occasional owl perched in my rafters hoping to snag an unsuspecting mouse. I believed my days of usefulness to humanity long gone.

One morning I woke to people prying nails from my sides, tossing planks into the back of pickup trucks. Each time someone ripped a board from my walls, a visible scar appeared. I preferred neglect over visible wounds. The time of my existence was drawing to a close, or so I thought. I believed these foragers to be bandits, leaving me disfigured and abandoned to rot into obscurity.

Parts of me bounced and jounced as the truck roared off at the end of the day. The drivers seemed please with their haul; I felt nothing but despair. When the trip stopped, a man and woman pulled me from the bed and tossed me to the side of a house. I was covered by a blue tarp and forgotten.

A few days later, hands picked me up and I ended up in a workshop. The high pitched shrill of saws tearing through wood and saw dust hung in the air. My fate seemed all but sealed. My imperfections and dilapidation determined my impending doom.

The blade of the saw ripped through my hand hewn planks, the teeth spraying sparks in every direction. Nothing hurt but the pain of destruction and deprivation. Tossed in a stack, I awaited my demise. But then, something strange happened. Someone sanded my splintered edges and blew away the dust clinging to my ends. Before long, the people responsible for pulling me apart started putting me back together. My barn days were over, but a new life was being carved.

I'm now living in a beautiful home situated by a rock fireplace. Adults and children gather around me multiple times per day to share a meal or a vigorous game of cards. Several sit on my benches, and though at times I find the weight substantial, I faithfully hold those willing to trust in my strength. I now appreciate my new owners and their vision. Many considered my usefulness over; they believed otherwise.

Now, I'm very different from how I came into this world. But no matter what I look like, I love bringing families together.