It was a Proud Thing

The barn at my Uncle's house was a proud thing; the haughty beams that criss-cross along with the ceiling and the pristine white paint somehow provided the effect the massive structure was looking down on us. And I suppose it was in a way - I had never met anything that large at the age of 11 and it had never met something as small as me. I wasn’t undersized for my age - if anything, I was too gangly and tall - all elbows and knees and sharp corners. Where the barn stood in steadfast confidence, no doubt of what it was meant to be, I stood its opposite.

The first encounter with the barn was in the summer of 2005. I was introduced with my twin sister standing next to me, my only companion and friend for many seasons. It was early June when the air slowly begins to accommodate the thick heat of the western sun and the trees haven’t started to droop with exhaustion. At the time, I didn’t understand why we had to stay with these people. Although they were family, our visits were infrequent and short throughout the years. I was unaware my mother had become sick at that point and I resented her for sending us away. I refused to hug her goodbye, to look her in the eye as I mumbled “I love you, too.” It would be years later when the sickness took her, but I still regret that day with a sharp and acute awareness.

Initially, we were afraid to enter the monstrous and haughty complex. What little knowledge I had acquired over the years about farming never explained what barns were used for. Of course, I could imagine stalls for horses and maybe a cow or two, but what was the rest of the space used for? I was sorely disappointed when I finally worked up the courage one day to sneak in through the double doors adjacent to the main entrance. What had occupied my mind as dark shadowy cavities, was a honey-warm, wide-open space. The mid-day light filtered in through the single large window along the loft area. Hay scattered the floor, tools lied around with abandoned purpose, content to go unnoticed. A hazy stillness settled over the space; the air felt stagnant in the way your breath feels in your chest after holding it for a long time. I could tell the barn had been waiting to exhale for a long time when I entered that day.

The other half of me, the half with the shy demeanor and slightly darker hair was difficult to convince to enter the barn. My sister didn’t want to enter out of fear of the unknown, but for fear of punishment. Getting in trouble was terrifying to her in the way most people fear death, and that first day of becoming acquaintances with the barn, I recall my aunt telling us the barn was off strictly off-limits. My issue with authority had developed much earlier than that moment, and to be fair, how was she supposed to know any rule she created I would immediately oppose? My sister kept my head on straight most days, but once in a while, I would convince her to join me in my rule-breaking exploits.

That first day in the barn was tentative and cautious. The exploration of hay bales and a dusty Ford pick-up was minimal, mostly we sat in awe at the entrance, our backs against the poplar beams supporting the massive structure. In hindsight, everything is larger when you are a child including how you feel things. I remember I used to dance with happiness and shout in anger, unable to control the torrent of emotion that ran through my little body. Movement and sound were the only acceptable response to such power. And maybe that was what drew me to the barn in the first place. The soft flutter of wings from birds perched in the eaves, the heavy slow breathing of horses, the way the dust in the air reflected in the light - it was an incredible display of peace.

Every day that summer we spent hiding from my careless Aunt and Uncle in the loft of the barn, dozing in the warm hay, and dreaming of imaginary places. It was a sanctuary of laughter and joy, somewhere safe, somewhere magical. My sister and I breathed life into the old structure, reviving it not with paint but with the simplicity of youth. And in turn, I left that summer a little wiser to the world and a little less alone.