WHAT IT IS IN THE BARN

I'd come running back at the imagined, hopeful calling out of my name from the distance across the hundred or so feet from the near barn where the small tractors were kept. My library of "run abouts" set there like a diamond in a man's fedora as far as hobby collections go. Tractors... mostly red, the official tractor color. Red tractors were from my grandpa and his group of proud fellas. The collection was the best of broadcast and word of mouth. The entire collection gloss finished and the barn spit clean. It was my pride, the display kept there in pristine condition. The barn itself was custom made for the purpose of showing and sheltering what all the other guys.. the other farmers out this way, helped in such high respect. It held the history of my father, grandfather and most of some of their own family men. we were manly men. Farm handling was beneath the description of our lives; we were the motor trend of agriculture. My barn spoke for every one of them and I knew it. I was back inside from there only because the shouted sound of my own name was as good as an alarm to awaken me from a momentary snap and fein mental block of potential danger. There was something fluttering about in the rafters. Someone suggested it was an old barn owl. A barn owl what could wreck a paint job.

It was a common thing for barn owl, crows and small hawks or falcons to accommodate themselves about the several buildings on our land. It made my work that much easier... there were little to no vermin to find. The feathered friends in the area took care of that. They were usually barred from anyplace where they were unwelcome for potential harm to property or livestock, but otherwise any door was open to them. I was back inside ploughing my hair, what's left of it, with fingers and deep thought of what to do about the intruder. I had to find it and escort the critter out before it could host any expense of unwanted decoration to my collection. The wife usually called out if there was something she could not get done without a touch of muscle or if the babes were getting off to bed and I had not given them my own special host into a good restful night. She had not called and the children were entertaining themselves with the latest game tablet brought over by a coworker. He did love some technology. Loved it so much he never let a new item, relevant to farm and agriculture, slip past his

try out" stage. The kids had some of everything if only during his trial run sessions. This trial stage brought some sort of binoculars to slip on and bump around the house in three dimensional viewers. Put to alternate use than color grid scoping the planter rows for missing nutrients, the binoculars seemed to be giving the kids a run for the money in a fight with Batman or his Joker friend They had long outgrown interest in the gerbils and hamsters of last year. Those were neglected now except for the constant urging that Jimmy or Ron "go feed your pet!" those pets could have died and been set up for the next bio science project as skeletal displays. I had the best idea to solve all our problems. I waived at the excessively lit doorways where each family member sat, stood or rolled relieving themselves past the portentous clock hour. It was past the usual night activity in preparation for bed. Snow piled deep behind the house and every side beyond and between the plow set in the shed out back dictated the actions for the coming day. No school, just a lot of shoveling before getting on track with routines. They would be up late. I reached into the glass cage for a fist full of gerbil and dashed back outside. The boys were deeply entertained. Near the door to my museum I slowed to dip my head for a peek inside while listening for the flutter. There was no sound. A better approach urged me to flick a tiny bit of my plea bargain into the air and across the doorway. The light from inside would show just enough of what my offering presented for the mere act of self revelation. All he had to do was show himself, flutter and get out. Only a feint rustle from the back corner near my own grandfather's pride. I had sent his tractor out for pain and polish seal coat only a week ago. Every one of the displays in my barn museum was a prize and that was special to me. It was special to the collection. I could not risk a drop of bird dew on it or any other antique inside. I flicked my hand again to release three gerbils that flipped and somersaulted until it hit the muddied ground or a tuft of untouched snow if it was lucky. For the exchange of four gerbils and sheer patience the flutter of a large barn owl swept past me and out of harms way. It chased it's fare and I dashed to pull doors shut behind it before turning the lights a bit brighter and going over the rows of tractors for inspection. Bird dropping on antique auto paint and polish was a real mother to get off, It was a real hand job to get clear and I was not looking forward to doing much in that line. The doors would be locked down from now on... no more mistakes. What could get into a barn could cause so much tragedy... so much work beyond just farming.

THE END