Wood

Each plank ripped away was another tear down my face. Each plank ripped away was another memory losing it’s grip on it’s spot in my mind. In spite of this, my father continued ripping away at the roof’s weather torn wood that made up our family’s barn. A ladder ran up the left side that I stood, but I didn’t want to ascend it to join him. Joining him meant tearing away what had already been built before I was born. Everything I had ever experienced in my short twelve years were to be found inside this barn. All the years of milking cows, collecting eggs, and running after the cats that I could never catch. I walked inside the barn’s side entrance and looked at all of our farm animals, and they didn’t seem to care at all that their shelter was being dismantled. The cows chewed their grass and hay while the chickens clucked noisily in their coops. The cats roamed the windows and the middle path, but I saw no joy in chasing after them.

Looking at the cow stalls made me reminiscent of my father teaching me how to milk all of their utters. He taught it like it was a dance I did with each cow. “Take it from the top, and then do the pinch and slide.” The chickens were easier to handle with no need for dancing. I’d only have to make sure I didn’t break any of the eggs when I’d put them in the collection basket. Father made sure they were washed properly even after I would finish cleaning them too. “You may think that it’s the inside that counts, but appearance is just as worthwhile when it comes to an egg. Would you prefer to crack a clean one, or a dirty one?” He’d ask me. I’d always respond with the obvious answer, and he would feel as if his point had been made.

Another rip of a plank, and I could hear my father yell down from above. “Get up here Jon! I can’t do this all by myself!”

It was commanding with a hint of a lie. This barn was here before I was born, so it must’ve been at least built all by himself. Surely he’d be able to destroy it all by himself too. But I didn’t fuss. I headed back out the side and began to climb the wooden ladder. By comparison, it’s wood was far more steady than that of the barn’s. I rose to the top and my father gestured me over to assist him. “This plank here son, lift with your legs, it’s a tough one.”

Had he tried yet? I thought. What made him think my smaller frame would be capable?

I did as instructed and grabbed the plank on the sides of the end, opposite to that of my father. I pulled my arms and tried to raise my legs, and he was right, it was tough. I strained myself to a sweat with my father only watching me struggle. I let go, took a breath, and began again. The pull of my arms and the lift of my legs didn’t seem to be doing it, that is, until we heard a crack. That must’ve been the noise my father was waiting for because he immediately stomped the other side of the wood with his foot. “Whoa!” I let out. The plank slipped through my fingers, leaving behind the pain of a splinter on both of my hands. I winced as I looked to my father who was holding the top of the plank that I had been lifting, a big smile across his face, happy with the result.

“Sorry Jon. This one just didn’t want to be removed.” He apologized half-heartedly.

“Yeah… I didn’t want it to be removed either.” I said as silently as I could, but I should’ve known that there was no getting words out without Kenneth Friedman hearing them.

“If you’ve got something you’d like to say, I suggest you speak up like a man.” He spoke sternly. “None of this pussyfooting around, get down that ladder.” He descended first, and I after, making sure not to dig my splinters deeper into my skin with each rung. Once on the ground, my father grabbed my shirt by the back collar and led me inside the barn, sitting me down on side-by-side milking stools. He strode over to his tool box and pulled out a small, thinly sharp pair of tweezers. Pulling the stool underneath himself, he sat directly in front of me, taking one hand at a time. He asked where the splinters were, and I pointed to each one of them.

“So what’s the nonsense about?” He asked, moving the tweezers into my palm.

“Nothing, father.” I lied. Instead of grabbing the splinter, he pushed it slightly, and a pain shot through my hand. “Ow!”

“Alright, so now you might wanna be a little more truthful, huh?” He said with a smirk.

I looked at him as he began making progress on my splinters and I wondered if he had noticed the red, puffiness in my eyes from my earlier tears. “I don’t want us to take this barn down, father.” I spoke truthfully this time. His eyes left my hands and he looked at my wandering face as I tried to look anywhere but at him. If I did, I feared that I’d cry again.

“Well, it’s not really something that we have a choice in the matter, Jon.” He replied. “Is it the change that upsets you?”

“Yes.” I said flatly.

Another splinter yanked from my other hand and both were relieved of their pain. My father stood, and lifted me from my stool by my armpits. “Follow me.”

He walked out the side, and stopped before the gravel turned to grass. I tagged along a pace behind him and stopped beside where he did. For a moment he only looked out into the vast plains of Lost Springs, Wyoming. As far as we were able to see, there was practically nothing. This town was not nearly as populated as the rest of the world. Quite frankly we were lucky enough to even have each other at all.

“Seeing this barn getting torn down makes you feel like everything is going to be different, dontchya?” He asked, his eyes never leaving the plains. I didn’t respond though. It didn’t feel as if I needed to. My father broke the brief silence and continued on. “I thought that same thing when me and my father tore down the last barn.” My jaw dropped and I wanted to ask how they even built a second barn, but it seemed like my father Ken was going to go on a roll. “I figured all my memories of the old barn would fade away too. But that’s the interesting thing about the human mind. It’s able to retain all of those old memories, and store them for days when you feel like reminiscing. That old board stomp trick up there, that was taught to me by my father. Except when he did it, I got a wood plank right to the bottom of the chin. Gotta tell ya that one didn’t feel too good.” I giggled feeling sorry that I even winced at the pain of a simple splinter.

“Jon, I understand how ya feel,” He resumed, putting a hand on my shoulder now. “However, this barn is too old and too worn down by now. It needs to go. And I know you’ve spent all your twelve years taking in the experience of that old thing. But what’s truly great about the human mind is that all those memories from before, they don’t take up too much space in there. You get to continue filling it up. With all sorts of new and exciting stuff. So some of my fondest memories might have been that first barn, but the memories I really miss… are the ones I gained while building the second one with your grandfather.”

“So what are you trying to say father?” I asked, trying to garner the concept of what it was that he was saying.

“What I’m saying is, sometimes you have to build anew. Whether it be the barn, or yourself as a person. You have to shed the deadwood in order to make room for newer, better wood. And that doesn’t mean, that you have to forget about the wood that you shed. You actually get to keep it forever, locked inside the safe of your mind.” He gave my shoulder a tense and loving squeeze and a quick clap on my back and he turned back to the barn that he helped raise. As I watched him make his slow walk back, I decided to sprint ahead to chase after him. When I got close, I dashed right past him, and headed straight for the ladder with the better, newer wood.