I seem to have an aura about me that is more than a little intriguing, for some, even a bit enticing. Perhaps it’s because I’m tall, broad shouldered and well-proportioned with a muscularity that is slightly imposing. But when I watch people’s reactions, I think it goes deeper than that.
I live on a farm, of course, because where else would a barn want to be. I like it here, like the people and the animals who I share the land with. And, compared to other buildings on the farm or even in town, I seem to be held in pretty high regard.
Now I know there’s the name. Barn. Yeah, it’s kind of dopey. It could have been something like chateau or manor or citadel. But no, it’s just: barn. One syllable, no flow. Barn.
But hey, maybe that’s part of my charm because I’ve noticed that the love really starts when you open my door.
You know you’re in a different place with your very first breath. In my barn where we keep horses, you’ll be immediately greeted by the muskiness of equinine mixed with the unmistakable note of manure. As you move in, past the saddles hanging off their designated hooks, you’ll catch the scent of well-worn leather.
Soon your awareness will switch from the olfactory to the tactile as you walk across the soft wooden floors that have been polished smooth by the hooves of horses, the boots of men and the wheels of machinery that keep the farm running season after season, year after year.
After you’ve taken a couple more steps in and your eyes have adjusted to the change in light, you’ll begin to the feel the quietness of me inside. Actually, it’s not totally silent; it’s more like a steady, gentle, almost imperceptible, thrumming.
My day-to-day existence isn’t just about the animals and the farm equipment. It’s also about the family who stays in the house across my barnyard. There’s three of them, Jack, Martha and their 17 year old daughter Ida Mae.
Ida Mae is the proverbial farmer’s daughter, quite attractive, well- proportioned and, as we say about our young fillies, rather frisky. Sometimes she’ll come visit me with one of the local boys in tow. After some furtive whispering and several peeks out the door toward the house, they’ll clamor up the squeaky wooden ladder to the second floor where the grain is stored. Judging by all the racket they make, rolling in my hay must really be something.
But it’s the visits by Jack at sundown that I most cherish. He’ll creak open the door just enough to slip in, then head over to his well-worn wooden rocking chair, body stooped slightly from a long day’s work. He settles in, rests his hands on his knees and slowly arches his back until he’s looking up to the top of the beam connected to the peak of my roof. As he releases his arch, his gaze travels down to the bales of hay on the second floor, then down to the horses whose tails swish ever slower as they get ready for bedtime and finally to the rakes and shovels and the tractor, all cleaned and stowed in their assigned spaces.
Satisfied, Jack pulls out his beat up old pipe and a box of matches. He takes one out, strikes it across the side of the box and watches the flare. Then he gets his pipe to release small clouds of smoke and carefully lays the now-smoking matchstick on top of the box. (I especially appreciate this last move since I am, what you would call, highly flammable.) When the ember of his pipe finally turns black, he slowly unwinds to a fully erect position, pats me on my beam and says,
“Thanks, man. See you tomorrow.”