The Barn
Part Four: The Barn
At last we are approaching the end of John Hanson Road. The barn, our goal, is within sight. We make a mad dash, cutting through the cornfield, hoping no one will notice our blatant trespassing on private property. Immediately we take an interest in the debris next to the barn itself and attempt to peer into the shed. Old beams are lying disjointed and a few appliances, a ladder, a tire, and some unidentifiable rusted metal occupy the overgrown patch. Paint is peeling from the shed in long strips and tiny chips, revealing that once it was painted red and another time green. The barn itself is barely showing its colour anymore on this side, though after we satisfy our need for pictures of the vine-encrusted wood, we find that the side with an open door is still mostly green. The gutter and the door are fallen at the same angle, barely holding on.
Inside the floor is soft and thick from molded straw, animal droppings, and years of dust. The entry-way is full of doors, windows, cabinetry, and a stove. In a drawer Insley finds a nest of some small critter. I move on through the next doorway into the dimmer recesses of the main barn area. The short, narrow way puts me out between two stalls, the left one now home to wasps and dust, the right one, with its wall to the next stall knocked out, is full of junk. It seems to have been the place to toss things as their usefulness passed. The stalls across the aisle have high windows that let in the late afternoon light in golden beams, giving the odds and ends a nostalgic glow. An ATV rests under thick dust in the far left stall; the next is home to an antiquated exercise bike, a hose, and ping pong paddles for the table abandoned and falling over in the aisle. The middle stall has only buckets that might once have held water for the horses. The next is empty and the far right stall has a stool and small table. Between these last two is the ladder to the upper loft of the barn.
We take great care in climbing up, testing each rung as we climb. I pass the bags up to Insley before making my ascent. We emerge into a haven for mice and birds. The loft spreads out, a wooden floor and high rafters, over the whole barn. A boxy grain silo occupies one corner and hay bales are forming mountains at the other end. Feathers and droppings top the hay piles. Carved into the wood of the silo is an inscription with a name and date - 1941. Light seeps through the cracks and if we press our eyes to the holes, we can see the farm across the road one way and the woods across the road the other way. We foolishly open a door and the wind catches it, swinging it against the side of the barn. The air rushes in as we lean precariously out to catch the wooden slats and pull it back in. Secure again, we descend, clinging to the perfectly vertical ladder.
The tack room door is at the end of the barn across from the last stall. Here resides a fox head, mounted on the wall. Bits of leather remain on nails. Beyond the tack room is what must have been an office because there is an office chair and a pin-up calendar from the 90's in a trash can. It is easy to make up stories about the people who built this place, their children, and their grandchildren. It is easy to imagine the horses leaving and the teenagers taking over with their ATVs and ping pong. But now the dust must only be disturbed by the curious, such as ourselves, or the clandestine teenage lovers looking for a place they will not be caught making out with the daughter of a rival farm. We cannot say with certainty what happened here, but we can tell stories.
Inside the floor is soft and thick from molded straw, animal droppings, and years of dust. The entry-way is full of doors, windows, cabinetry, and a stove. In a drawer Insley finds a nest of some small critter. I move on through the next doorway into the dimmer recesses of the main barn area. The short, narrow way puts me out between two stalls, the left one now home to wasps and dust, the right one, with its wall to the next stall knocked out, is full of junk. It seems to have been the place to toss things as their usefulness passed. The stalls across the aisle have high windows that let in the late afternoon light in golden beams, giving the odds and ends a nostalgic glow. An ATV rests under thick dust in the far left stall; the next is home to an antiquated exercise bike, a hose, and ping pong paddles for the table abandoned and falling over in the aisle. The middle stall has only buckets that might once have held water for the horses. The next is empty and the far right stall has a stool and small table. Between these last two is the ladder to the upper loft of the barn.
We take great care in climbing up, testing each rung as we climb. I pass the bags up to Insley before making my ascent. We emerge into a haven for mice and birds. The loft spreads out, a wooden floor and high rafters, over the whole barn. A boxy grain silo occupies one corner and hay bales are forming mountains at the other end. Feathers and droppings top the hay piles. Carved into the wood of the silo is an inscription with a name and date - 1941. Light seeps through the cracks and if we press our eyes to the holes, we can see the farm across the road one way and the woods across the road the other way. We foolishly open a door and the wind catches it, swinging it against the side of the barn. The air rushes in as we lean precariously out to catch the wooden slats and pull it back in. Secure again, we descend, clinging to the perfectly vertical ladder.
The tack room door is at the end of the barn across from the last stall. Here resides a fox head, mounted on the wall. Bits of leather remain on nails. Beyond the tack room is what must have been an office because there is an office chair and a pin-up calendar from the 90's in a trash can. It is easy to make up stories about the people who built this place, their children, and their grandchildren. It is easy to imagine the horses leaving and the teenagers taking over with their ATVs and ping pong. But now the dust must only be disturbed by the curious, such as ourselves, or the clandestine teenage lovers looking for a place they will not be caught making out with the daughter of a rival farm. We cannot say with certainty what happened here, but we can tell stories.
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