If Barns Could Talk, This One Would Say…
I have outlived your Grandparents and their Parents, standing tall as a weather-beaten monument to a bygone era. Over the years, I have housed tobacco, hay, and equipment, bearing witness to the trials and tribulations of the farmers who once relied on me to dry their crops. I’ve withstood all the forces that nature could throw at me, from driving rain and wind storms to the three feet of snow that piled high on my roof in the harsh winter of 1959.
I was once a hub of activity, a bustling center of childhood play where you and Billy played marbles on my dirt floor and played “hide and seek” in the hay. I remember the time you fashioned wings out of cardboard and attempted to fly off my roof onto the haystack below. It didn’t work out so well, but you emerged unscathed and ready for another adventure.
You thought you were a big shot the time your Grandpa let you drive his tractor out of the barn, although he didn’t know you had been secretly practicing while he was at church on Wednesday nights.
When you were ten years old, I saw you take your first puff off one of your grandma’s cigarettes that you had sneakily pilfered from her purse. You coughed and turned green, but still strutted around like a Rooster, relishing in your newfound sense of coolness.
What about the time that mean little Robert’s kid shot those bullet holes in my roof? He sure did cry when his daddy took that switch to him.
Remember the time Uncle Earl fell from the upper-tier pole while hanging tobacco and broke three ribs? That was a close call. It feels like only yesterday, but it’s been at least 35 years.
I was your steadfast ally when you needed a hiding spot during rainy afternoons, and I watched as you stole your first kiss from Ann Marie inside my weathered doors. I thought you were both too young, but that was the age of innocence, and that was as far as it went.
I shielded you from the rain and hot sun while you and your buddies used my lower tier pole to pull the engine out of that classic 68′ GTO. When you finally got her back together, she purred like a kitten, and you basked in the satisfaction of a job well done.
I’ve stood here since the 1920s, a relic of a simpler time. God knows I’ve witnessed countless changes from my vantage point. I’ve been struck by lightning in ’36, ’48, and ’72, but the fire never took hold. Trees have grown up around me, and my old boards are falling off. The old dirt road that I overlook changed to gravel in ’46, then to pavement in ’67. Back in the day, people seemed so content as they chugged along in their old pickups, but nowadays they’re always in a hurry and never seem to have a moment to spare.
I feel I am no longer needed. The farmers around here are building all these newfangled metal barns that are twice my size, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness as I watch them go up. They’re sleek and shiny, with none of the rough-hewn charm that made me so endearing to generations of farmers.
They have all the latest gadgets and gizmos, designed to make farming easier and more efficient, but they lack the character and soul that I possess. I may not be as strong or as sturdy as I once was, but I have something that those new barns will never have: a rich history and a legacy that stretches back over a century. From the first planks that were nailed together to form my walls to the countless bales of hay and tobacco that I’ve housed over the years,
I have been a faithful companion to those who worked this land. I’ve witnessed joy and sorrow, triumph and defeat, growth and change. And even though my walls may be weathered and my roof may leak in places, I am still here, a proud and noble sentinel overlooking the fields and farmland that were once my home. So the next time you see an old barn or building on the side of the road, take a moment to think of the stories it could tell if it could talk, and remember the role that these humble structures played in shaping the history of our great land.