Old Barns and Life

Last night as I sat on my deck listening to cicadas and frogs, I thought how many generations of my ancestors had heard these same night noises. These were age-old summer sounds: the jar flies as we called them, the frogs, a whole chorus of them. I felt as if I could close my eyes and be at my grandparents’ home, enjoying the coolness of an evening breeze, hearing God’s little creatures celebrating the season of life.

A few years ago, I wrote about my love affair with old barns. They are symbols of another time, a quieter, gentler, more uncrowded and unhurried life.

The old barn at Etta in northeast Oklahoma where my grandparents lived has been gone for a number of years, but once it occupied a place of vital importance.  A giant burr oak tree stood guard by the barn. A little creek, trickling down from the spring, supplied water for farm animals.

Arkansas and Oklahoma are blessed with many beautiful old barns. They are reminders of an important part of our heritage.  It is painful to see a barn that is 80 or 100 years old slowly crumbling with no one to care for it. When it’s gone, there is nothing similar to replace it.

I’ve noticed if the owner keeps the roof in good shape, the barn will last. But when the roof is neglected, tin blown up, holes in it, the rain gets inside and the barn is on the way out.

Farmers still put up barns but to me they look temporary and hastily built. They do the job they were meant to do but they do it with a lot less grace and beauty than the old ones.

The barns of a few years back were built on the spot by hand. Many times neighbors would gather and putting up a barn was a team effort. There had to be a loft for hay, stalls for the cattle, a place to hang the harness, saddle, and bridle.

The barn started with a good, solid foundation. Isn’t that what we need too? A firm foundation of faith on which to build, stout walls for shelter, a roof of hope and courage to keep out the storms. The barns are silent sentinels standing guard over our country’s rural past; reminders of the way things used to be.

My Grandfather’s Barn

My grandfather’s barn leans to the south.

The weathered old boards are gray.

The tin roof is rusted and dented and busted;

The wind blew the doors away.

But once that barn, filled with freshly-mown hay

Was a dark, sweet-smelling retreat.

The straw in the loft was wonderfully soft;

A hideaway, cool and complete.

A tinkle of cowbells, a jingle of harness,

The smell of horses and leather

Once filled the stalls and the hand-hewn walls

Were a refuge in wild, windy weather.

Now Grandfather’s gone and that empty old barn

Holds more than a fond memory.

It’s a heritage dear of a bright yesteryear

And all that those years meant to me.

                                                                                                              –by Blanche Day Manos