Another editorial
 

I came up against the deadline and had to write something in 20 minutes. This is what came out:

A few weeks ago I took a route home that led me down a narrow, meandering road. It’s not my usual route and it takes me a few miles out of my way, but sometimes I like to slow down and just look around when I drive and you can’t do that on a busy road. I came across an old barn with a fence out front that had a crude sign tacked to it that said, “STRAW.”

I’d seen it a hundred times but it so happened that I needed some straw, so I turned into the driveway, assuming the sign was telling me there was straw for sale in that barn. I was taking a chance here. That dilapidated board could be the remains of an old sign that had said “STRAW for sale,” or it could just as easily have once said “STRAW BERRIES,” or “No STRAW for sale here don’t ask go away.” But it just said STRAW, which left all possibilities open.

I got out of the truck and walked out of the sunlight into the barn and stepped 50 years back in time. That barn looked and smelled exactly like the barn on my grandfather’s farm. It was a quiet as a church. Streams of sunlight knifing through cracks in the siding illuminated the dusty hand-hewn beams that supported the hayloft. Burlap bags of feed sat on the floor and empty bags were slung over a wire strung between two beams. A few chickens scratched at the floor and a cat lounged on a sack of feed. The barn had the mellow scent of uncrowded, unhurried animals and the hay and grain stored for them for winter. My grandfather had half a dozen Jersey cows that wandered in and out of the lower level of his barn, which added their own distinct smell. It was a warm, mellow aroma completely unlike the sharp smell of animals kept in confinement and this barn still had that aroma. There had been cows here once.
The grainery was built against the north wall. It was a couple of small rooms with walls made of smooth, tight boards that contrasted sharply with the crude structural beams and rough siding. In my grandfather’s barn the grainery had held oats.
My grandfather would have put a sign on his fence that said STRAW. He liked to visit and too much written information discourages conversation. A cryptic sign left all possibilities open and invited the curious to stop and get the rest of the story. “You got straw to sell?” “Yep, oat straw from last year. It was a pretty good year, not too much rain right at harvest you know…” and off they would go on conversations about farming and weather and happenings at the church.
I noticed there were no oil stains on the floor of this barn. My grandfather’s barn had never had a tractor or gas engine or electricity in it, so the acrid smell of gasoline and oil had never mixed with the soft aroma of animals and grain and hay.

A figure wearing a white shirt and bib overalls appeared in the doorway.
“You got straw to sell?”

An hour later I stepped out of the barn into the bright May sun to the hammering sound of a diesel and the sharp smells of asphalt, crushed limestone, oil, and gasoline. They are so much of my life so much of the time that I barely noticed them before. The radio in the truck blasted an advertisement at me that ended with a man spitting out details so fast I could not have followed it if I cared to. These days every surface and every sound are grasped as opportunities to sell something. Life is sharp and fast and loud in 2013 and I long for my grandfather’s quieter, softer life.

Nice post, and a fine eye for detailing what most dont even notice.
Note in the second to last sentence should it be every not very?

But, but, but.....was there any straw for sale?

Nice job, Patrick. My great grandparents on my mom's side owned a cotton farm in NC. That could have been their barn. My great grandfather, Thomas Morrow, used to say, "The barn is my place to think. Gets me away from the children (they had 10) and the noise of life. Just me and my God nothing else required."

Great job Patrick. Every kid should spend at least one summer on a farm growing up.

Perspective is a wonderful thing.

Beautifully written. Thank you! I worked on a farm in Iowa when I was 14. There was a swimming pond. It's so true, simple things mean a lot...

I like! Well done :)

Iowa farm boy myself. No pond but we had a creek.
Jim

Great job!

I am the most evil of all humans... a native born city boy (Los Angeles)

However my dad grew up in Massachusetts and mom was from a small town in Kansas.

We would take a couple weeks vacation in Kansas almost every year with grandma, grandpa, cousins, uncles, and aunts...

Flying was a big deal back then so we drove (two parents and three boys would have been crazy expensive). We did the trip in a old 1950's Chevy station wagon with no A/C, later we upgraded to a 60's wagon with A/C.

As young boys we hated going there but back then children didn't get a vote on where the family went on vacation.

Looking back we caught frogs in the creek, firefly's at night, my crazy brother tried to ride the neighbors untrained horse without a saddle, rode minibikes, my uncle the ex Marine taught us how to shoot guns.

My brothers kids vacation mostly in Hawaii (I kid you not... "Hawaii again?!?").

Now Hawaii doesn't suck, I plan on going back with my wife some time soon... but I thank God for the time we spent in Kansas.

Taking time to smell the roses.

Thanks. Took me back to my grandfathers barn.

Great post to remind us to enjoy life rather than rush through it. We forget that each day is a gift. No one is guaranteed to be here tomorrow. The mortality rate in America is 100%...everyone dies at some point.
That said, for fun I have a sarcastic question: You said "The barn had the mellow scent of uncrowded, unhurried animals..." Do crowded and hurried animals smell different than the unhurried ones? ;)

Beautifully written. I too grew up around my grandparents farm.

Oh yes. In a crowded barn the odor of fresh poop and pee overwhelms every other aroma. When animals compete for the hay rack they spend more time near it, so the poop and pee collects there. When there are fewer animals the stress of getting to the hay is lessened, the animals wander in and out, leaving much of the poo and pee outside. You can smell the hay and the straw, you can smell their breath, and milk cows have a kind of sweet aroma around them.

Great article Patrick. I also have the mostly wonderful memories of what you describe while working on my grandparents farm in N. TX during the late 50's, early 60's. My grandfather always said that just as I was getting really good at driving the tractor, I went off to college and that was it.

It is kind of sad to realize how few kids in our great urbanized society will ever have the old barn / farm experience with their grandparents. Another part of Americana that is rapidly disappearing.

thank you..
much like the memories of my Bauernhof...
I went back a few yrs ago...
but the streets there are no longer cobbled..
the horse halters are decorations..
tile had replaced the straw..
but when I closed my eyes..
I was playing in the dirt..

Rika

Very nice, Patrick. I enjoyed it.

When I was younger I went to visit my grandmother back in Ohio for a couple of weeks. Her third husband's family (she outlived three of them) had a dairy farm with 100 milking head of cows. I remember the morning I arrived, my BMW 1600 had broken down (clutch linkage bushings) about a mile past their house, or what I assumed was their house as I wasn't really sure at the time. As I was looking at the car by the side of the road a bunch of guys following the school bus stopped and asked if I needed any help. I gave them the name of my grandparents and asked if they knew where they lived. Sure enough it was the house I'd passed. They gave me a ride back up the road to the house and then took off for school. I knocked on the door and my grannie said she hardly recognized me I was so pale and thin. I'd been living in Missouri with a friend and we hadn't been eating three squares a day for quite a while.
She fixed me breakfast and my step-grandfather helped me tow my car up to his garage so I could work on it later. We then went out to survey the farm and tend to his oil well pumps as it was starting to get near winter time. His son was running the family farm so arrangements were made to make use of my 'free' labor so to speak.
For the next two weeks I worked on the farm as one of the hired hands. Learned how to drive a tractor, move bales of hay (rolls) from one pasture to another, put up corn and shovel s@#$#. Lots of that on a dairy farm, believe you me.
There was a hill leading out of the barnyard that the cows had problems with when it would ice up. We poured a big long patch of concrete one day going up the hill. I didn't know we were going to leave it 'as poured' so I started showing off my concrete finishing skills that I'd picked up at home. Boy did I get chewed out for making it too smooth. I did find out that concrete takes a lot longer to cure when the ambient temp is only in the 40's.
One thing I'll never forget were the lunches my grannie would cook up for us. First one took me a good hour to finish. The homemade apple pies were the best. But the steak, I've NEVER had a steak as good as the home grown, corn fed beef she served. Melt in your mouth good.
By the time I fixed my car and was ready to leave two weeks later, I'd put on about 10 pounds and could finish off a lunchtime meal in 20 minutes flat. And this was no small meal either. Steak that covered half the plate, baked potato, salad, roll, and home made cider.
And don't forget the pie. I really miss those pies.
Thanks for taking me back to that time with your editorial. Some good writing there.

yupe, best part of growing up was spending time on my uncle's farm, milking cows, feeding the chickens and pigs. Best part was watching my grandpa and uncle slaughter chickens in the pig pen. After the head went flying and blood squirting out the neck, the headless chicken would run around and the pigs patiently waited to eat those heads.

Also sleeping on a hay stuffed mattress bed.