They stand as reminders of the past~monuments of dedication. There are hundreds of these old barns still standing, and I am sure some still in use today. Just as the World War II era's "greatest generation" continues to weather the storms of mortal life, eventually to become treasured icons with much we can learn from, so parallels the fate of these mostly wooden reminders of the past.
Storage places for hay and livestock feed, these old barns have provided much needed shelter for animals, both domestic and habitat for wild critters like barn swallows, and raccoons.
A generation or two ago, these barns were the center of the farming operation, and even hosted a Saturday night dance or two, so they say. Although I can not remember these social events, I do have now cherished memories of time spent growing up as a farm boy with chores. Many hours spent with Dad and brothers there, as we learned to develop work ethics that would help shape our future.
As I drive through the countryside, and glance at the silhouette of an old barn, I can almost hear the soft clink of kicker chains as the cows brother Lynn and I milked by hand, did their own twice daily "barn dance". I can almost hear the mew of barn kittens, as they beg for warm, white streams of milk to be shot their way, in between rhythms in two brother's pails, on a cold morning before daylight.
Yes, I can almost smell the sweet aroma of the molasses in the freshly rolled corn mixed with pellets, and then served with a side order of a "sliver" of alfalfa hay! Mixed in the barn aromas too was always the clean scent of freshly applied "Bag Balm" that served the side benefit of keeping four small hands soft.
You could hear the call of momma cows in the distant west pasture which ment Dad was feeding them, and the sheep soon bleated in the north pasture, as soon as they heard the voice of the shepherd's call each afternoon at 4:30 chore time.
The soft flutter of the Barn Swallows darting in and out of the miking parlor, and the click of the stanchion, and slap of the barn gate, meant the milking was finished. The click sound of the west gate shutting still is audible in my mind, signaling that the cows were turned back into the pasture to spend the next 12 hours grazing.
To this day, over 50 years later, I cherish the sound made each November, just before Thanksgiving, of the annual calf weaning at grandpa Emery's "toad holler" farm. Dad took pride in seeing his Red Short Horn calves helping themselves to hay and corn rations each fall. Brother and I would scribble the date on the west wall of grandpa Emery's sorting barn. Pete Pfieffer would be our trucker to transport the cattle from farm place to farm place, or to the sale barn as needed. As Pete jumped out of the snub-nosed red cattle truck, I can hear his low giggle as he took pride in backing up to our home made loading chute!
Those old barns have aided in teaching several heritage lessons, life lessons, lessons worth passing on. Help me by giving thanks when you pass one, and maybe tip your hat too, as you pass by one. The next time you pass by, the barn may be gone, but the lessons stick with you, only to be passed on a different way.
Storage places for hay and livestock feed, these old barns have provided much needed shelter for animals, both domestic and habitat for wild critters like barn swallows, and raccoons.
A generation or two ago, these barns were the center of the farming operation, and even hosted a Saturday night dance or two, so they say. Although I can not remember these social events, I do have now cherished memories of time spent growing up as a farm boy with chores. Many hours spent with Dad and brothers there, as we learned to develop work ethics that would help shape our future.
As I drive through the countryside, and glance at the silhouette of an old barn, I can almost hear the soft clink of kicker chains as the cows brother Lynn and I milked by hand, did their own twice daily "barn dance". I can almost hear the mew of barn kittens, as they beg for warm, white streams of milk to be shot their way, in between rhythms in two brother's pails, on a cold morning before daylight.
Yes, I can almost smell the sweet aroma of the molasses in the freshly rolled corn mixed with pellets, and then served with a side order of a "sliver" of alfalfa hay! Mixed in the barn aromas too was always the clean scent of freshly applied "Bag Balm" that served the side benefit of keeping four small hands soft.
You could hear the call of momma cows in the distant west pasture which ment Dad was feeding them, and the sheep soon bleated in the north pasture, as soon as they heard the voice of the shepherd's call each afternoon at 4:30 chore time.
The soft flutter of the Barn Swallows darting in and out of the miking parlor, and the click of the stanchion, and slap of the barn gate, meant the milking was finished. The click sound of the west gate shutting still is audible in my mind, signaling that the cows were turned back into the pasture to spend the next 12 hours grazing.
To this day, over 50 years later, I cherish the sound made each November, just before Thanksgiving, of the annual calf weaning at grandpa Emery's "toad holler" farm. Dad took pride in seeing his Red Short Horn calves helping themselves to hay and corn rations each fall. Brother and I would scribble the date on the west wall of grandpa Emery's sorting barn. Pete Pfieffer would be our trucker to transport the cattle from farm place to farm place, or to the sale barn as needed. As Pete jumped out of the snub-nosed red cattle truck, I can hear his low giggle as he took pride in backing up to our home made loading chute!
Those old barns have aided in teaching several heritage lessons, life lessons, lessons worth passing on. Help me by giving thanks when you pass one, and maybe tip your hat too, as you pass by one. The next time you pass by, the barn may be gone, but the lessons stick with you, only to be passed on a different way.
Love to all, Norm
