It was an old barn, nondescript, unassuming. Once hundreds of such barns dotted the countryside. Under their towering roofs lay the key to the country’s economy. What was that key? Was it coal, gas, perhaps oil? No, long before cars, trucks, or tractors, America’s three- mile an hour economy was horse-powered, and horses required hay. Hay was the key and barns the mainstays of farm life.
The boy standing outside the barn knew none of this. In fact, by the time he visited this particular barn, it was already a relic, its weathered wooden siding hidden under many coats of barn paint – red of course.
A steep wooden ramp led to the barn’s large sliding door, its timbers rutted by the passage of numerous wagons. Rutted, yet still firm. The boy climbed the ramp and strained to slide the door. No matter how hard he pushed, the door refused to budge.
“Maybe next time,” he thought.
Cut into the large sliding door was a man-door. The boy shrugged and lifted its latch. The door creaked open, and he stepped into the dark void of the barn. For a moment, he paused to let his eyes adjust. He breathed deeply, each breath heavy with the sweet smell of hay. The barn meant adventure – hide and seek, fort building, cat chasing, and exploring – maybe he’d find a skeleton; was it a bird or a mouse? Yes, he loved exploring the barn’s cavernous interior. However, today he had a mission.
Intent on his task, he started down the stairs. The only light streamed under the door at the bottom. Carefully he felt his way, his left hand sliding along the rough siding and then along the smooth flagstone foundation. Even on the hottest days, those round cobbles were cool and damp. He used his right hand to clear away the ever-present cobwebs.
A faint twish-twish echoed from the stable below. It was the familiar sound of milk hitting a galvanized pail. A distinctly metallic ring that grew less metallic and more hydraulic as the bucket filled. The boy smiled. His grandpa was milking.
At the bottom, the boy entered the stable. He moved slowly and calmly, as you must around cattle. His grandpa sat on a three-legged stool, pail securely held between his feet, his head firmly planted against the side of the cow – as much to comfort her, as to protect his face from her continually moving tail.
Twish – twish, twish – twish. He watched his grandpa’s knurled hands dance above the bucket. They moved to a hypnotic and ancient rhythm. Twish-twish, twish-twish.
Occasionally his grandpa spoke to the cow. Always soft, always low, and ever soothing. When she stomped a foot, or shifted sideways, threatening the pail, he spoke more firmly as he pushed her back into position. The boy understood most of his grandpa’s words, although some he couldn’t make out – no doubt old German milking phrases, phrases his grandpa had learned from his grandfather.
The boy stood quietly, waiting for the proper opportunity to pass on his message. Twish-twish, twish-twish, the pail filled and the old man looked up.
“Grandma said to tell you that supper’s ready,” the boy exclaimed, discharging his duty.
The old man smiled. “Tell Grandma that I’ll be in shortly. Do you want to carry the milk?”
Eagerly the boy reached for the pail. Try as he might, he barely moved it.
“Maybe next time,” the old man laughed.
David L Dahl.
_____________________
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