Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Civilization
Begins at the Barn
A large truck stopped in front of my country estate here
along Beer Can Road and County Dump Extension. The big red tractor was pulling
a big long trailer carrying lots of wood and prefabricated roof trusses. I
visited with the driver, who was trying to find an address that apparently did
not exist. The bill bore little more than the first name of the seller, the
items on the truck, and the Neverland address.
With my mental acuity that would impress even Detective
Monk I suggested that we switch around the physical address and the county road
number and plug those into the electrical map on the MePhone, and that did
indeed give us an address that exists, a farm only a few fields over. I gave
the driver directions and we shook hands, though I don’t know how his adventure
ended.
But the cargo was interesting: roof trusses, probably for
a barn, and a miscellaney of milled wood.
Barns are good. In our times of destruction and violence
the idea of raising a barn is a vote for civilization.
The barn is the heart of a farm, the world headquarters
of the business and the art and liturgy of growing crops and animals. The day’s
work begins there, almost always before dawn, and ends there, almost always
after dark. The good old tractor spends its nights there, along with plows,
rakes, mowers, tillers, barbed wire, rope, pulleys, machine tools, gardening
tools, carpentry tools, sacks of feed, mineral blocks, hay, feed, animal
medicines, a work bench, fertilizer, and lots more impedimenta, all of it
expensive, necessary for raising animals, prepping the fields, establishing plantings
and pastures, sowing, maintaining, and harvesting.
Depending on the animals and seasons, the barn also hosts
critters large and small with the various pens and stalls necessary for their
shelter and safety.
Other life forms, not at all welcome, reside there too:
rats, mice, snakes, and maybe a skunk burrowing under the foundations for the
winter. Raccoons, ‘possums, and coyotes regard the barn as a midnight diner.
Thus, the farmer will establish a resident dog, probably named Hank, and a cat,
probably titled Simba, King Cat and Killer of Rats. With fresh water and just
enough good animal food they will strike at the unwelcome intruders with fang
and claw, and in return expect only an occasional scratch behind the ears. A barn owl might find a cozy spot among the
rafters and from there he too will wing silently to prey upon rats and mice and
the occasional careless bunny.
If the farm is blessed with children they will work their
4H and FFA projects from the barn: gardens, rabbits, chickens, goats, pigs, and
other crops and critters in any combination.
The adults and the kids will post calendars with lots of
penciled-in information about crops and seasons, and the business cards of
veterinarians, farm supply houses, and tractor dealers will grow around it. A
feed store thermometer and a barometer on the wall will do their duty for years
to come, along with a rain gauge on a fence post, although there are only four
categories of farm weather: (1) too darned hot, (2) too darned cold, (3) too
darned wet, and (4) too darned dry.
Just inside the big door, or perhaps outside if there is
some shade, a bench and some old chairs will be positioned for those rare
occasions when folks will be able to rest from their labors a while with a
meditative chaw or cigar to sit and think and talk, and sometimes just to sit
and think, and sometimes, as the old saying goes, just to sit. The setting sun
and the sweet scent of a new-mown field are the light and the incense for that evening
hour of Vespers.
Anyway, that’s where I think that truckload of wood and
the friendly driver from Louisiana were going. I hope so. We need more foresters
and truck drivers and farmers, and fewer strident men of destiny who wear
expensive suits and uniforms while giving their underlings orders to destroy
the land and kill foresters and truck drivers and farmers for the greater glory
of whatever.
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