Gratitude, Hope, and Drizzle

Levi shakes his head as he kicks at the cement at the base of the barn.

Levi shakes his head as he inspects the center posts, completely disconnected at the base.

Levi never looks up once. 

We all looked up. Only Levi looked down.

"Raise the whole barn up. Scrape the old cement away. Pour new. Lower the barn and then start repairing." That will cost a lot of money, and take a lot of time. 

Photo by Brianna Santellan on Unsplash

"There are good pieces. You could tear the barn down, and use what's good to build something new... something smaller."

With my gratitude, we parted. I walked through the fall drizzle, back to the house. 

At least he showed up. How many others have I called, described this crazy project, and been told "I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks," and never hear from them again?

The thought of tearing this behemoth down hurts. I feel the weight of this as though my shoulders and heart turned to lead. I have ideas as big as that barn and even if no one else can, I can imagine it strong and welcoming those ready to find respite within its great walls. 

The idea of using pieces of the barn to create other things had occurred to me. We've used some of the old tin to create cupboard doors in our house. I've seen several Pinterest crafts and wanted to use items from the barn to create them - it's a matter of time really. I'm awfully short on time. 

Two teens, a full-time job - two full-time jobs really. No one counts cooking and cleaning for a family as a job; but those of us that do it know that it is. A couple of my past occupations have sprung back to life in fun ways - I feel like I'm burning the candle at both ends, and somehow enjoying the burn. 

The barn is hard to fit in, and yet every time I go outside, there it looms. Not only is this relic in need of my attention, there is a dear man who knows as I do that this relic deserves my attention. 

Levi's words, penned in a lovely "hand crafted" card purchased at a department store. A little glitter, an oversized butterfly, and a realistic perspective written with love and greatest hope of not breaking a dear man's heart.

A week later, we sit in his living room. It's not so easy to get out of his chair these days. Two hand-crafted canes of his own making work better than one now. The easy smile and clarity in his eyes remains unchanged. Every time I'm with him, my grandmother — his sister — feels closer. 

The idea of building something new is intriguing! We could mark the pieces - somehow note their original purpose. While the ideal is saving the present structure, there is hope and innovation in the idea of something new. And the pieces are incredible, really. Where could anyone find 12" square posts made of solid oak these days?

"Why you could put it anywhere you wanted! You could make it look however you wanted. Maybe it could look like the old barn. Maybe it could have a gabled roof. I wonder what you could do with all of that old cement?" 

We agree bringing ourselves to tear down the old barn - that's the hardest part. 

"But you have time," he says. "You have time. That's in your favor."

His gaze unwavering. We can't really do anything in winter anyway. Best to start in the spring. 

I think he's turning 92 this month. He doesn't want to talk about it. 

"We're skipping this one," he says. The easy smile may fade from his lips at times, and yet somehow exudes from his every fiber. He is peaceful. The joy in his heart is unmistakable. 

I hugged him goodbye before he had time to try to get up from his chair. 

In the quiet bubble of my car, I can fold. Head on the steering wheel, tears slide in a steady stream. 

Hope surrounds the fall drizzle within. 

"That Old Barn Isn't Worth Saving, Anyway."

Photo by SLP Photography

Yep. That's what she said.
Not me, my daughter. Standing with her back to our front door, arms folded, looking at me and her dad.

"That old barn isn't worth saving, anyway."

The Mr. and I exchanged glances. We instantly knew that didn't come FROM her.
That came THROUGH her.

As usual, when someone says something that is so unbelievably inconsiderate, and wrong, I stand staring with my mouth hanging open. No response. I don't listen with intent to argue. I listen to hear and understand what is being said. Sadly (or perhaps gladly in the end), that leaves me ill-prepared to supply a witty, or insightful comeback.

Thankfully, her dad is a little quicker on the draw than I am.

"You know honey, I'm sure there are people that think that," he began with the sweet tone he reserves solely for his best girl; "but there are a handful of people that don't."

And in this case, that is all that matters.

In a larger sense, in a world view sense though, it points to a greater societal illness.

WASTE.

Disposable society? You are not kidding!

Why preserve something old when you can build something new? Why recycle plastic straws, they're little, what does it matter? Why try to fix a broken item when you can go buy another (it's often faster and sometimes that replacement costs less than the repair)?

And lately, when faced with a pandemic...

It sure seems like some people must see this as a way to thin out our elder and more needy population. When you continue to live as you normally do, despite local, state, and federal officials daily edicts to STAY HOME - what else is anyone to think?

The only conclusion is that, just like some people feel about my old barn, old people, disabled people (because if it comes down to a hospital triage situation, my daughter's life could be deemed less essential than that of an EMS worker or law enforcement officer. Sit with that for a moment - would you want to have to make that choice?), people with chronic conditions such as asthma (that's a lot of people!) are DISPOSABLE.

This moment in time is unprecedented. Never before has society moved at such a swift and careless pace. Never before has it taken a pandemic to slow us down... and never before has our country shown such blatant disregard for the guidance of our public officials. Republican, Democrat alike being equally ignored. Obviously, not by all, but as we know, it only takes a few.

Though my husband is essential, and reporting to work as usual, we are doing our best to respect the guidance supplied by our officials. We trust that the information conveyed by experts in the public health and medical fields is far superior to whatever meme we may have stumbled across on social media, or a text from that one friend that seems to be an expert at EVERYTHING.

And for the record, we're still going to work to restore our barn. Post by post, of both wood and digital, as it seems that is the best we can do right now. Regardless of what the hip, cool, and careless may think, we will NOT throw something away with as much history, strength, and sentimental value as that structure holds. My biggest hope now is that the restrictions are lifted and our region is well enough that Uncle Hank will get to be here the day work begins.

And the Haymow Can Be a Yoga Studio

I Quit.

Almost.

Wanted to...
Thought I should.

Got overwhelmed.
Felt misdirected.
Got caught up in being ignored, used, and disrespected.

But here's the thing.
It's all in my head.
Those things are happening, they are real.
I'm focusing on something else, instead.

Overwhelmed means ABUNDANCE.
Misdirected? Perhaps the goal is near.
Mistreated? All in how you view it:
Could be their ego, could be their FEAR.

I'm brave enough for everyone.
Stronger than they know.
Smart enough to see the truth:
You manifest your destiny - you choose the way you go.

So friends, I am still working
Still in this restoration game.
My barn may be 100 this year.
We can give it a fresh face - maybe even a name.

This path comes from my very core.
It breathes my every breath.
What's old will again be new.

My sole intent
Aim true

Certainly

I WILL.

This Old Barn

The funny thing is, it isn't as if this old barn is something I just became aware of. If you haven't been here, you may not be aware that I live on the homestead that my grandma was raised on. You may not  know that as a child, I assumed this would be my place: the giant old house that once stood here and that I used to sneak into when vacant to play and daydream, would be where I lived.

Sadly, the house was deemed in ill-repair and used as a controlled burned for our local fire department the day (seriously, like as I was leaving) I left to attend college in Wilmington, Ohio. The flames of my dream ignited my rearview mirror, as tears washed my face, but failed to clear the vision from my mind even after six hours of trying. At the time, I thought that was the final indication that I wasn't meant to live in New York.

Imagine the moment when, 13 years later, my husband asked if I would like to move home. In the first place, the man is a diehard Buckeye! I couldn't imagine he would ever want to live in New York again (he had for a year or two - it wasn't magical). I weighed carefully... yeah, no. Not really. I didn't weigh ALL of my options. Not the ones I should have. I thought about our parents and who at the time seemed better able to travel to see us. I did warn that the taxes would be insane, the cost of living higher... Yet we packed up a giant U-Haul, our little girl and baby boy, and headed east.

My younger self had never told my husband about the plot that would eventually become our home. He had a few other locations in mind - but there was none of that! Older self really wishes I had taken a little bit of time to explain why I bought five acres in exactly NONE of the places he hoped for.

But that was MY house that went up in flames all of those years ago. In my heart it was, at least. And if I couldn't have grandma's house, then at least I could have the ground she'd played on.

And of course, the barn is still here. In that barn lies my mission - maybe OUR mission. Because ultimately, this old barn may be about more than me and my husband. It IS about more than me and my husband. It's about more than our now-young woman and her dreams. It may even be about more than a beloved senior gentleman, his memories and HIS dream!

All will be revealed. For now, it's enough to know that it's time to save this old barn. We'll need all the help we can get to accomplish it. Perhaps, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. We'll see. In the meantime, we're reaching out for advice and assistance. Please do share this post if you know of anyone with any experience or interest in barn restoration! If anyone local knows anything about the history of this barn previous to 1930, we'd love to have that information too.

The Hope in a Lilly... and her Lillyanne

Let me tell you the story of Lilyanne.

It begins with her mother, Lilly, who was born in April, 2001. I was living in Michigan, pregnant with my first baby, and had recently lost a good friend to colon cancer. I had planned to call and tell her of my pregnancy when I got home from work that Good Friday. Instead, I came home to a message from her mother on my answering machine that she had passed away. Turns out, it wasn't such a good Friday.

Lilly was born a few days after that. When I lived away from home, my new calves kept me feeling connected to the farm. Grounded and centered in who I was, where I came from, and what really mattered to me in life. Lilly's birth gave me hope and reminded me that by fall another birth would illuminate my world in ways a million calves would never be able to.

I kept Lilly's picture at my desk at work. She was always the first cow I thought of as those early years went by. She grew and brought forth six daughters of her own, three of which did not survive their youth for exceptionally unique, unforeseen and inescapable reasons.

As she aged, Lilly developed a unique personality and penchant for unpredictable behavior which usually hit it's peak just as she was about to calve. She instinctively knew that oxytocin release could induce labor and was found at the end of one gestation letting a calf help her induce her own labor. She was a genius! Within 24 hours, she gave birth to her daughter, Lollypop.

She got a little reckless after that. The next year, she decided to jump into the spreader shed on her way to the calving pen: a four foot drop to a concrete floor! Nobody thought a nine-year-old cow was going to take such a leap! Not only did she land on her feet, she turned around and tried to climb back up and into the barn! It wasn't long after that, her daughter, Liberty was born.

Her last gestation proved to be the most troublesome, however. Very early into the pregnancy, she injured herself going into her stall. It was serious. A quarter so damaged we couldn't milk it without causing her pain. The prevailing opinion was she should be slaughtered ASAP. Far be it from me to listen to logic, I decided to give her meds that would kill the quarter. Maybe she could stay as a three-quartered cow. At least, maybe I'd have the chance to get one more calf. My decision was a questionable one...

The meds made Lilly sick. She stopped milking and was put to pasture ("dried off") until her due date. As the months went by, it was plain to see, even from a football field away or greater, that her udder was in terrible shape and there would be no keeping her after the birth of her calf. She would only continue to hurt herself navigating the stalls and pasture. We all wondered what the chances were of that calf she carried being a heifer...

As her due date drew near, we mulled over the best ways to care for her. Wednesdays are auction days. We hoped this ornery cow might calve on a Tuesday so we could save her as much discomfort as possible and get her to the auction the next day. Nobody actually thought Lilly would comply, she had a knack for doing things her own way...

... But that's exactly how it went. Lilly gave birth to a heifer calf on a Tuesday morning. She went to market the next day. It broke my heart to let her go. But we went back to this little heifer calf, born sluggish and with very slack muscle tone. Prevailing logic concludes the injury and meds we used to deal with it took their toll on this little girl. I worried she may not pull through, and she may not ever be a vigorous, healthy calf...

But as the days went on, Lilyanne perked up. She ate, she stood, she walked, she ran, she bounced!

Knowing the fate of three of her sisters, I held my breath through those early months. The other three hadn't survived long enough to be weaned off milk before some random illness swept them away. Lilyanne did and continues to thrive!

So there you have it. My miracle story that began almost a year ago! Had I not had hope, had I not taken a chance my family thought I was crazy to take, I would not have this now vibrant calf bouncing around, bullying her peers, and becoming the touchstone her mother once was for me.

Hope, determination and perseverance can currently be summed up for me in one word: Lilyanne.