Barns

Barns 

Although the cautionary words from our parents were attempts to impose safety limits on our explorations, we weren’t, after all, very obedient children.  The various buildings and add-ons were perpetual sources of discovery.  For endless amusement and activity, we plumbed the depths – and heights – of the two barns.  Access was always a little tricky, with stairs that were open; i.e., no risers or balusters or handrails.   The attached barn, the one that I wasn’t too afraid of, had lots of interesting things stored in it.  On its second floor was one of my favorite things to look at; inside a trunk was my grandmother’s wedding gown.  It seemed a funny place to keep something so special.  I loved to gaze at it, and gently touch it but not move it from its nest. Most everything else stored in the barn made sense:  a “roof” mower and the Jari (both powerful lawn mowers) a Farmall Cub tractor, large and small farm tools, industrial size freezer, storm windows.  

The detached barn, on the other hand, was just a hulking, ominous-looking hazard.  At some point in its past it served as a chicken coop as part of the Niles Poultry Farm.  Everyone familiar with its innards commented on the amount of chicken poop, which should have served as a natural deterrent, but inexplicably did not.  Its best days were well behind it.  I’m able to imagine my parents’ and grandparents’ separate conversations concerning that beast.  (Mom, standing in my grandparents’ summer kitchen doorway, her upper body leaning acutely to take in the full view of the barn) We really need to do something about that barn, Bud.  Did you notice how the north wall is leaning a little further inward?  (Dad, hunched over The Zimmerman Telegram, a recent book release by Barbara Tuchman) Hmmm. . .  (Mom) It wasn’t that way last week, was it?  I bet we could pull the whole thing down by ourselves.(Dad, turning a page) Hmmm. . .  (Mom) The state it’s in, it wouldn’t take much. Where’s the big chain?  Where are the children?  And my grandparents: (Nana, cupping her right elbow with her left hand so she could worry her chin with the right hand) Joe, I’m nervous about that barn.  It’s looking a little more tilted.  What do you think?  (Papa Joe, snapping his suspenders to remind them of their sole job to keep his pants from slipping below his round belly) Anna, I have to focus on fixing the Jari today.  I’m sure the barn is fine.  (Nana, continuing to worry that chin) Oh, ok, Joe, I’m sure it is.  

Whenever I rounded the house on the south side, I worried about that barn.  The most I could do was cast a practiced worried look at it (much like Nana May) to make sure it wasn’t planning to fall my way or up and pursue me, and then run as fast as I could to get by it.  So sure was I that if I eyeballed it too keenly, it would certainly become a living, breathing monster.  I knew that Kevin and Tom weren’t afraid to explore within (or just about anywhere “without” as well, for that matter.)  They were fearless, or maybe their restless energy and insatiable curiosity about how things were built drove them.  Even Shandy, one of our Kerry blue terriers, was alert to the dangers that that barn posed. He was known to smother Kevin with his own body to keep him from doing what he shouldn’t be doing, in this case climbing the stairs to the second floor.  That worked for some time.  Eventually, Kevin became better at evading his canine guardian, so there was greater urgency in the call to pull down that dern barn. . . or maybe it just finally gave up the fight and reluctantly came to rest in an exhausted heap.  (A similar fate had been visited upon the old agricultural windmill that once stood behind the barn. It was situated on the southern line of the property, and its probable function was to pump water for livestock. Sources suggest that the windmill blew down in the hurricane of 1938.  Kevin recalls being able to belly up to the lip of the accompanying well, and peer into its depths.  He’s still alive, so another peril averted.) 

1777 South Street had been, I imagine, a fulfillment of my grandfather’s retirement fantasies. Having grown up in Newton, and then devoting the entirety of his career to music direction in schools and churches in and around Boston, he was ready to realize his pastoral dreams.  He became a farmer, learning all the crucial skills through trial and error, and good old-fashioned on-the-job training.  As most farms do, the 36-acre farm offered up perpetual surprises, or, to be more precise, constant challenges.  Papa Joe confronted each with his can-do, creative problem-solving approach.  As much time as he spent cultivating and pruning, and repairing farm equipment, he spent as many hours fashioning all manner of creations large and small in his woodshop in the rear corner of the attached barn.   For instance, one simple device was a “crow scarer”.  It was not in any way like a scarecrow, passive and innocuous.  Instead, it was a type of hand-held gadget that you cranked vigorously to produce the most god-awful, deafening sound.  Your eardrums suffered incremental damage each time you gave it a go.  For a time, it was quite effective in scaring off crows, the ubiquitous creature otherwise known as the farmer’s cleverest and most determined adversary.  (Side note:  Mom’s solution to the problem, picking them off one at a time by means of her Mauser 22 cal. bolt-action rifle, a 1940's model that others found just a little too unsettling when raised expertly to her shoulder,  would have provided her at least with satisfaction, but would never have happened under Papa Joe’s stewardship. . . even if he was secretly inspired by the thought.)

Beginnings (1777 South Street)

Introduction

“Earnest” was how my sweet Aunt Anne described me in a letter of recommendation that I asked her to write for me when I first set out to capture a teaching position in 1990.  At the time, I didn’t consider the word to be particularly flattering.  To me it suggested that I could work hard at something, but it didn’t necessarily result in success or achievement.  But that’s not true.  Academically, I was – and am – an achiever.  In my career, too, as an educator, I progressed up the ladder, and took on leadership positions, even if I didn’t become a principal of my school, which I never would want anyway.  “Earnest” implies intense conviction, and, so, yes, I am earnest, always have been.  I’m a worrier, too, always have been.  And a scaredy-cat.  And profoundly nostalgic.  I have a longer list of words that describe the type of person I am, but isn’t it pointless to describe myself in that way?  Better to just dive in and tell my story.  I invite you to pour yourself a pretty little glass of wine or sparkling water, sit in a comfy chair, and let me tell you my story.  You can draw your own conclusions.  

Beginnings

I was born in 1956, entering the world with the proud distinction of first daughter after three sons.  I should have been something special.  Maybe to some I was, such as my grandmother (my father's mother), but the significance was diluted by the fact that I was the fourth child born in eight years.  There was just enough compression there to weaken the effect.

First memories trace back to life at 1777 South Street, the Farm, also known to some as “Gildeacres”.  Records suggest that the house was built in 1710, and it never rested very long in any one homeowner's possession.  With such a long history it is small wonder that it underwent so many transformations.  The changes made it difficult to categorize the house as any particular architectural style, and there was an absence of logic in the changes and additions.  At the time we moved in, I think in 1950, we were a family of only six:  my parents, my older brothers Kevin, Thomas, and Christopher, and me.  We lived in a five-room apartment above our grandparents, Papa Joe and Nana May, my mother's parents. Just saying those two names gives me such a cozy feeling.  I always thought that their names were the friendliest; how can you not but love a set of grandparents who you get to call Papa Joe and Nana May?

Although our five-room apartment was small for a family of six, for most of the year that was never an issue.  In fact, it is more accurate to say that its size never cramped our style.  We had acres and acres, and lots of farm-type stuff to keep us amused. . . over and over.  I find it strange that I can remember pretty well the games and activities played indoors in the company of my brothers, but I don’t remember my parents even being there.  They had to have been there, right?  We couldn’t have been left under Kevin’s supervision, I’m sure; there were four of us in a tight age cluster, and he was only six when I was born.  The potential for broken bones, lacerations, and brain damage was too great.   For those of you unfamiliar with Tonka trucks, those metal toys are surprisingly unforgiving when they connect with your head. 

I do remember fort building, river forging, and wild mustang wrangling all over the living room.  And Injuns (not Native Americans) needed rounding up and relocation to reservations.  As the one often chosen to play the fractious injun, I inevitably was incarcerated, to sit out the remainder of play in an improvised jail. Chris was probably the architect of that idea.  It’s also astonishing how frequent was the need to incarcerate me.  There were no peace treaties drawn up. . . ever.  I don’t even think I was entrusted with a bow and arrow; I wore my hair in braids, and I ran around drumming my open palm against my open mouth, shouting, “wooo-wooo-wooo!”  Clearly there was no cultural sensitivity in that day or in that house.   Where were you, Mom and Dad?

The world outside the apartment also provided an inexhaustible feast of creative opportunities. The hydrangea bushes in the front of the property served as a serene sanctuary within which I could – all alone – lovingly minister to my adored Thumbelina. There was nothing better than that new doll smell of Thumbelina, and no doll was more loved.  On the other hand, no doll invited more brotherly torment.  Their “ministrations” resulted in alterations of the permanent sort:  a “rustic” crewcut hairstyle, fingernails painted with black permanent marker, and muteness (of unspecified origin, but I suspect shaken baby syndrome.) 

Chris, Kevin, & me (with my darling Thumbelina)

The enormous trees on the north side of the property (beyond the impenetrable Siegfried Line of briar bushes and poison ivy) offered simply the most exhilarating experience of flying. Riding those boughs was like taking to blustery skies in a single engine prop plane, and it was endless FUN, that is, until you lost your grip and crashed to the ground, where you then flopped around like a fish tossed onto the shore, gasping for breath.  And then you immediately launched yourself back into the tree for another thrilling ride.