RUDIMENTS, pt. 768
(like one of those old hick musicals)
It seems to me there
never was any training
for malfeasance or neglect.
Those sorts of things just
happen as they arise out of
a person's core character.
You learn it, and you then
simply never expect more.
-
When I first arrived to the
Pennsylvania location,
Warren's barn, which had
burned down the previous
Summer, had just been rebuilt
and gotten underway again.
I never knew if it meant he'd
had to replace livestock or
whatever. I just never asked.
The new barn, wide and
spacious and all, was considered
new and modern - and it was.
It had a 'chain drop' built
into the floor. I won't go into
what it is - it's boring and
tedious to explain. Suffice it
to say it was like an automatic
manure collection system, so a
farmer was freed from having to
shovel up the endless cow-plops
that would be everywhere. A
chain-drive was automated, pretty
thorough, and new, though it
required attention, maintenance
and greasing and lube. I never
cared either way, but mostly
disliked it - in fact I sort of
disliked the whole modern-barn.
idea. I've never liked efficiency,
nor have I ever cared for the
clean design and slick surfaces
of modern things. To my mind,
what I sought in a barn was just
that : the odors, the evidences
of cows and animals, the old
rafters and corrals and gates,
webs, and, most importantly,
the wood. Layers and lofts of
wood. The way it ages and droops,
the colors and tones it attains.
The structural basis of Warren's
new barn was cinder block, and
it had a bit of a quonset-hut look
too. Over time I grew into it and
stopped thinking so much about
it, but I much preferred the other
barns I'd get to work in, those 150
year old hulks of barns and silos
and sheds. Real farm stuff.
-
I didn't know anything about the
expenses, finances, or resources
of his situation, but I'm sure it
was meager - maybe there'd
been a fire-insurance settlement;
who knows. Over the course of
3 or 4 months this new barn
had been built by the community;
in what was called a 'barn bee.'
Which meant that every spare
moment, weekends and holidays
too, farmers and people from all
the local area would come by and,
as a crew and team, donate their
time and effort to construct, for
one of their own, a needed - in
this case - barn. It could have
been a house or a shed, and it
would have gotten done in the
same manner. A community
'take'care' effort. Some ladies
liked to work like men, others
did food service. Covered-dish
foods, big lunch-breaks, dinners,
and all the rest. Whatever anyone
could do, they did. Some guys
were good with concrete; others as
carpenters. Everyone had a role.
Teens and sons too.
-
That's how that barn got built.
I'd arrived just at the Winter
tail-end of that - when there
were still a number of finishing
things needing doing; then, of
course, the shakedown periods,
as we began using everything,
trying it out, seeing how things
worked and what needed, if
any, modifications and tweaks.
It was pretty cool, and I got
to see and learn a lot of things,
and farm-construction lore, and
stories. I still wished, no matter,
that it wasn't a new barn.
-
That was just one of the twists
of timing that brought me there. I
arrived at the 90 percent completion
time of the new barn - six months
previous, I could have watched the
burning, and taken part in the quick
rebuild work. Six months or more
later, I'd have known nothing about
it. One of the things about these
people was their steadfast adherence
to the task at hand. No one there
seemed to possess any of that
outside-the-box form of creative
thinking. Art and writing and
free-expression were unheard of.
It was a bit like a conflict of
cultures, but one flipped on its
head too - there was a communal,
we're all together, sense of spirit
about - but the only reason it was,
as in the case of these construction
bees for needed projects, was to
guarantee that the sameness and
the almost bland quality of each
person remained present, kept in
check, and functioning as a part
of a larger, same, whole. Like a
beehive, I guess, yes. 'Barn Bee'
got it right. The problem was,
if anyone was seen or found to
be in most any way aberrant to
this code, trouble could ensue. A
weird guy, like old man Jennings,
up on his twisty hilltop, with
his 'keep aways' and 'don't
pick up my kids for school
on that god-damned schoolbus,'
his guns and foulness, would just
be left to hang out and dry. Shit
out of luck, he'd be, if anything
happened up there - fire, flood,
smoke or murder. He'd broken
the code, and sacrificed his
membership in the 'community.'
I, on the other hand, had become
friendly with him and his wife;
had them over a few times, we
even served them dinner once.
Kathy made a real nice spread;
they were impressed. We'd been
swapping and buying guns, and
cars, between us; the little actions
of each transaction were what
I'd been using to draw this crazy
guy out of his madness to others,
and it was working. He was
becoming civil, and his wife too
was turning out to have some
real qualities. No one, I found,
had ever given them the time of
day, nothing but hostility, and that
had caused the breach - imagined
or not - to widen. I wasn't about
to be a social worker for any of
these situations, but for me, and
Jennings, it was all working.
He'd never been hostile with
me, never pulled a weapon or
gotten aggressive either. He was
30 years older than me already,
but the roles had been easily
flipped. Most people never
said anything to me about it,
but once or twice I was told
about how they'd noticed I
'had a real gift for bringing
people out.' I guess that was
good. I never knew.
-
There were always, as I've
mentioned, things I kept away
from - especially like chummying
up to the wives of any of these
guys, or their daughters also. A
lot of that was often too close
to the surface, and I avoided
whatever I saw. There were
always things going on too,
don't misunderstand me. Like
one of those 20-year old daughters
said to me once, 'Sex ain't nothing
around here, on a farm; we 'wuz
brought up watching cows and
animals doing it twice yearly.'
I sometimes felt as if I was in
one of those oddball 1940's
musicals about all that country
hick kiss and don't tell stuff:
'Oklahoma' or 'Kismet' or
'The Rainmaker.' All my time
there, I never saw nor attended a
wedding - I heard they too were,
much like the barn-bee, a communal
and simply-run operation where
people gathered, ate and talked; no
more than, really, just a group
witnessing to an attested mating-up
and matching of two locals.
I guess that made it all the
more solid; until it wasn't.
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