Page 7 - Demo

5For the first six years of my life, I lived in the small Indiana town of Fowler, which is situated in the very center of Benton County. The surrounding area is blessed with some of the richest and blackest topsoil in the nation, so every person living there was influenced, in one way or another, by agriculture. Yet, even though corn and soybeans grew right up to the edge of town, I only visited a farm once during that time.It was a small operation owned by my Aunt Hon and Uncle Paul, and I spent an entire day with them. While they had a modern ranch-style home in town%u2014where they lived most of the time%u2014they also had a small, white, frame house on their farm. I remember them picking me up in their Chevy for the 12-mile trip into the country, which seemed pretty far to me. We left Fowler about mid-morning, and were just outside Templeton when Uncle Paul turned off Highway 52, bumped over the railroad tracks, then took a left into his gravel drive. A powdery cloud of road dust settled to the ground as he parked in the barn lot. Aunt Hon slid out of the car and went into the farmhouse where she opened the windows to give the place a good airing before starting lunch (which she called dinner). I tagged along with my uncle as he began his chores. Our first stop was the barn. As Uncle Paul slid open the rough, weathered door, he startled a large orange hen who hopped off her nest, clucked in indignation, and sashayed across the dirt floor. I looked over to where she%u2019d been sitting and spotted a single, perfect, brown egg. Uncle Paul picked it up and asked me what I thought we should do with it. Without missing a beat, I said, %u201cLet%u2019s throw it at the barn!%u201d Well, he didn%u2019t think that was such a good idea, and suggested instead that we give it to Aunt Hon to cook for tomorrow%u2019s breakfast. That didn%u2019t sound like much fun to me at all, but it was his egg, and I figured he could do with it whatever he wanted.Even though over a half-century has elapsed, I can still sense the eerie dim light and the dank earthy smell of that barn%u2019s interior. There wasn%u2019t anything pretty, or particularly remarkable, let alone compelling, about it. It just was a big old barn%u2014a utilitarian structure used mostly for storage. I%u2019m sure Uncle Paul didn%u2019t think it was anything special either. After all, he was a farmer, and farms had barns. That was probably the opinion of most people back then.IntroductionToday, though, there are plenty of farmers and farm kids (current and former) who smile whenever they see an old barn. There are also many people who have never lived on a farm, who have an intense love of barns. I%u2019ve heard individuals express an adoring nostalgia that borders on agrarian worship. Some, no doubt, admire their simple architectural beauty. After all, barns are the ultimate in form-following-function%u2014they%u2019re purposeful, basic, honest. Then there are the rough, pre-power-tool, hand-adzed, mortise-and-tenoned posts and beams, held together with handcarved wooden pegs, the hand-wrought iron hinges and latches on the doors, and the wavy glass in the windows. All this regularly evokes a reverent, %u201cThey sure don%u2019t build %u2018em like that anymore.%u201dBarns are also popular because of the agricultural heritage they represent%u2014a once-common and proud tradition of family farms which is rapidly fading away. They conger up images of feisty roosters crowing with the rising sun, tapping maple trees, churning butter, big families eating hearty meals, fresh pies cooling on the windowsill, a sense of God-given purpose, the blessings found in hard work and self-sufficiency, of communities coming together for barn raisings, of neighbors helping get the crop in before a storm, or a midwife aiding in the birth of a baby%u2014all things some, like the Amish, still do. Barns also remind us of the pride that existed in a dreamy, idealized past%u2014an appealing alternative to today%u2019s rapid, digital, out-of-one%u2019s-control world. In short, there%u2019s a lot of positive energy emanating from barns%u2014even those on the verge of collapse.Of course, it%u2019s easy to overly romanticize the olden days. In truth, farming could be a very hard life. More than a few farmers lost fingers, limbs%u2014even lives%u2014in grisly accidents. And farm families were often on the brink of financial disaster. Think of bankers and creditors confiscating farms during the Great Depression. Our family has an old photo album with a series of melancholy blackand-white pictures my dad took as a teenager, early on the morning of January 22, 1930, showing all his family%u2019s personal possessions%u2014tables, bedsteads, cabinets, book cases, rocking chairs, sewing machine, ice box, phonograph, etc.%u2014spread out on the grass around the house, covered with a dusting of snow, ready for the 9:00 A.M. liquidation auction. The sale also included a long list of livestock (horses, cows, hogs) and farming equipment, including plows, cultivators, harrows, discs, planters, threshers,