This old barn stores lifetime of memories
I'm in Minnesota this week painting my parents' barn.
My three brothers and I are gathered at the 1882 homestead started by my great-grandfather to take on the weathered walls of a gigantic, quintessential dairy barn that passed the 100-year mark some years ago.
It's a big job that sounds like a benign task. But there is nothing benign, nothing ordinary about this project. This our attempt, both literal and figurative, to preserve the past.
There wasn't a day that went by for any of my family without that barn being involved. It kept our lives in rhythm as we milked cows morning and night, 365 days a year. It kept us fed, kept us busy, kept us together within its strong walls. Our quality family time was spent among a herd of Holsteins.
My mother always joked that she met Dad in a barn (they met at Clyde's barn dance) and she'd been in the barn ever since. That declaration wasn't much of a stretch.
Some of my earliest childhood memories involve carrying half-full buckets of warm, steaming milk to newborn calves. Dad showed each of us how to get a newborn to drink, by dipping our fingers in the milk and then inserting them in the calf's mouth, a human pacifier of sorts. I can still feel the rough tongues and bumpy palates of those young calves.
Our lives revolved around chores, and we all pulled our own weight. In our teenage years, it was a ball and chain, an albatross we couldn't shake. Before we could go anywhere, do anything, there were chores to do. We took a lot of showers in those years, because the barn smelled like, well, a barn, and we sure didn't want to sit in pep band or show up for play practice smelling like cows.
But during our younger years, the barn was our kingdom. The enormous hayloft was a playground like no other. We'd spend entire afternoons as kids making tunnels and forts out of hay bales, then would lie quietly and listen to the pigeons cooing in the cupola. We'd explore every crevice, regularly finding batches of kittens tucked among the bales. We were daredevils on the rope swing that hung from the very top of the rounded ceiling.
The barn is a sturdy structure, built into a hill that overlooks the Red River Valley to the west. The ground floor was shaped out of fieldstone, the loft with strong expanses of rounded beams supporting an arched roof.
It's stood the test of time and tornadoes. A twister came through from the northwest one summer evening in the late 1960s. In a scene that must have resembled the footage shot for the movie, "Twister," my middle brother and I ran to the house with our youngest brother in tow. Dad was on our heels as a forceful gust of wind pushed the west barn wall in about two feet.
Without a doubt, it was the most frightening moment of my life. My little brother's feet never touched the ground as we whisked him along, hands clenched tightly together, as we ran for our lives. Mom, who was frantically waiting in the house for us, said God made a path and pushed us to safety that night. I believe her.
Heavy equipment was brought in to pull the barn wall back in place. It was bolted down once again to the stone, and hasn't moved since.
The barn has been empty for years now. The last cows were sold a while back, and other than the pigeons and an occasional stray cat, it has no occupants. It's likely it will never again be used as a dairy barn. Small family farms have all but vanished from northern Minnesota, gobbled up by big corporate dairy operations that do the job faster and more efficiently.
All it's good for now is storage, and as a landmark - the Haug barn at the top of the hill in Skree Township.
What does one do with a lifetime of memories from these hallowed walls?
Treasure them, preserve them. A new coat of paint is a physical fix, insurance the mammoth structure will stand a few more years. Coming together as a family once again, to reminisce, remember and relive our years on the farm is, as they say, priceless.
Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com