Out of the Frying Pan

The Trip to the Barn

When Grandpa opened the door, a gust of cold almost took my breath away. Grandpa and I paused on the porch to take in the view, but not my brothers, they just had to go out there and mess up perfection. Off the porch they went, but didn’t get far. It’s funny how a body can go different directions, legs one way, arms another, as they went flopping and flailing off the porch step and down into the snow. My grandpa shook his head as he reached for the broom that was standing up against the wall.

“Them two are a-gonna have a rough road ahead.”

See, they didn’t realize that the step they could see wasn’t the first step from the bottom, it was the second step that the snow was up even with. As for the broom, it served two purposes: one, to sweep off the steps (you can count them better that way), and two, to sweep your boots off before going back into the house.

Of course, the arguing between my brothers started, one pushing the other until my grandpa hollered, “Hush!’ and then said softly to me, “Let’s get going.” I followed my grandpa off of the porch as we headed toward the barn, stepping in his footprints to make it a bit easier on me, since I wasn’t quite as tall.

We left Cain and Abel there to get the snow out of their collars (and from other places inside their clothes). I could hear them coming, flinging snow and pushing one another. I knew Grandpa did too; I could see his head shaking from side to side as we kept on walking.

Those boys knew better than to try and bean me with a snowball, ‘cause I could move quick enough. They might hit Grandpa by mistake and probably wouldn’t be found until the thaw of spring. Grandpa had a simple rule: get your work done, then you could have all the fun you wanted.

My grandpa’s barn was painted in the traditional colors of red and white, and the roof was made of corrigated metal. We entered through a smaller door which was next to the two big ones (that during the winter he only opened if he had to). As we went in, he started turning on the lights instead of turning up the lanterns. As the lights came on, it was like a whole ‘nother world was being illuminated. To the right was his tractor and various gardening equipment. Behind that, further into the barn, were the stalls where his animals were kept. The very back part of the barn was his workshop and forge area, where the now-forgotten and almost-lost art of handmaking things like buckets, barrels, and furniture were accomplished.

Now in the middle of the right side was a special stall that should have had a plaque with my brothers’ names on it. No animal was placed in there, but in the back of the stall was a small trap door, on the other side of which was a chute. Yep, I won’t even write here what it was referred to as, but I’ll give you a hint: it started with the letter “s” and ended with “chute.” And you all thought CC, Tor, and PlannerDan could fling the dung, , well, I’ll tell ya, my brothers had it down pat, or patty, however you want to look at it.

When my brothers would come in, they would realize without even being told, to get the wheelbarrow and their shovels. They would take off their jackets and hang them up, knowing that they were gonna work up a sweat. My grandpa, seeing them settin’ to work, tossed me a grin, and I knew he was thinking like I was, They ain’t gonna be bored for a while.

Grandpa would go and milk the cow, and my job was to feed and groom the animals. After I got done, extra time allowed for me to pet them and talk to them. They never answered me back, but they looked like they knew what I was saying.

I went on over to where Grandpa was and offered help. He was pouring the last bucket of milk into the large copper milk can, and I knew what came next. With me trailing right behind him, he headed over to the chicken coop to retrieve eggs from the hens. Ya had to watch the old rooster he had, he was a gamy bugger and didn’t like his territory messed with. But all it would take was for my grandpa to point a finger at him and remind him that he could end up on a plate, and the old rooster would settle down and just watch us.

Also out in the barn was Bowl. Bowl was my Grandpa’s dog, an old saggy-faced bloodhound that preferred to stay in the barn. He didn’t much care for staying at the house, he liked being around the other animals and he was a good protector, wouldn’t let nothing harm them. I used to pet him and tug on those droopy jaws and get a kick out of his little pointy tail wagging ‘til his whole rear end would shake with it.

He got his name, Bowl, because that was how he sounded when he barked, “Bowwl! Bowwl!” It was something to watch when my grandpa would let him loose. Bowl would take off for the woods and you could hear him bark and bark as he treed a coon, for that’s what he really was, my Grandpa’s coondog.