Barn
I dreamed I was back in my old barn. It is rare for me to have such vivid dreams, but there I was: a child again, moving through the old routine of feeding chores. I could feel the cold of the creek as I rinsed out the water buckets and refilled them. I could smell the sweet, summer-sun-on-grass scent of hay as I stuffed the horses’ nets and the goats’ boxes. I could hear the rattle of grain in the bins and cat food in the dish and the contented chewing of many mouths. It was familiar in a way only home can be. I hadn’t felt so relaxed in months.
The older I grew, the more I had to interact with people, the more I appreciated and sought out the company of living creatures who actually understood and accepted me. The barn was my refuge, especially in the winter. In Winter the stronger odors of a barn are subdued and it becomes a cozy, peaceful haven for all. I often took the evening milking just so I could have the barn all to myself, cold notwithstanding. One of my strongest early pieces, written in 2007, is a poem about one such night. I later turned the poem into a longer prose piece, but I can’t locate that. Although it wasn’t winter in the dream the feel of it reminded me of this story and the memories that inspired it.
Winter Evening
Pressing against the window pane
Her breath clouds the glass
Beyond, the fragile snowflakes fall
In a blinding sheet of dancing figures
Like down from Mother’s feather quilt.
A doorknob turns, resisting hinges creak—
She steps out, enveloped suddenly in swirling white
The window shines invitingly, warm from within
She looks away.
The blanket of snow, six inches in depth
Squeaks underfoot. Like an infinite mirror
It tosses back the winter moon’s feeble glow
Illuminating the path before her.
Overhead, ice diamonds shimmer
And beyond them, more diamonds
Revealed by the swept-back covering
Of snow laden clouds
Embedded in the eternal vastness of time.
Her shoulder braced, a mechanical groan
The barn door surrenders, protesting
A switch is thrown, bringing light
Bathing the scene before her in its warm flush
A nicker greets her, and the thump of tails in straw
Two horses lift their heads, two dogs unwilling to rise
Four goats disturbed in slumber. Eight pairs of ears
Prick up, eyes bright and expectant. One nanny
Makes a stiff-legged dash for the milk stand
As if to outrun the others, who watch her go.
She laughs, breaking the heavenly silence
And greets each in turn, from the horses
Now out of hay, to the cat beneath the stand
Waiting patiently for his share. She promises it,
As soon as she dares to remove her gloves
Frigid air, hot water and a towel:
Hissing milk sprays in the pan, foamy and steaming
Eyes closed, she leans against the doe’s flank,
Listening as she eats, hands pulsing deftly.
A song rises from the back of her mind
Her voice weaves the melody
Harmonizing the sounds of the animals around her
In time with the rhythm of streaming milk
Finished! The pan is just saved
From the impatient kick of Nanny
Milk set aside, she climbs the loft
Forking down hay for the goats and horses
Who knew she wouldn’t disappoint them.
She surveys the scene; all is quiet and content
The animals, warm and fed, thank her with soft looks
“Good night, everyone”. A dog rises to escort her
She smiles and faces the door.
Outside the storm has returned
With the quiet fury of an “Ohio blizzard”
No moon is visible, the stars are asleep
Head bowed she pushes homeward.
From inside she turns back
Looking out on the black-and-white world
Voices come from above; she almost misses
The stillness, the tranquility, of a barn in winter.
She faces ‘round, back to her family
Breathing a prayer for safety and warmth
Between the house and barn the snow crystals swirl
Above, the moon peaks out, then recedes
Assured, at last, that all is well.
In my memory the kitchen smells like Chanukah: potato and onion, hot oil and smoke and cooked apples, and a faint hint of beeswax. At the stove Mom is frying latkahs while my sisters are arguing over the color arrangement of the candles in tonight’s menorah. The applesauce I made earlier is simmering on the wood cookstove and I give it a final stir as I pass. Dressed in my flannel-lined jeans and fleece hoodie I’m already overly warm and savoring it. The lid of the milking pot clinks into place as water gushes in the sink, warming enough to hold its heat on the way to the barn. It is a juggling act to manage the pot and container of hot water, the rags, and the bowl of apple skins and cores (a Chanukah treat for the goats and horses), but I am used to pretending I have extra arms. “Put the white one in the center,” I tell my sisters on the way past the table. “You always say that!” Merry retorts.
Several layers and thick boots later, the basement door creaks open and freezing air bites the exposed skin around my eyes, making them water. One foot poised to nudge aside the hopeful barn cat crouched on the threshold, I step into a dark and glittering world. It snowed yesterday and then froze, each step crunches through a layer of ice into powder. The contrast of white-on-black is stark enough that I don’t need a flashlight to navigate the familiar path through the yard. Above me the frozen branches of the black walnuts sparkle like the stars above them. My breath puffs as I raise my face from its woolly coverings towards the glittering stillness; I know of nothing more beautiful than trees in winter. Behind me the cat is picking it’s way in my footsteps, wishing I would hurry. Together, we trudge through the frozen night, our destination dark but warm.
I am still walking, retracing my own footsteps. Those animals, that scene, the girl I was—they’re all gone now. In circles I walk, wearing a path around a smaller but also familiar patch of ground, a different cat greets me on my walk and more perk up with curiosity and naive envy when I return. I cling to these walks, scoop up armfuls of furries to breath them in and warm my hands, aware that this, too, will one day be a memory. Over the weekend I brought a wagon load of cut evergreens in and decked our kitchen—white pine for peace and health, red pine for hope, hemlock for nurturing and feminine power, yellow cedar for grounding and connection, holly for protection. “You look like a Norman Rockwell painting,” my husband said when he saw me, bundled to the eyes against the biting cold with my rusty old wagon full of fragrant boughs. I felt like a painting, like I was setting every moment on a page of my mind to return to later. It is our last Christmas in this house, and I am feeling nostalgic.
‘Tis the season for memory. In the fall I relate most to the air element, transient and ephemeral and always on the move. In the winter I am water; sometimes dark and deep and still, sometimes sparkly and dancing. My mind flows backwards, over the year past and ones before, tumbling through memories like a stream through rocks, wearing off their jagged edges with repetition. With life changing around me more rapidly than usual, with the impossible task of uprooting and transplanting our life ahead of us, it is hardly surprising that I would reach for something that once brought me great comfort and stability. And so, I dream of a barn, and the creek that ran endlessly past it.