My Barn Buddy

The Barn was my Buddy! Weird, right, but let me begin by providing some background.

This is another anecdote shared, an example of how my cousin and I seem to have a knack for locating and creating mischief. The word mischief will suffice, but I can imagine a few other terms our parents may have used among themselves. I could never accomplish this exploit on my own. As always, I will give the credit to my cousin. He was the older and, well; he deserves that honor.

First a bit more about the barn, behind one of my most favorite places to live at, 1016 Caton Avenue, Southport, New York. You can actually Google this residence, although much has changed, including the fact the barn no longer exists, except in my memory. Also, most trees have died over the years (Dutch elm disease), the hedge gone, the enclosed sun porch that extended the full width of the house removed, and the house was white, not blue. Looking at the front, my bedroom would be behind the window on the left. The next window was the living room, as was the front door. I would love to reminisce, but the story is about the barn, perhaps another time.

Growing up, I often heard how I was such a delightful baby, a quiet baby, how I could entertain myself for hours. I caused no trouble; I believe they meant these as compliments, good qualities, some characteristics a parent would proudly proclaim. Give the kid a box of blocks and he could stay busy for hours. After writing several stories over the past months, I realize this is total bunk, sorry for the harsh language. BUT, I apologize, the Voices In My Head have taken control and pulled me astray.

My Barn. The barn was old. I mean, the house was old; the barn was ancient. Constructed in the 1800s, typically described as a plank-framed barn or also called joist frame, rib frame, or trussed frame. This was a two story, peaked roof, construction in which none of the material used is larger than 2 inches thick, rather than solid timbers. At the one end, there was a workshop where tools and materials were likely kept and used to repair farm equipment. The second story appeared to be a space where crops were likely gathered with a large door on the front to allow access to or removal of crops, i.e., bales of hay.

The rule was, “never go into the attic area!”

The first floor included two garages, kinda, on the small size, likely used to keep farming equipment, for example small tractors.

Of the four families sharing this house, no one, I mean no one, had the courage to park their vehicle in these spaces.

The one side I used to store all the bundled newspapers I was collecting to have dad transport to a local recycle collection site to sell by the pound. Stacks and stacks of neatly bundled papers, waiting, worth, what like three to five-cents per pound? It never happened. Over the years, the neatly stacked stacks slowly decomposed.

I referred to it as my buddy because with a hard bouncy ball, a baseball glove and my vivid imagination I spent hours entertain by simply pretending I was the best shortstop in the history of baseball. Naturally, the Voices In My Head would rightly claim there is no such beast as a left-handed shortstop. “Go play first base!” Then Voices noted, “listen, you are really way too short to play first. We really need a taller player with a greater reach. Go play right field.” That takes me back to the coach I am hoping will spend eternity coaching little league forever! And that is a whole different story.

So, with that issue resolved, I have decided it’s my life. I’m playing shortstop. I’m in position, the batter smashes a hot grounded to me, I deftly move to my right, spin, snag the ball, and with perfect precision throw the ball (bounce the ball off the barn) to first baseman (now played by me), stretch and catch the ball before the runner reaches first, and he is out. For hours into the night, I can do this. There was sufficient ambient light in the area to continue this game well beyond dinner.

Now if I need to rest, I walk along the side to the side-yard with shade provide by a half-dozen well-established trees, a row of Bing cherry trees, a well-ish maintained garden and a patch of brush waiting to be cleared, which for the recorded never happened. I have walked along the side of the barn dozens of times oblivious to the windows until my cousin was visiting one fine summer afternoon and, you will never guess what, go ahead guess.

It is amazing what two young creative minds can conceive with little effort. Again, I wish to bestow to Paul the honor of “master-mind.” I say this because I would or could never come up with such creative ideas.

As we pass along the side I hear, “Hey, look windows?”

To my surprise, I reply, “Hey, I never noticed those.” Not totally true.

“Yeah, two windows, each with four panes of glass.”

There appears to be a gap in, most likely, our collective memory. What was about to happen next was unfathomable. We somehow, and for some unknown reason, with great accuracy and precision, removed the panes of glass with rocks. When finished, there was not a sliver of glass to be found OUTSIDE the barn; it was a job well done, well, we probably should have looked inside, but by now we were both worn out and needed to find other forms of entertainment to substantiate our creativity and rock throwing aptitude.

Did I mention a well-ish maintained garden? In the garden grew a variety of vegetables, for example: corn, potatoes, string beans, tomatoes, and other plants? I even had my space, a plot to plant, weed, and harvest. The expectation, I can only guess, I would learn the how to’s of gardening and become a responsible adult.

Every Sunday my dad, after breakfast and after getting dressed for church grabbed the salt shaker, walked to his garden and sought a red-ripe tomato, wipe off the dust, and then headed back to the house, salting and eating the freshly picked, off the vine tomato. I can only guess he noted something was amiss, out of place, missing.

I was soon to find out that he realized someone had “removed” the two windows, each with four panes of glass!

I can only speculate that the first names to run through his mind include me. Now I wish I had a great ending to this story, unfortunately I do not.

Yes, my favorite cousin was involved and yes we successfully “removed” all the glass and most of the frame, and yes the rocks and glass were scattered inside, on the floor, and yes my dad was more of a, “what were you thinking kind of guy,” and Yada, Yada, end of story.

Disappointing conclusion, I know, just more proof that when together, there was likely to be a story. This reason is why we did not spend hours and hours of time together, maybe?