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It was Saturday afternoon and my trusty lawn tractor swallowed up the last swath of green. I headed for the barn, parked in the usual spot, and half-heartedly offered a prayer that our seats would not meet again for another six months. Five acres of grass and the unusually cool and wet season had provided more of a permanent relationship with my mower than I had envisioned. When I exited through the wide doors something brushed my shoulder. As I turned to investigate I heard a breathy whisper. "The past has passed and as regal as it was, I could not bear it again." Perhaps I had not heard the words at all, but only felt them. In either case the forlorn sentiment came from the structure surrounding me. In a long forgotten era she was regal,
but more in a Cinderella fashion. It is safe to assume that Frank
Lloyd Wright would Six by six beams were aligned, hand-drilled, and wooden pegs driven through for fasteners. Although crude by the standards of today, it is not by mistake it has weathered the elements of the prairie for more than a century. When the weight of the frame exceeded their collective strength someone would unhitch a team of horses from a wagon and the true meaning of horsepower was revealed. Under a watchful eye and the command of the owner, the nostrils of beasts would flare and a section of wall would rise out of the ground. Over and over the process was repeated and finally when the sun faded beyond the horizon they returned to their homes, each of them resting easier knowing a neighbor would soon have a place where his animals could take shelter and a loft in which to store hay. Even as I snapped the photo I knew she had done well to serve this long, but it pained me to know that simply standing had become such a chore. True to her purpose, there was no primping or preening before the shot, and as strong as the urge was I resisted. Touching-up the shot with Photoshop would have offended her sensibilities. My wife and I have located a gentleman
who can assist in putting her down. His specialty is not demolition,
but the careful, piece by piece dismantling of old barns. The
weathered wood will be transported to a plant where it will be
stripped, refinished, and used as reclaimed lumber. Perhaps in
the future a part of her will become a hearth above a roaring
fire, wainscoting in a fine dining room, or a shiny hard-wood
floor. Whatever becomes of her, my soul will rest easy knowing
her future is filled with hope and once again her existence will
have purpose. Dan Beams is a 40-year-old self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess, in great abundance, those things not easily measured. You can read more of Dan's poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/ Send Dan a message either directly. For more from Dan visit the Word Catalyst archives or his online home. HTML Comment Box is loading comments...
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Leftovers
If only to preserve my skewed personal illusion
of normalcy, I feel the need to declare the rarity of a recent
circumstance. As peculiar as some perceive me to be, I do not
make it a point to converse with buildings on a regular basis,
unless of course they speak to me first.
have
taken a pass on the opportunity to design such a building. More
likely she was assembled from blueprints scratched in pencil
on the side of a buckboard wagon. The laborers that gathered
predated the days of organized unions, but an unofficial brotherhood
of neighbors drew them close and the work at hand served as dues.
Since there were no white colored hard-hats to designate foreman,
all eyes focused on the man in bibs possessing the longest beard,
for it represented wisdom. The task they performed was just that;
it belonged to era when functionality exceeded the desire to
awe, and folks helped one another with nothing more than a fried
chicken dinner as payment.
Higher Ground
Cheshire Cat
Truly Calhoun
Songs of