by Richard Seifried
Signal Hill Musings
January, 2009
Cold, chilly, dark afternoons often result in my reflecting on my early teen-age days.
During WWII, November and December found my Uncle Dwight and me walking the twenty acre fields, hunting for our limit of four rabbits each. Meat was severely rationed so our contributions meant a great deal to our families.
Except for Dad. He refused to eat wild meat, so we usually had a big family feed at Grandma and Grandpa Carey’s home. Neither would Dad eat chicken. As a boy he worked on his Uncle Clyde’s farm. They were very poor and all of their beef and pork was sold. Chicken was generally the only meat they had for dinner.
Usually, we stopped hunting late in the afternoon. The farmer was either milking the cows or feeding his animals. So, we’d go into the big dairy barn, and the farmer and my uncle would fuss about agricultural and family things. Men gossip too.
If you readers never experienced being in one of those huge dairy barns, you have missed one of the great joys in life.
An old patriotic barn near my home (which has since been deconstructed)
They were huge. The lofts were filled with sweet smelling hay. Too, sparrows chirped and scolded and flew among the rafters (starlings, which are typical barn-dwellers now, had not yet arrived from the east coast). Because of the numerous birds (including pigeons) and the many rats and mice, flat-faced barn owls took up residence up in the high rafters. Before large barns started popping up across our country, these owls had lived in great hollow trees. Nowadays, since few large, hollow trees exist and great barns are becoming scarce, the barn owl is a rare sight – and is actually considered endangered in some states.
What was most alluring about old barns was the warmth, animal warmth. Cows, horses, sometimes pigs and sheep filled the structures with wonderfully-scented aromas. I don’t believe that I have ever smelled anything as soothing as the odors of hay, milk, animal heat, urine and manure. Really.
In the early years, war years, most cows were still milked by hand. The farm cats would arrive, fat from feasting on mice and rats, and sit nearby, watching. Occasionally, the farmer or his wife would turn the teat toward the cat and squirt a thick, rich stream directly into the open mouth of the feline. The animal would smack its lips and wait for the next treat.
Sounds in the old barns were wonderful too. Mooing, squealing, and whinnying – plus the ever-present sound of winter winds, sighing or hissing through the sides of the barns. Long vertical slits between the boards allowed for ventilation – and created these beautiful, eerie sounds.
One summer, 1945, my friends and I went to visit my cousin in Michigan. After the first night of tent sleeping, we decided to sleep in the barn. The hay was wonderfully soft, but when I awoke, I found that the pigs had gotten loose and at least one was looking at me like I might be some sort of dessert. From then on, we slept up in the hay loft.
I miss those old barns. In another decade or two, many of them will be gone forever. So if you get the chance, tour one of these nods to yesteryear – and lie down in the hay if you can. You will thank me!
