The Red Barn

A Father's Day remembrance.

Fathers can often transform their child’s life. Mine did. The pivotal events occurred when I was 13, going on 14. That summer, my father imparted a lesson in responsibility that has stayed with me for the rest of my life. Here’s the story.

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As a 13-year-old kid in central Indiana, I’m accustomed to working up a sweat. Still, it’s going to be unusually hot for late May, even by my standards.

But school’s out and my best friend just called to say that the guys are getting together at the school to play a little baseball. Even though I’m not very good at it, baseball’s my favorite sport. So I say yes.

As I roll my bike out of the old red barn behind our house, my father comes out with his hands on his hips.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna play ball with the guys at the high school.”

“No, you’re not. I need you to help me.”

“No. I’m going to play baseball. And you can’t stop me.”

I pull my cap down hard, grab my ball glove and bat, and ride off.

“Son?” he shouts. It’s not a question. When he shouts “Son?” with that rising inflection, he’s merely getting my attention for whatever unpleasantry is about to follow. “If you leave now, you’ll be sorry.”

Too late. I’m already at the road and heading for town as fast as my 10-speed can move.

After I return from baseball and Mom serves lunch, Dad says, “Son? I need to talk to you. Let’s go outside.” He leads me down the driveway, between both sections of the vegetable garden, to the barn.

Dad points to the barn.

“This summer, you’re not going to play ball or anything else. You’re going to tear down the barn. I was going to do it with your help, but you need to learn responsibility. You’re going to do it by yourself.”

“Why can’t I play ball this summer?” I whine.

“You can. During the evening after you’re done working. Just not during the day.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Stop whining. Do as you’re told. You start in the morning. I’ll help you with the roof ‘cause that’s dangerous. After that, you’re on your own.”

I turn my back, grab my fishing pole, whistle to my dog, and head off for Racoon Creek nearby. Guess this is the last chance to fish this summer, too. It’s still not fair.

Getting the Roof Off

After two days of cleaning old manure out of the stalls and moving all the tools and equipment out of the barn, I’m tired. Heavy, dusty, hot labor.

When I’m done cleaning things out, Dad comes out with some tall ladders that I’ve never seen before.

“OK, first thing is to climb up and fasten two of these ladders to the roof to hold us while we get the panels off. Once we’re up at the edge, we’ll pull the ladders up with this rope.”

“This looks high.” I don’t dare say, “I’m scared!”

“Yeah. Don’t look down. You’ll be fine.”

Up we go. Hauling the wooden ladders by the rope turns out to be hard. They’re heavy and awkward, but we struggle to fasten them so that we can reach the peak to remove the ridge cap.

Up high, hammers and crowbars are surprisingly heavy, too. But we manage to get the cap off. With the sun beating down on the corrugated steel panels, it’s also super hot.

“Now, we can work on the panels,” Dad remarks. It’s the first thing he’s said since we climbed up. No rest. No water.

“Start pulling out the fasteners from the top and work your way down. When the panel’s loose, just let it slide off.”

Sounds easy. It’s not. The fasteners don’t want to budge. I learn that prying up the edge of a panel sometimes gets them started. So that’s what I do. Dad just silently works away at his panels. He’s stronger and doesn’t have to pry up a panel’s edge first.

After hours and hours, Dad finally says, “Lunch.” We’re about a third done with the panels. This is going to take all day, and I’m already sore.

Following an afternoon of prying and lifting in what I’m figuring is 120° heat, the last panel crashes to the ground below us. Done! Sore! Exhausted!

“Ok, so you’re on your own tomorrow. Just remember to work from the top down. By the way, I want to use the lumber to have a garage built behind the house. So you need to clean up every board. You know, take out all the nails.”

“Huh? How do I do that?”

“With the claw on a hammer. Sometimes with pliers. And sort the lumber: long planks in one pile, medium size planks in another pile, short pieces in a third pile. If a piece is rotted, throw it aside so we can burn it in September.” Dad always created a big pile of brush, limbs, and other stuff that he burned as a bonfire during a party to celebrate both our birthdays every September.

“One last thing: I want them to pour the garage floor in mid-August so the garage can be built before winter. So you have about 2 ½ months. I’ve also decided to drive the lime truck again this summer.” To help supplement his teacher’s salary, Dad often drove a truck that spread lime on farmers’ fields to help regulate pH levels to improve crop yields. He would come home on those days completely covered with white lime dust.

The Sides of the Barn

The next morning, the sides of the barn loom over me like a red monster. I place the ladder, stick a hammer in my belt, pull my cotton gloves on, and climb to the top.

No go. There’s no way to dislodge the first vertical plank without a crowbar. Back down, grab the crowbar, and back up.

The 10-foot planks are typically nailed in three places: top, bottom, and somewhere in the middle. So I have to pry them loose at the bottom, move up to the middle, and then to the top, taking care that the freed plank doesn’t hit me. Then it’s back up the ladder to repeat the process.

As the planks start to pile up helter-skelter, I realize that I should start stacking them as I go along. And that means removing the nails.

While the planks are on the ground, it’s difficult to get at the nails. The planks move around when I pull on the nails with the hammer, and bending down is hard on my back. So I set up a couple of sawhorses to make things easier.

My system is still flawed. Who would guess that most nail heads are so deeply embedded that you can’t get a hammer’s claw around them? I keep turning the planks over and over so I can pound the tips of the nails to raise the heads on the other side. This is going to take forever.

Then I hit on a modification to speed things up. With each plank, I start by pounding all of the nail tips before turning the plank over to pull out the nails. That speeds things up a little.

But now my gloves have holes and offer no protection.

This is bad. After an entire morning, I have removed and cleaned only 6 planks. I have no gloves, and it’s getting hot.

I’ve even started on the wrong side. Too late, I realize that I should work on the south and west sides during mornings when it’s cooler; afternoons should be saved for the north and east sides which are in shade then.

I’ve learned a lot for one morning. At lunch, I tell my father that my gloves have worn out.

“I didn’t think those cotton gloves of yours would last long. Go buy some new ones, leather this time.”

“What? Don’t you have some?”

“Sure, but they won’t fit you. You need your own. Take your allowance and get a pair at the lumber yard. Every man needs his own pair of work gloves.”

A quick bike ride in 100° sunshine and $5.50 from my allowance solves the glove problem, but the red barn still looms.

I now have a system, but there are literally scores of planks still nailed firmly to the sides of the barn. I’m beginning to have sympathy for the builders of the pyramids.

After about a week of getting up, climbing the ladder, prying planks loose, pounding and pulling out the nails, stacking the planks, and collapsing in complete exhaustion at the end of each day, my father offers some hope.

“Hey, since you haven’t played any baseball yet this summer, why don’t you come practice with the high school team? Since I’m the coach, no one will mind. We practice twice a week during evenings when it’s cooler.”

“Yeah, sure Dad.” Does he have any idea how tired and sore I am after fighting against the barn all day? My quads barely allow me to walk in for dinner. Still, it’s an opportunity, especially since I’m not old or qualified enough to try out for the team.

So now, my routine consists of endless, hot days of plank removal, plus baseball practice on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

I pray for rain. All the farmers that summer are coping with a drought that is parching the corn and soybean crops. But the drought isn’t my fault. Every night, I’m on my knees praying fervently for rain. I’m probably the only baseball player in Indiana who is praying for rain. I just need some rest.

It doesn’t rain. The sun is high in the sky every morning. I begin to work without a shirt on. I might as well get a tan since I’m not getting paid for this labor. No one knew about UV rays and skin cancer then.

Sometime that month, Dad decides that I should take occasional breaks. Drink some water. Change up the pace a bit.

“You know,” he says, “the garden is getting parched and needs some attention. When you need a break, you could hoe the weeds and water the garden with the hose.” Bear in mind, this is not a suggestion. Moreover, Dad plants a half-acre (roughly 22,000 square feet) of vegetables so that my mother can preserve them for winter. That’s a lot of hoeing. Has he forgotten that I’m still responsible for mowing 1 ½ acres that include an orchard? I wince.

By the end of June, about ¾ of the barn’s sides have been removed, cleaned, and stacked. I’m also beginning to notice that my upper body strength has improved, and my skin has turned brown. Progress. Even the vegetables are looking good. But I’m exhausted. My dog goes down to the creek by himself.

It’s All in the Framing

As the barn’s planks continue to come down, I’m beginning to feel better about things. I might have a chance to meet Dad’s August deadline. But now, another challenge arises: how to tear down the barn’s frame.

I have no idea how old this barn is, but whoever built it knew what they were doing.

The skeleton from which I’d been ripping the planks consists of an A-frame series of 2” x 4” rafters for the roof supported by joists generally 6” x 8” and 15 feet long. The joists, in turn, rest on 12” x 12” pillars at each of 6 corners with other 4” x 4” vertical supports in between. Let’s just say that the barn can withstand most Midwestern storms.

By placing a ladder on the floor of the hay mow on the second story, I can reach the roof’s frame that is now exposed to the sky. Knocking out the rafters proves to be fairly simple so long as I’m careful to make sure that falling lumber doesn’t hit me.

Removing the horizontal joists, first on the second story and later those that support the floor of the hay mow, is another matter. These beasts are heavy. Once one end is loosened, mayhem may follow.

Without asking for help (I’m not a complete fool), I seek my father’s engineering advice.

“You’ll need to rig a system of pulleys and ropes to stabilize and lower each beam. Our neighbor has pulleys and rope. Go ask Denver if you can borrow them.”

That sounds simple enough. Except that it’s not. Denver explains that I’ll need to set up a tripod, which he has, for each set of pulleys. He shows me the stack of equipment in his barn and offers to haul it down to our house with his tractor and wagon. He does not show me how to rig everything up.

It takes three full days of heavy lifting to figure out how to arrange the pulleys and rope at each end of the first beam. After testing with my own weight, I decide that they will hold. And they do!

After carefully lowering each end of the beam a little at a time, I’m finally able to shove the beam through the open wall and onto the ground below. That feels good. Time for a break to water the garden.

After the first set of beams and vertical supports have been removed from the barn’s second story, it’s time to tackle the floor of the hay mow. Ripping up those wide planks is back-breaking, hands-and-knees work. And I need to be careful that I don’t fall through the emerging open spaces.

Although I’m making progress, the weather turns rainy at exactly the wrong time. I’d prayed for rain continually, never thinking that my meager requests would be granted. But now July turns wet, placing my August deadline in jeopardy. Even baseball practice gets rained out often.

The rain brings other consequences. Dad is at home more. He can’t drive the lime truck in the rain, and there’s not much else to do.

One rainy afternoon, I mention that I’m worried about not finishing the barn by August. He ponders that a little.

“Yeah, I remember when I was a boy we often had trouble getting the hay into the barn before it got soaked. One year, we lost an entire wheat crop to storms and hail. It just laid the wheat flat on the ground. Nothing to do but leave it to the birds. Food was scarce that year.” I don’t dare comment about that memory. Too painful.

“What should I do?”

“Well, you can get up and start working earlier. It’s light enough to work by 4:30. Thunderstorms boil up when it gets hot in the afternoon. I used to get in a full day’s work by noon.” With that advice, our rooster just became my alarm clock.

On another rainy afternoon a few days later, Dad starts another conversation.

“Son?” Uh Oh, here it comes. “I’m going to be your teacher for freshman algebra this year, and we need to set some rules.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you can’t ask me for help at home or outside of school. If you have a question, you need to ask it in class or at least while we’re at school. I can’t play favorites or treat you different from the other students.” Not quite “you’re on your own,” but close.

Despite all the rain, I begin to see an end to this chore. Putting in early hours results in more of the barn’s frame coming down. After Mom’s birthday in early August, only one major hurdle remains.

The six large pillars now rise like lonely sentinels to mark where the barn once stood. They are heavy and set into the ground at least 3-4 feet deep. Immovable.

“Hey, Dad, what can I do about the corner posts? How can I get them down?”

“Well, I can’t help. Have to drive the lime truck. You could go ask Denver for help. He might have an idea since he’s probably run into the same problem on his farm.

I know Denver and his family well. I’ve worked on his farm a little, and he’s the principal of my elementary school. Generously, he offers a way out for the second time on this project.

“A few years ago, I helped my brother to take down a shed,” Denver tells me. “We dug around the bottom of the posts until they wiggled a bit. Then we tied a towing chain to them and pulled ‘em out with a tractor. Might work again.”

“I can do the digging. Can you or Richard (his son) help with the chain and tractor?”

“Sure. Just let us know. And be sure to use a post hole digger for some of the digging. Makes things a little easier.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

The digging is awful. Now I know why folks don’t want to dig ditches. Hot. Sweaty. Backbreaking. Muddy.

After creating a trench about 2-3 feet deep around each post, I can wiggle them back and forth. Time for the tractor and chain.

Richard drives the tractor down early one August morning. We wrap the chain around the bottom of the first post and fasten the hook over the chain. We then tie a rope onto the post as high up as we can reach. The idea is for me to pull on the rope so the post won’t topple toward Richard and hit him in the head. How I’m supposed to dodge the falling post is left to me.

Richard starts the tractor, the chain goes taught, and the post pops out like a charm. I pull it sideways and it falls heavily to the ground. Things don’t go as smoothly for a couple of the posts, requiring more nasty digging (who knew there are rocks down there?); but by noon, we’ve got them all out.

Time to celebrate! When Dad gets home that afternoon, he looks toward the vacant area, nods his head once, and shuffles into the house to wash up.

Finished at Last

With the barn completely down, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I have a deep tan, new muscles, and a genuine sense of accomplishment.

School is starting in a couple of weeks; the fall baseball season has already begun (I’m on the bench this year—coach’s decision); and the September bonfire celebrating birthdays for my father and me will be huge. I do need another pair of leather gloves.

On a steamy afternoon, as Dad and I watch the workmen pour and smooth the last load of concrete for the garage floor, he nods in the direction of the neatly stacked, used lumber.

“Hmm. Looks like we’ll have a garage for winter. I never thought you’d be able to do it.” What? You never thought I could do it? And you’re telling me now? I would have finished the damn thing if it killed me.

I put my hands in my pockets and silently watch the men finish up the garage floor.

Except for a funny anecdote now and then, my father and I never spoke of the barn project again. Perhaps now, after 68 years, I can thank him.