The original farm, established in 1888, grew to cover 32 acres and to support a 20-cow barn, large fruit-storage house, three-story 1,000 gallon water tower, milking parlor, hog house, 70-foot chicken coop, and one tool and implement shed. Sadly all that remains of the out buildings is the tool and implement shed. In today’s mindset, it’s a barn; in yesteryear’s, it was merely a 12 x 24 shed to store machinery.
When I bought the property close to a decade ago, the shed-turned-barn was on its last leg. The beautifully weathered board-and-batten siding resembled a tattered hem at the building’s stone foundation, and the roof, oh the roof, it was a brittle wood sandwich layered with Swiss-cheese sheathing and a topper of crumbling asphalt tabs and rotting cedar shakes. The barn was just a year or two from total collapse.
My first task was to stop the rot, which meant keeping the rain out of the building’s interior. One ginormous blue tarp later, my barn went from charming old relic to hideous, albeit protected, eyesore. (In my head, I would hear dueling banjo every time I walked by the structure.) I began to worry; blue tarps are a slippery slope, a mere hop, skip and a jump to harboring a rusted Camaro on blocks, a confab of garden gnomes, and a herd of fiberglass lawn deer.
Truth be to told, I knew that the tarp really was my friend, an annoying friend, but a pal nonetheless that would stand by me and my barn through the storms. Unfortunately, my blue-tarp friendship was short-lived as the that particular tarp had the tensile strength and durability of crepe paper. So one year later, I upgraded the barn to a green tarp, thinking it would blend in better. Ah naive little Tommy, there is no blending with a structure covered by a 30 x 40 foot leprechaun green tarp. Mean green only lasted a year too, no thanks to high winds and my poorly executed use of bungee cords and kite string.
For my next tarp trick, I moved to brown and and a thicker woven material. After tethering the tarp to cement-filled tires (found on the property), I knew my city ways had been thoroughly consumed by country practicality. Ugly, but it worked, the tarp kept the barn and all its contents dry and and the structure stable. A couple years later I went space-age, and bought a huge (and I mean circus-tent-huge) tarp to cover the barn from top to bottom. And there it stayed, with but one replacement tarp, anchoring my property like a giant foil-wrapped bullion cube.
But the story is not over. Last week, the planets aligned; I met a man who said he could re-roof my barn for a reasonable price. Surprisingly, his reasonable price actually seemed reasonable. We shook on it and the next day the work began.
Now when I walk by the barn I smile, the weight of disrepair lifted. There’s something to be said about resolution, about addressing something that needs your attention. For nine years, I stared at a tarp-covered building suffocating under the weight of cheap vinyl and procrastination. The good news is now, both the barn and I can breathe.
A barn is reborn. The next few days I’ll spend time cleaning up the area, reattaching siding, replacing some rotted boards and apologizing for the indignity I had a hand in. Hopefully my tarp days are over. (Uh-oh, is that banjo music I hear?)