CHING-CHING!
An old barn in seemingly “the middle of nowhere” has lately been my workplace. Rebuilding sections of fallen foundation fieldstones is the lonesome task at hand. Winds howl through this big barn, in which no dairy cow has set hoof for 50 years, so I was told. A wind-swung door sometimes shouts out, “John!” but I turn toward it in responsive alert not so often now. The barn is filled with swallows who swoop in and out all day, often within inches of my head. I gaze at the 19th century stonework and the adz marks on the massive beams and consider that every man who labored to build this barn has long been dead. Frequently in my noggin there is an accordion playing and someone singing, polka-style: “Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself!—while you’re still in the pink. The years go by, as quickly as a wink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself! ... It’s later than you think.”
It is good to have this inside work while a hot sun is blaring down in the barnyard. For mud-mixing I am under full sun, and it’s a relief to wheelbarrow the “finished product” into the barn’s shade. Expertise has now been attained in pushing the barrow into a tight, awkward space. The search for a stone that might be perfect for a particular place on the wall recommences. I am focused. From three piles of stone, the next candidate for the wall is not infrequently found on first selection.
Sharp winds blow in, the barn creaks, the swallows swarm and chatter, the swung door on rusty hinges hollers, “John!” These things break my focus for a moment. I think, every cow who was ever milked in this barn has long been dead. A very mild-mannered and friendly, big red cat comes to visit, climbing on freshly laid stones that his weight will not disturb. I say hi to the kitty and scratch him behind the ears, and sweep loose fur from his coat with a gloved hand. This cat is a reminder that I’m not some two-bit player in a Hitchcock movie in the making. An unfamiliar banging is heard. Both the cat and I turn to see if film director Alfred has come on the set. Nope, it’s just a loose barn siding board being wind-slapped.
Time for lunch, when the time seems right. No annoying noon buzzer for the red kitty and me. If the wheelbarrow’s been emptied and it’s 11:25, close enough. A 30-minute break begins. To the shady side of the barn’s exterior amble the cat and I for a “picnic” on the lawn. The cat sniffs my peanut butter and jam sandwich and decides this is food he wouldn’t care for. He climbs onto my lunch kit and smooshes it. “No, kitty,” I say, and he lies down beside me for a nap. I listen to the birds. Apart from the wind through the trees and the birds, there’s nothing else to hear, and that’s swell.
Between 11:45 and noon it is time to call Toni at home. We gauge then how our days are progressing. I tell her I’ve just heard a loud bird who sings, “Ching-ching! I’m a dancer!” She laughs and says, “Sure you did, John.” I swear the bird sings, “Ching-ching! I’m a dancer!” She wonders if the last word ought to be “cashier.” There was no looking at this bird, who sang under cover in a spruce.
Back to work, momentum and concentration make the afternoon go by fast when distractions are few. Now and then I must walk away from the work for a minute, just to look around. I wonder who stripped the old Chevy pickup in the barn, and who has primed its cab, doors and fenders. I wonder how many years all the truck’s parts will just set there, if 50 or 150 years from now the truck will still be disassembled. I look at the foundation stones that are still intact, at the massive beams with their adz scars and at the rusty stanchions and stays where cows were last milked, when I might’ve been around 10. I wonder if there are stonemason ghosts and carpenter ghosts paying occasional visits through the ether to this structure they had their fleshy hands on. I wonder if ghost cows are still ushered into the barn by dairymen ghosts, just for old times’ sake.
It is good to have this inside work while a hot sun is blaring down in the barnyard. For mud-mixing I am under full sun, and it’s a relief to wheelbarrow the “finished product” into the barn’s shade. Expertise has now been attained in pushing the barrow into a tight, awkward space. The search for a stone that might be perfect for a particular place on the wall recommences. I am focused. From three piles of stone, the next candidate for the wall is not infrequently found on first selection.
Sharp winds blow in, the barn creaks, the swallows swarm and chatter, the swung door on rusty hinges hollers, “John!” These things break my focus for a moment. I think, every cow who was ever milked in this barn has long been dead. A very mild-mannered and friendly, big red cat comes to visit, climbing on freshly laid stones that his weight will not disturb. I say hi to the kitty and scratch him behind the ears, and sweep loose fur from his coat with a gloved hand. This cat is a reminder that I’m not some two-bit player in a Hitchcock movie in the making. An unfamiliar banging is heard. Both the cat and I turn to see if film director Alfred has come on the set. Nope, it’s just a loose barn siding board being wind-slapped.
Time for lunch, when the time seems right. No annoying noon buzzer for the red kitty and me. If the wheelbarrow’s been emptied and it’s 11:25, close enough. A 30-minute break begins. To the shady side of the barn’s exterior amble the cat and I for a “picnic” on the lawn. The cat sniffs my peanut butter and jam sandwich and decides this is food he wouldn’t care for. He climbs onto my lunch kit and smooshes it. “No, kitty,” I say, and he lies down beside me for a nap. I listen to the birds. Apart from the wind through the trees and the birds, there’s nothing else to hear, and that’s swell.
Between 11:45 and noon it is time to call Toni at home. We gauge then how our days are progressing. I tell her I’ve just heard a loud bird who sings, “Ching-ching! I’m a dancer!” She laughs and says, “Sure you did, John.” I swear the bird sings, “Ching-ching! I’m a dancer!” She wonders if the last word ought to be “cashier.” There was no looking at this bird, who sang under cover in a spruce.
Back to work, momentum and concentration make the afternoon go by fast when distractions are few. Now and then I must walk away from the work for a minute, just to look around. I wonder who stripped the old Chevy pickup in the barn, and who has primed its cab, doors and fenders. I wonder how many years all the truck’s parts will just set there, if 50 or 150 years from now the truck will still be disassembled. I look at the foundation stones that are still intact, at the massive beams with their adz scars and at the rusty stanchions and stays where cows were last milked, when I might’ve been around 10. I wonder if there are stonemason ghosts and carpenter ghosts paying occasional visits through the ether to this structure they had their fleshy hands on. I wonder if ghost cows are still ushered into the barn by dairymen ghosts, just for old times’ sake.