Photo: courtesy

By Mary Ellen Kirby

Local Journalism Initiative

   Could we have a moment of silence, please? I think a brief acknowledgement of the passing of giants is in order. It is a melancholy thing to wander the back roads of the Eastern Townships this summer and count the increasing number of stalwart old barns falling to wrack and ruin or simply disappearing altogether. Time and gravity have ravaged many; they have succumbed to vicious winds or punishing snow loads. Others have been scavenged, the bones picked apart, reduced to pricey plunder taken away to be repurposed as décor in city homes. Truly, I mourn their loss. It seems to me more than the simple loss of a building; it is also the loss of history and culture those grand old barns represent.

Some barns sit derelict, surrounded by cropland, like ghost ships adrift in a sea of waving corn tassels. Some are still attended by dilapidated farmhouses and decaying outbuildings, so at least they aren’t dying alone. Some have lost various parts of their anatomy, have listed sideways off their moorings or bear the indignity of trees growing through their roofs. They remind me of nothing so much as wounded soldiers, shamefully abandoned on the battlefield. And make no mistake: scraping a living from the land was indeed a battle back when those barns were built. A good, sturdy barn – or the lack thereof – could make or break the farm and the farmer.

   In those days, erecting a good barn was not farmed out (yes, pun intended) to various experts, engineers, architects and contractors. Farmers were both the brawn and the brains behind barn construction, relying on the life experience of older farmers and the willing hands of neighbouring farmers to get a barn raised. At least one winter would have been spent cutting and hauling out the logs to mill into the lumber needed, and a barn of any size at all needed a lot of lumber: no steel trusses or beams in those days. Many barns would have been roofed with cedar shakes, only replaced with sheets of tin as the farmer could afford it. Here in the Townships, many a barn foundation was built of field stones, painstakingly picked by hand, hauled by a team of horses and a dray or stone boat to the rock pile, where they waited patiently for future repurposing. A starkly different proposition than calling the closest cement plant for delivery of already mixed, ready to pour cement, I wager to say.

   Barn design was different in those days, as well. Cavernous hay mows were needed to store a winter’s worth of loose hay, pulled up into the mow with big rope and pulley operated hay forks. Far above our heads in the old barn that houses our sheep, the rusted steel track for the hay rig is still affixed to the cobwebbed ridge beam; it bears mute witness to a way of life that no longer exists. Hay mows are dim, dusty places, redolent of summer sun-warmed grasses; they are full of mysterious shadows, secretive, skittering noises and dust motes dancing in sunbeams slanting through cracks in the wall boards. For generations, hay mows have been beloved by farm kids looking for a dry place to play hide & seek on rainy days, barn cats hiding a litter of kittens, nesting barn swallows and the occasional farm boy intent on stealing a kiss from his sweetheart. Today’s modern barns have dispensed with hay mows as the hay is stored chopped and blown into a silo, stacked in a separate hay shed or left outside wrapped in plastic against our weather. Modern barns are long and low-slung, clad in shiny metal and they sport multiple enormous fans to circulate the air; new barns slouch and sprawl, while the old-timers stand tall and proud: beaten but not bowed. Old barns have tall wooden chimneys at either end. The chimneys were equipped with doors that could be opened or closed at floor level inside the barn and this simple system allowed the farmer to regulate the flow of hot and cold air manually, providing good air flow for the comfort and health of the winter-stabled livestock. Old barns have unique shapes and characters, and no wonder: each one was conceived according to the individual needs, tastes and budget of the farmer. Juxtapose the quirky individuality of ancient barns with the cookie-cutter models that seem to be popping up all over farm country these days; the new ones seem to be much of a muchness in their blandly boring uniformity. Yes, yes…I know: ‘efficiency’, blah, blah blah…’progress’, blah, blah, blah. But have we chosen to trade efficiency and progress for the very soul of the farm? If that is the case, I can’t help feeling it was a very poor trade indeed.

   I realize my prejudice is showing, but I won’t apologize for that. I prefer grizzled old veteran barns with stories to tell, stouthearted barns whose hand-hewn beams are infused with a century’s worth of memories, generous barns that offer shelter and succour to both man and beast. New barns don’t have time for any of that fanciful nonsense: they are much too busy proudly proclaiming their efficiency. I think their bright and shiny, new and improved allure is a poor substitute for the comforting countenance of an old barn. New barns are brisk, business-like structures; they more closely identify with an industrial setting than an agrarian one. They unapologetically make no provision for mama cats and kittens, fledgling barn swallows, courting farm boys or, most sadly, children at play. If small children can’t exercise their imaginations in the safe embrace of an old barn, how can we expect them to imagine themselves as the farmer? I have been accused of harbouring overly romantic notions about farming and perhaps that is true. Again, I make no apologies. But it is very difficult to fall in love with sprawling industrial facilities, no matter how efficient they are. And, at the root of it all, it is love that makes a farm – and a farmer.

   I am grateful that the old barn I grew up in is still standing resolute; that it still hears the lowing of cattle, the rustle of barn swallows, the mewling of kittens and the laughter of children. Does it still provide the romantic setting for a stolen kiss or two? I’m not telling. The dying barns dotting our countryside haven’t been occupied in decades; they are unequivocal proof that the adage of ‘use it or lose it’ still applies. Most old barns still in use have been modernized: electric lights in lieu of lanterns, mechanical barn cleaning systems replacing pitch forks and wheelbarrows, automated water bowls instead of lugging endless pails of water. I am not opposed to bringing 21^st century function to 19^th century structures; I just wish the iconic character of old barns could remain intact. I wish the solid legacy of those barns, and their builders could be honoured by continued purposeful use. Those tough old barns and the resourceful, determined farmers who built them, are the rock-solid foundation this country was built on. With the neglect and destruction of every old barn, goes a piece of our history, a piece of our culture. It is a very sad day when another giant topples.

   I wish I could launch an old barn rescue mission. I wish I could save them all, give them the respect they are due. I wish it was contagious, this passion of mine for the weary old warriors still standing; maybe then we could reverse the distressing modern trend of abandoning these monumental old heroes. Oh well…if wishes were horses, then beggars could ride, as the old saying goes. And if my wishes came true, the horses would have beautiful old barns to live in.