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Once a Barn . . .

Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.


If You Have Ever Experienced

sadness, true sadness, this fact will shock you. Thhs brand of shock is nowhere around people yelling at neighbors when a prize bull breaks out of its fence..True sadness has nothing to do with tears on your face and a sick feeling in your spirit. No. Although these hints of sadness are true to a certain extend, but real sadness is only found when an elderly farmer is sitting gazing over his once-productive crops and now the field is just dirt. Simple dirt. The old farmer has only his breath of days and a limied time to prepare.

The old farmer's mind is traaveling a hundred-million ideas at once. Those which he struggles to enjoy, while the others are toug enough to withstand quarter-size hail during a July thunderstorm. NO one, God included, said that life, no matter what side of the fence we ife is ever easy. When the mountains obstrct the view of the priceless good blessings, it is no wonder that, like this old farmer, we all just sit at our friends or yards and juxt gaze at an empty space--wondering what happened and why?

Time and Life Are Both Arenas

of measureless teaching areaswhere at one time our friend (above), the old farmer was once as we were, young, never tiring from work or play and enjoying his endless supply of dreams that although he was just a boy, grew to make his dreams into reality. This of course, meant work. Lots of work. He wasn't one to shy away from back-breaking labors that went from his sunrises to sundown's. His dad and mom were experts at teaching him and his six siblings how to work and how to use patience in order to see their work be that of judges watching over prize walking horses and coming in first. The siblings never forgot thieir sweat, calusses, or those times when the sun was in mortal combat with their backs on certan July days when the cotton and corn had to be in the ground so the summer rains could get on it and grow strong. This was what the siblings grew to believe.

One could stop now and listen to that soft sound of an antique grandfaher clock saying, tick . . .tock . . .almost in a hypontonic rhythm. Life does teach anyone who is ready to listen. The young boy farmer learned this about clocks and time and it helped him when the spring plowing and planting was to be done, but in the years to come when his siblings all moved away with families of their own and was haardly ever seen again by the young farmer. Just he and his young misses. Two against life. That was their contest.


Then Came The Days When

the farmer, feeling the burden of many men, began to feel the weight of those responsibilities which make people grow into the mold that life has chosen. For him, hot, boiling sun, few rain showers, hard land to turn, throw in sickness, accidents, and prices of crops that always managed to do to him like a boxing match when he carried his good to market. And up until the day when he was too old to care anymore, he saw for the last time, his truck being emptied and a stroke of sadness touched him--knowing full well that thd evening when he returned to his misses, land, animals, and bills, he would be home. Home at time for the last time.

As he turned his truck engine off, he just sat. And listened to the engine and truck body and their sounds of cooling down, the souds that he had neard way back when he was a boy riding in the cab of his dad's truck, when he grew into a man and married his sweet heart, and now sitting still knowing that the truck would not be the last thing that would not be on fire the next day when the sun winks at the ground to get anther day of farming under his belt. No sir. Not this elderly-but-proud farmer. And his misses.


And "That" Certain Stunning Day

there he was. The old farmer and his misses enjoyed just sitting and listening to life's innumerable voices and sounds. Quite relaxing. The old farmer and his misses of 77 years said very little, but it has been said that the loudest voices are those that are seldom heard. How true. There is no misunderstanding in this claim.

Sometimes in each week, maybe in the month or two, the old farmer and his misses loved to walk and speak silently while they toured his fish pond which he seldom gets out his rod and reel as he did when he and his wife were just kids falling in love. They also stand silently and gaze at the thick grove of trees that cloak the lands that he and his wife bought and with each farm's harvest, another payment was made. Both, the elderly man and woman look at each other and sigh in union as if to say, thank you, Father, for this and all of the moments that you have given us.


Once There Was a Barn . . .

Built with faith, kept together with prayer

Mornings deafening with promises breathed.

A clown, a magician, a prophet, soothsayer

Clawing now to the lifeless dirt he heaved.

Once There Was a Barn . . .

A castle, a mansion for the young at heart

And sensitive in sight; yet the dust was thick.

Corn shucks, hay, and a broken-down. one-horse cart.

Silent creaking, slanting with time, no words speaking,

Remembering the old barn, the old farmer and his wife . ..

In a brighter land, their new life is new, not seeking.

These URL's are seen on this hub above. Take your time, relive yiour memories.,_North_Carolina.jpg,_North_Carolina.jpg

© 2020 Kenneth Avery

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