Barn Saga - Part 1

Our barn is 130 years old - 18 years older than the farm house.  From the road it is still an imposing structure, rising 3 stories from its stone foundation to the curved steel roof; the 6 lighting rods poised as if to catch and pierce a low lying cloud.

On closer inspection, there are spaces in the board siding where planks have been blown off by the gale force winds that sweep through here regularly.  At one end there are gaps in the stone foundation.  (The missing stones puzzle me.  Pat and I would be hard pressed to budge any but the smallest of the stones between us.)  Inside, a couple of the supporting beams have shifted.  Despite all of that, the building seems in better condition than many of those we pass on our way home from the city - smaller, more precarious looking structures that are still being used to house animals and farm equipment.

Ted, the previous owner, issued dire warnings against entering the barn which Pat quickly dismissed.  I am more cautious and, mindful of the warnings, peered through the doorway expecting the interior to be dark and dank.  Instead, it is dry and filled with light (and junk - Ted, like every man I've ever known, didn't send anything to the dump if it could be stored in an outbuilding).  Apart from the broken furniture and rusted tools, the barn is surprisingly clean.  There is no trace of the animals it must have housed once.

My friend, Christine, tells me it's the absence of animals that has caused the barn to deteriorate.  Apparently the humidity from their sweat and breath is what helps wood retain moisture.  Without them, it dries and crumbles.

Ted insisted the barn was beyond restoration.  He told us other prospective buyers had brought in engineers and architects with the hope of converting it to a studio or a guest house and had concluded it was impossible.  One of my mantras is that anything can be rebuilt or restored for a price but I don't need an engineer, or Ted, to tell me that the price would be astronomical.  In any event, I'm not in need of either a studio or a guest house.  I need a home for my alpacas

It is tempting to think that we could replace a few boards, fill the gaps in the foundation from the quarry's worth of stone that sits behind the barn (another puzzle - we assume it is left over from the barn's original construction but why would the builders have hauled in 4 times as much stone as they could possibly use?), shore up the leaning beams and bring in some goats and alpacas whose body heat would preserve the barn for another 130 years.  But it is not to be.

The "R" Word

I recall taking my then 85 year old father to visit a retirement home.  His health was in decline and being a practical sort, he knew he couldn't continue living on his own much longer.  He dutifully toured the facility and, ever the gentleman, complimented the administrator on the decor and amenities.  As we left, he turned to me and said "it's a real nice place but, honey, everyone there is OLD."

A few months later, he gave up his condo and moved into the retirement home.  He adjusted rapidly and was soon encouraging others to make the move to assisted living.  He was genuinely enthusiastic about everything - the food, the staff, the other residents.  He would always conclude "of course, they're all much older than me."

For the past three years or so, I have been cautiously, and with some reluctance, wading into retirement.  Having spent the prior two decades dipping my foot into the career pool, there was not a significant change in my daily routine.  But with my son's graduation from high school and the move to the farm, it seems I've finally taken the plunge.

I've had the feeling of treading water for the past several months - it's a relief to recognize just what pond I've landed in.  I've joined the legion of retirees.

Like my father, I want to add the disclaimer that I'm much younger than everyone else.