The other day, when I walked into an old barn, I was reminded of the horse barn that stood at the farm…
I could tell the horses that used to reside within were lovingly cared for, as I remember ours being…by two young girls many years ago.
Caesar, Scarlet, Julie, and Annie.
It’s been years since I have recalled those names, the foundation as I remember them. What memories those horses conjure up for me.
However, the backdrop of those memories is the old horse barn where they stalled.
It sat on the northern end of the farm property, behind the big white farmhouse. Falling into disrepair, it was like its life and vitality left after the horses went, and it had to be torn down years later.
It’s ironic how when the animals leave, a barn dies.
When we were little girls, my cousin Jess and I spent hours there caring for and tending the horses.
The barn was massively tall, painted red with white trim. It sat so majestically.
There was a cellar underneath where the manure would fall from the first-story stalls. Sitting on a side hill, the barn paddock looped around from the front to the back, and the horses could get in underneath, hanging out under there in the summer, where they would choose to stay cool in the heat.
Each box stall had a trapdoor that we would pull up to scrape the manure and soiled shavings down through. Before replacing the trap door, we had to ensure the wood pieces the door sat on were scraped free and clear from sawdust and manure. The door needed to sit straight and square, becoming, once again, a seamless part of the stall floor. It was a rather dangerous set-up, but no person or 4-legged beast ever fell through, at least that I knew of.
My uncle always left a tractor bucket full of sawdust at one end of the barn so we could carry big shovels full to the cleaned stalls for bedding.
In the middle of the barn were the cross ties, where we would parade each horse out by their halter, tie them up, brush them down, and pick their feet of manure and rocks. We applied fly ointment to their faces and bodies during the summer months.
Each grooming session ended with a few sugar cubes and a slap on their flanks. Depending on the time of day, one of us would then lead them either out to the pasture or back into their stalls.
They were so well cared for…and loved.
In the tack room were the saddle horns, where each horse’s saddle sat patiently, awaiting the next ride. The matching bridal fitted for the appropriate horse hung, labeled, next to it. And like any tack room, there was a lot of dust and half-empty grooming products and supplies on the windowsill. When you walked in, brushes, tail combs, and hoof picks cluttered the shelves that sat to the right along the wall. The covered metal trashcans housed the sweet molasses feed and pellet grain, a grain scoop in each.
I didn’t see the dust or the cobwebs. I only saw love and work. Good work.
After dropping hay from the mow overhead, hay chaffe would be scattered everywhere. Rest assured, the wooden floor was always swept clean before we left.
Sometimes, we would ride bareback, as my cousin hated putting saddles on. But more often, we would just go up to tend the horses and work.
The old barn provided a purpose for two little girls to feel needed: chores and tending to the animals.
Maybe that’s what’s missing for kids today…a purpose.
Oh, how I can still see the sun pouring through the opened side door of the barn, feel the warmth of a hot summer day, and hear the cicadas humming in the background.
Caesar, Scarlet, Julie, Annie…and an old horse barn.
A nay and a whinney…and a creaky old wooden floor.
A purpose..for two little girls.
With love,
Kate
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