Claes Jansz Visscher: A Barn, from Landscapes
[Verscheyden aerdige Lanthuysen…] (1620)

"…as our history continues disappearing around us."

I worry some about what will become of the DerelictBarns I have known through my life, for I have grown to rely upon them, and I fear my grandchildren and great-grandchildren might never know they existed. Nobody seems to be building new cathedrals to their critters and hay. Most farmers opt for aluminum pole buildings these days. Back in the day, by which I refer to times long before mine, self-respecting farmers might erect a barn intended to weather the ages, massive edifices with stone foundations and fluted roofs. These proclaimed a deep faith in the future and self-esteem the likes of which seem ever rarer these days.

For me, a townie, DerelictBarns held history that utterly fascinated me. One might feature a row of windows just about head high for a Percheron. I'd imagine a team of a dozen or more pulling a Rube Goldberg contraption of a combine across a wheat field, and a crew numbering a dozen or more manning the operation, each with their specialization. My grandfather worked on those in his time. One might whip-sew sacks closed while another hefted filled ones, each secure in their contribution. In fading twilight, they might water and curry-comb the horses before setting them into stalls with those specially-designed windows so they could breathe the night air as they rested from their labors. Then, the barn, not yet gone derelict, served as the center of the operation, the warehouse, toolshed, and animal hotel that served both the farmer and the farm.

Now, a million-dollar machine operates with impunity, no crew required to keep it running. A single operator pulls switches and levers, getting the harvest rolling. No need for a building other than an elephant iron to provide cover. No need for windows placed just so. No need for the ego-reenforcement a personal cathedral provides. Without the horses, the hay lofts are no longer needed. Without the workers, most of the tools required to maintain and repair the Rube Goldberg combine fell into disrepair and obscurity. Most would never know what they were intended to do. Throughout my youth and into my adulthood, such as they've been, I could depend upon a reliable supply of slowly collapsing DerelictBarns. Many were easily as beautiful and majestic in their dotage as they must have been when they were the central essential figures of their farms. They were lovely in their mysterious ways: some sway-backed as they aged, others roofless.

Obsolescence ages poorly. Always has. What begins as merely quirky eventually crumbles into something resembling dust. So few have built these cathedrals over the last hundred years that the supply of derelict ones has become severely threatened. Ever fewer roadside inspirations remain as The Muse and I toodle across the plains. Ashes to ashes, sure, but cathedrals to dust? As another assault on farmers gathers momentum in the world markets, it's tougher to justify retaining great-grampa's Pecheron's castle on the property. It inevitably became a liability, once its back broke in that storm. The insurance agent refers to it as an attractive nuisance. The spouse says she's concerned that the grandkids might get hurt playing around in there. Finally, during an off season, you dig a big hole with the Cat and shove what's left of that pre-Dust Bowl dream into it and have one hell of a bonfire. One hell of one!

Few might notice the absence, but I will. I do, though I know that my time here's winding down just as inexorably as any crumbling cathedral to animal husbandry. I will be finding my inspiration somewhere else, as The Muse and I toodle across the plains, because nobody gets to pick and choose what they lose in this life, or what they gain. I remain grateful that I was able to witness the final shadow of many a fine DerelictBarn in my time, and I will always fondly remember the feelings they never failed to elicit in me. They were history incarnate until they just weren't anymore. I pray for us all as our history continues disappearing around us.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz