The Shoe in the Barn

In the deep recesses of the barn, the atmosphere changed with the seasons. The winter was always a favorite time of the year. Whenever you would chance to enter it always seemed to be a very friendly place. It somehow reminded me of Christ’s birth. The cows would be contentedly chewing their cud, the horses moving about in their oversized stalls or sleeping while standing. It always seemed so peaceful and cozy. It was the same congenial atmosphere that invited one to enter and enjoy just being there, listening and observing.

As a youngster growing up on a mid-western farm, it was my privilege, yes privilege, to be among those that sometimes struggled to keep the family fed, clothed besides keeping the buildings in good repair.

Mom made over worn out men’s suits into snow outfits for the bitterly cold winter months. She made hats, pants, jackets and even knitted mittens to go with the outfit. We never felt poor or neglected but loved and cared for.

Nothing was ever thrown away. Even strips of rags were saved and rolled into balls for a woven rag rug to be made by a neighbor that had a loom. It was always my job to shake the rugs during housecleaning days and I became quite familiar with the color and texture of those country carpets. Those rugs had an interminable life to them. They seemed to last forever. I cannot remember getting rid of any rugs because of wearing out, but just because we grew tired of them for whatever reason.

My dad often worked away from home. I am not sure why he would be so far that he couldn’t come home nights, but I am sure there were reasons. It wasn’t often he would be away for very long, just once in a while.

Taking my dad to the train was, for a young kid, a monumental experience. To see that huge engine hissing steam and blowing billows of smoke would be something to be remembered for life, and indeed it has. The huge driving wheels stood motionless while we loaded my dad onto that monster waiting to spring into action, carrying away its precious human cargo.

When the driver wheels began to spin and the whole train began to shake trying to get traction to start, my spine shook inside me with anticipation. I had never seen any machine like it and it was terrifying, mysterious, and enjoyable all rolled into one experience. I trembled with excitement; it was then that I noticed my pants were wet. Mom understood and nothing was ever mentioned about the incident, but oh the excitement of the experience!

My dad was a carpenter by trade, a builder, but mostly known for the extra fine finish work he did. I had never known him to ever leave a hammer mark. His hit was as meticulous as was his creative ability. I have to sometimes laugh when I think of my mother’s complaining that everyone else’s kitchens looked great but our own would often be lacking one thing or another. Her saying often was, “The cobbler’s kids went without shoes and the carpenter’s wife didn’t have a proper cupboard to put dishes in”.

Actually it really wasn’t that bad, but mother sometimes made the situation sound worse than it really was. When I stop to think about it, how would I know? I lived in a state of oblivion, only knowing that I was warm and where the cookies were.

Milking took place twice a day, early morning and evening. We did have extra help that lived with us. Caring for twenty cows was a huge job. When the cows were confined to the barn on those freezing cold mid-winter night and days, it was essential to not only feed them but clean up after them as well.

Hay was stored overhead in the hay mow. The sweet smelling hay was brought in during the summer. The hay had to be bone dry before it could be stored. Spontaneous combustion had claimed several barns around the area. It was always a disaster to witness such a conflagration. There was nothing anyone could do but be of what help one could be in getting things away from the building or getting animals out. It was a staggering task to rebuild and restock, especially in the winter. Usually the spontaneous combustion took place in the fall or late summer. If the hay was not absolutely dry, it could lay there and smolder unnoticed until it got hot enough to self ignite. It was something farmers were always cautioned about. Learn they did from other’s experiences. They needed to.

As a youngster I loved to play in the hay mow. My dad and the hired man took a decided dislike in my tromping through the dry hay. I didn’t understand that walking through the dry hay caused the little dry leaves of the alfalfa to come off leaving only sticks for the animals to eat. So rarely did I get the chance to actually play in the upper regions of the barn.

While putting up the hay through the huge upper barn door, we were allowed to “help”. I am sure that any assistance I could be was definitely not a plus. Even though the hay was dry there were a lot of interesting things that came into the barn with the hay, snakes being one of them. Most often the snakes that came in were dead and dried up or perhaps just the skin. Whatever it was I was sure to find it and investigate. The overall picture of “making hay” is a much bigger subject to be done justice in this short story.

There was a sort of inner wall that kept the hay from the outer wall of the barn. This inner wall was made up of boards nailed across the upright two by fours making a space for the barn to breathe.

It was while playing in the hay mow on one of those rare occasions that I lost a shoe. It came off and went down the wall between the hay and the outside wall. It was gone! Shoes were not plentiful and now I had only one. I am sure a stern remonstration was administered, I don’t remember. What I do remember was for the rest of that summer I was privileged to go bare foot. Most of the time summers were spent without shoes anyway. This was going to be no exception.

It wasn’t long before the shoe was forgotten.

The farm was sold a few years after that incident and we moved first to Texas and then on to California and back again to the Midwest to Nebraska. We sometimes paid visits to the upper mid-west to visit old friends and relatives. I began to think about that lost shoe. Would it be possible to find it and if I did what would it be like?

Once again we moved, this time to Oregon where my oldest brother had bought a medical practice. He thought it would be a great idea for the (remaining) family to move to Oregon and mother could help out in his office. The offer was too good to pass up. In 1955 we moved lock, stock and hammer head to Hermiston, Oregon.

I returned to finish my last year of high school to the school my sister and older brothers had attended. My sister now lived in the area and it was decided that I could also attend that particular school and live the year with my sister.

It proved to be a very interesting year in the cold Minnesota climate. I had become acclimated to much milder weather. The bitter winter cold seeped in everywhere I thought. I bundled up in just about everything available to be worn. My feet were never warm as were my fingers. However, I survived and even prospered.

Occasionally I thought of that lost shoe and would I ever be able to find it. It had become a common thought of how I would find it one day and have it fixed up and keep it. What for? I don’t know. It was just something that would niggle in the back of my mind seeking resolution.

My family came to reclaim me from the upper mid west and take me home once again to the warmer climes of the Oregon desert. The shoe was once more forgotten.

I married and move again to California. Except for some time spent in the Orient we have lived in one spot for almost thirty years.

The shoe?

Oh yes, the shoe.

On one of our trips back to the mid west, my family and I chanced to stop at the old farm place and yes the hay mow was now empty. With permission granted and with a caution to watch out for rotten floor boards, I ascended the ladder to the vacant deserted hay loft.

It was with utmost reverence I climbed the now rickety well worn old board ladder. The ladder had been at one time securely attached to the wall. Now the ascending device seemed a bit wobbly, but I continued with more caution than perhaps necessary.

Peering over the seasoned edge of the mow opening, sent tingles up my spine. Here I was back again – in my childhood. I could hear the echoes of children playing hide and seek in the hay, see them swinging from the hay carriage rope high overhead. The pulleys dangled from where they were last used. The small dirty windows covered by cobwebs so far above, let in adequate light to let me pick my way across the rotten-board mind field.

I cautiously maneuvered my way across the uneven floor, wondering what my father and grandfather would say about the state of things in the barn. It was quite evident the care of the building was not an important part of the current occupant’s plan. He had as much as told me that morning, they were waiting for the building to fall down so they could put up a modern sturdy metal building. What a loss!

My grandfather had built that barn with my dad’s help. Each board, nail and casing was meticulously hammered home. It was a piece of Johnson history. Something I would have given a hefty ransom for in my own neighborhood. The big hay door stood against the barn wall, holding on by one hinge. The weather vane was gone – the target practicing with the twenty two seemed like yesterday. To see that weather vane spin around when the rifle bullet found its mark was excitement almost divine.

The loft had almost been swept clean of any hay and it was easy to see which boards were not safe to walk on. Even though it had been over sixty years since I last saw the shoe, I knew where it was and without any difficulty was able to locate the place where it had fallen and laid for so many years.

Was it there?

Had I only dreamed I lost it?

What would I find?

There between the interior side of the barn and the outer siding lay the long sought after shoe. Yes, it was basically in one piece, actually two pieces, only front and back. The sole had long ago dissolved into a band of mold that disappeared when I picked up the shoe remnants.

I held the pieces and thought back over the last sixty odd years. The time line of life, its ins and outs, ups and downs all seemed to come into focus. It was time for the here and now, the moment at hand. Life has many interesting twists and turns and to me it was a time for reflection and memories. What were the old pieces of shoe worth? Nothing, but to me they were priceless. That moment could not have been more pregnant with emotions. It was a coming together of years of living all at one time, a historic capsule of life, compressed into moments. I held it all in my hand. What I did with it was up to me to decide. It was so reminiscent of how we handle life. We hold it, turn it, shape and mold it. What we do with it is up to us. Our destiny is very much what we chose it to be.

I took the shoe parts home to California and for some time kept them under glass for all to see. Many couldn’t understand why I kept that old shoe. What did I see in an old shoe anyway? It made no difference to me. I had put leather rejuvenator onto the leather and recently took it to the shoe shop. The shoe man has put it back together with a handmade sole and even put a new shoestring in it. It doesn’t look new but it certainly does improve its appearance.

My point to telling this odd story is this: We may never find out our appreciated value, lying where we are apt to fall over it and so obvious to us. It just may be hidden away someplace, perhaps for years, waiting for us to discover and appreciate it. Take heart, we are all appreciated and valued by a lot more friends and family than we realize. Look around and recognize for yourself the value others put on you. You might just be surprised.