The barn was very large. It was very old. It smelled of hay and it smelled of manure. It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows. It often had a sort of peaceful smell--as though nothing bad could happen ever again in the world. It smelled of grain and of harness dressing and of axle grease and of rubber boots and of new rope. And whenever the cat was given a fish-head to eat, the barn would smell of fish. But mostly it smelled of hay, for there was always hay in the great loft up overhead. And there was always hay being pitched down to the cows and the horses and the sheep.
That is E. B. White's description of Homer Zuckerman's barn. Wilbur's home.
Although I'm not a big fan of farm animals (I avoid the livestock and chicken exhibits at the State Fair), I must say that White makes the barn sound almost pleasant. Homey. As if "nothing bad could happen ever again in the world."
Of course, that's the key passage in that paragraph. We all know that bad things happen in the barn. Bad things will happen to Wilbur in the barn. From the day Wilbur arrives at the Zuckerman barn, his days are numbered. Come winter time, Wilbur has a date to be Christmas dinner. That's the reality of farm life.
I live in an old barn. Not literally, but it's an old house. The original portion of the house was erected over 100 years ago. An addition was built when indoor plumbing became more than just a novelty. The wiring is old. The bathroom is smaller than a broom closet. But it's home. It's a place where I can turn on the lights on a cold winter night, lock the doors, and keep the wolves of the world at bay for a little while.
I'm not saying my house is perfect. I would trade it in a heartbeat for something with a couple of bathrooms, a few more bedrooms, and a kitchen that doesn't seem like an afterthought. But, for what it is, it's my home. It's where my daughter and son have grown up. It holds a lot of very happy memories for me. It also holds quite a few painful memories for me, as well. But that's what a home is. It's a safe haven, in good times and bad. And I'm lucky to have it.
This morning, my daughter had minor surgery on her ear. It took the doctor all of 15 minutes to cut and stitch. She was jumpy and nervous as a hummingbird all last night. When she went to bed, she said, "I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep tonight." Then she disappeared into her bedroom. Within ten minutes, she was burrowed under her quilt, snoring away. That's what a home does. It makes you feel safe, secure, protected from the slings and arrows of the world.
Everybody should have a place like that. A home.
Once upon a time, a farmer named Garth lived in a small farmhouse in the kingdom of Arable. Garth had grown up in the farmhouse, as had his father before him. Garth was the third generation of his family to work the fields and woods surrounding the farmhouse.
One day, Garth bought a pig from his niece, Fern, for six dollars. It was a small spring pig, but it was quickly putting on weight. Fern had raised the pig herself, feeding it milk and scraps of pancake and French toast. The pig's name was Willy.
All summer long, Willy slept in the manure pile, ate his slop, and grew as big as a buffalo. When the cold weather came, Garth slipped a rope around Willy's neck and walked him to the smokehouse. In the smokehouse, Garth killed Willy and hung him up to bleed and cure.
That Christmas Eve, Garth, Fern, and their families sat down to a huge baked ham dinner, with bacon and mashed potatoes. As Fern took her first bite, she smiled at Garth and said, "That Willy was some pig!"
Moral of the story: pig is good eatin'.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
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| Pass the fork |
