I grew up nearly in the shadow of the big red barn. I remember from an early age the sounds and sights and smells of that old barn with its two, then one, then no standing silos. It was a great comfort to go outside and see the cows going into the barn to be milked. To hear Nanny calling to them, “Come Boss! Come Boss! Come Bossie!” They’d come running. They knew it was time to eat the sweet grain and be milked. In the afternoon some of us kids — there were eight of us so we didn’t all go in a crowd — would head down to the barn to get our pail of milk and carry it home. It was cold and rich and sweet, fresh from the cows, many of whom we’d named and treated like pets. There was Charlie — she was a sweet and gentle cow. Georgie the bull — you didn’t want to go in the field with him — he didn’t like people.

The barn was full of adventure and fun for my siblings and me. A perfect place to play cops and robbers, hide and seek. And of course, the hay mow was wonderful for tunneling in the hay, swinging from a rope from the big wooden beam to the sweet hay below. Nanny didn’t like us playing up there as we’d scatter the hay about. We’d be quiet as the barn mice but she always knew when we were up there. She’d holler “You kids, get out of that hay loft!” But didn’t care if we continued to stay and play. During the summer months, we’d be down the farm more than at home. We’d play in the barn, pet the animals, look for new kittens. The barn was home to many animals, including some infamous mousers, who went by the names of Hunter, Zorba, Starsky and Hutch.

In later years, the dairy cows were all sold. There were still a few beef cows, goats, chickens, and of course the barn cats. Then they all too were gone from the barn. But the echoes remained. Of the sounds of the cows moving their noses about in their grain bins, the banging of the stanchions as they moved about when the flies were bothering them. The smell lingered in the wooden beams and walls of Timothy hay, milk and manure. I can still picture Nanny’s sweet, tired smile as she finished up her barn chores and headed for the house to fix supper.

Becky Burelle Gagne

Reprinted from “Our Rural Heritage”, February 2018