Dark Barn

Art and Irene Reinbold were generous people. I know this because the two of them took care of me when I needed a place to lay low after I quit college, when my hair was still long and I cared more. They let me stay with them on their small, rocky dairy farm in the hills east of our town, in one of the upstairs rooms left vacant by their grown children. I spent important time there, helping them around the place when I could, wandering that wild country, and learning where I fit with the people and place I came from. I had that advantage then, the backing of capable people. I'm writing about the two of them today because I have misplaced some of the things they gave me and I'm tired of looking for them in the sky.

That October had been unseasonably warm. Most of Art's summer hay was in the barn and his corn was almost ready. There had been a few light frosts and the trees in the hills were changing color. The sweet smell of fall had seeped into the back porch where our heavy coats hung waiting but the sun-drenched days had persisted. Time was holding in that gentle extension of summer that sometimes comes to the country in late autumn. Everyone knew it couldn't last and, on that day, I felt the change in the air. Art was more direct, he said that evening the wind was going to shift and come from the east, and bring snow.

I had been staying with them for most of the fall. If I wasn't in school, I should have been working on my father's dairy farm but things in that part of my world had gotten off track. That summer I had been drafted for the war in Viet Nam and had missed my induction. A family friend at the courthouse had told my father that there was an arrest warrant out for me and I shouldn't make myself too obvious in town. It was bad timing in the already strained relationship I had with my father and it was entirely my fault. I hadn't told him I'd given up my student deferment and the local draft board had denied me conscientious objector status. I couldn't sign up and still appeal the draft board's decision. I should have tried harder to explain myself but my father wasn't much of a talker. Work and silence had let me know I was on my own.

It was also the cattle, I needed a break. Their needs were incessant, every morning and night they had to be fed and milked. They were the reason for all of my childhood years of early morning chores and fieldwork. Their gentleness and obedience irritated me. If I was there, I would be milking those cows and harvesting his corn with no letup in either. Art and Irene were letting me stay with no questions asked and I was fortunate to have a place to be while waiting for my draft board to respond.

So, this was to be the last day of good weather. By the time I got out of bed, Art had already started a fire in the cookstove. When I came into the kitchen he was sitting at the table looking out at the beginning of the day. The low snapping of the burning oak and the plucking of the coffee percolator were background to the quiet. I went to the cupboard and took out two cups and sat down to wait with him. When it was ready, I got up and poured our coffee and sat back down. As the day came up, we could see the hills and Dahn Lake across the gravel road that went past the farm. The cows had gathered and were standing patiently at the back of the barn waiting to be milked, quietly reminding me of all of the places I was supposed to be.

When Art and Irene went down to do the milking, I went out...