A View from the Buggy (18 page)

Muscles flexed and the framing creaked as the collection of men moved like a big machine, lifting the whole length of wall section at once.

“Whoa! South end slow down; you're getting ahead,” Henry cried. “Keep it at the same level. Pull on the ropes, get the spike poles, and push.”

The poles were fitted with a pointed iron at the end, and these were placed against the beam with a few men pushing on each one. Most of the poles were old and had been used in many a barn raising. After today, they'd be stored until another barn raising called for them.

When the section of wall became vertical, the ropes were extended both ways for balance. Sledges and spud bars were used to shove the bottom beams into their proper place.

My grandpa used to relate how at a barn raising in his past, the men had been insufficient in number and the wall became stalled partway up. That day the men had been urged to give it all they had, but the section wouldn't budge. This was a dangerous situation, and if the wall
came down there could be fatalities. The supervisor hollered his concern. When this threat was hung over the heads of the men, the adrenaline surged and the frame went up.

Thankfully at this barn raising, we didn't have that problem.

As the work continued, different applications called for different people to fill the job. This fitting of the person to the task was accomplished with little ado. The slender and the more daring usually were the ones who scaled the beams to secure the mortise and tenon joints, put in the braces, and ride the ridge. Others waited until the rafters were secured until they climbed up to place the sheeting. Some men who feared heights stayed on the ground, making themselves available to cut the boards and tin and run errands.

By mid-forenoon the activity peaked. The skeleton was completed and the men were scattered throughout the building. They placed tin on the roof and boards on the sides. There was never a lull of sounds or activities until close to noontime. The tone produced by a barn raising is unique to the ear and can only be described in part: the drone of hundreds of hammers, the whir of chain and skill saws, the clatter of boards, and the mingle of voices all contributing to the effort.

When the lunch call came, the barn was fleshed out and only miscellaneous work was left to be completed. The sounds slowly tapered off as the men left their jobs and began to congregate for the meal. Leather nail pouches were hung on protruding nails or any other adequate hook. Hats were placed on bushes to air out during the lunch hour.

The double tubs the women used with the Maytag washers had been set out on the lawn and filled with warm water. Bars of scented soap and towels were placed nearby as the men filed past to wash up.

When everyone had gathered they bowed their heads in silent prayer and gave thanks for the food the women had prepared. The tasty dishes which graced the tables spoke of their hard work.

To ensure a well-balanced meal, the women from various church districts had come together to determine the menu. A list had been organized and divided amongst themselves. Now the men filed past the tables laden with food and let their stomachs be the guide as to how
full their plates should be. The men seated themselves on the backless benches set up under the shade trees, and since it was harvesttime, the discussions were about crop yields and hog and calf prices.

Conversations soon dwindled as the men trickled back to the barn site to complete the few miscellaneous tasks. Where only hours earlier there had been an open area, there now stood an enclosed barn. The 600 men had arrived and worked harmoniously together since the morning hours. The barn now joined the 500-plus barns scattered throughout the Holmes, Wayne, and Coshocton counties of Ohio. All of them had been built through a combination of planning, sweat of the brow, and trusting God to fill in the rest.

Surely the old adage is still true: “Many hands make light work.”

The 100-foot by 72-foot barn towered an amazing 150 feet into the sky. Hard work, apprenticeship, and perseverance taught by their forebears is the sum of the quality produced by those callused hands.

Some of the men now cleaned up while the others began to restock the barn with fresh bales of donated hay. Willing farmers had given enough to fill the barn loft again. Wagons hitched to the big Belgian workhorses pulled up with feed for the animals during the coming winter. On Saturday, the neighborhood threshing crew planned to set up on the farm. The straw would be blown into the attached shed and the grain stored in the granary.

A system of brotherhood sharing was used to pay for the costs of the restored barn. Everyone in the community pays into the fund, and when tragedy strikes, three-quarters of the loss is covered. The farmer is responsible for the remaining quarter, but often even that is covered by donations.

This work follows the biblical example of suffering with one another. By pooling resources the full effects of a tragedy are minimized even in this modernized twenty-first century.

My Brush with Danger

Aaron D. Beachy

The L
ORD
preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me (Psalm 116:6).

T
HE STEADY
BEEP, BEEP
OF THE ALARM CLOCK STIRRED ME FROM MY
sleep. Pink streaks of sunlight stretched upward from the eastern horizon outside my window. I dressed quickly and knelt beside the bed for a short morning prayer, thanking God for another beautiful day and a good night's sleep. I could hear Mom and Dad stirring in the kitchen.

I donned my boots and hat and headed for the barn, where I could hear the steady
thump, thump
of our dog Queenie's tail banging against the doorway. I opened the door to greet her with a few warm pats on the head.

“Good dog,” I said. “Want to get the horses?”

She took off for the south pasture, slipping beneath the barnyard fence in a black streak. I leaned against the board fence and watched her go with a satisfied smile. This was a decent morning. The fresh air was heavy with moisture and laden with the promise of spring. I then went in the barn and opened the outside gate to let in the horses when they arrived.

I scooped oats into each horse's feedbox and threw hay into the mangers. I had hopes of getting an early start and disking at least ten acres today in preparation for seeding the field in alfalfa. It was near the end of March and soon the best time to plant would be past.

The thunder of approaching hooves in the barnyard brought me out of my thoughts. One by one the horses filed in and entered their respective stalls. I tied each one with a rope and halter before heading inside, where I knew Mom would have breakfast ready.

After a hearty meal of sausage and pancakes, Dad led the family in
our morning devotions. Afterward he told me he planned to clean and till the garden today while I worked the fields.

I wondered why the garden couldn't wait. I had so hoped to be in the field by 8:30 at the latest if I had Dad's help with the horses. But he obviously had other plans.

With resolute steps I walked out to the barn by myself and harnessed the big Percherons. I found a torn strap which needed repair, which took until nine o'clock to fix. Everywhere there seemed to be some little detail that delayed me further. Usually I enjoyed my work with the horses, but today's fieldwork seemed destined to go wrong.

Dark and stormy thoughts churned through my mind. I was 20 years old, but I was also the youngest in the family and didn't like to work by myself. Now the bright morning and the chirp of the sparrows in the fresh air did little to cheer me from my increasingly gloomy mind.

I finally hitched two horses to the forecart and pulled the disk out to the plowed field. Once they were fastened to the disk, I discovered that the pin which secured the evener to the main beam was missing. I trotted back to the shop in search of a replacement pin but couldn't find one. Frustration mounted as the minutes slipped by. I thought of the gang-plow down in the bottom where it had been left last fall. Maybe that would have an extra pin?

So I ran to the end of the field and sure enough, there was an extra pin. However, it was a bit short. Should I use it anyway? I held the pin in my hand as red flags flashed in my mind. This could be dangerous if the pin slipped out. But I could search the shop for a longer one at noon, I reasoned. Right now, I had to get started. When I returned to the disk, the horses were lively and prancing impatiently about. So I bridled them and placed them side by side with jockey sticks.

Handling eight horses was quite a challenge, but I got them down the back lane and placed them around the evener with much hollering of, “Whoa! Back, Bill! Back, Ben! Back up!” and other such instructions.

Once they were hitched I stepped on the disk. Without the lines it
was almost impossible to keep my balance, but with them in my hands I could. I hollered, “Giddyap!” and we were off.

The eight horses moved along at a brisk pace as the black dirt rolled out from beneath the razor-sharp blades. Usually the jingle of the rings and the smell of the fresh dirt would have been a healing balm to my heart, but this morning they did little to soothe me. I still couldn't understand why Dad didn't see the importance of getting this field ready for seeding.

In my bad frame of mind I checked my watch. It was 10:30. It was then that the
boom
came as the pin broke. The disk stopped momentarily and a mighty tug on the lines sent me sprawling headlong out across the tongue and eveners to land right in front of the deadly sharp blades. I was certain I would never escape alive out of this predicament. Scenes of mangled body parts mixed in with the freshly tilled soil, as well as stories of other boys killed in similar accidents, flashed through my mind.

I felt something bang across my legs, and the next thing I clearly recall was being on my feet and running beside the horses yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!” The horses didn't stop and I fell down in the dirt, stunned. The horses made two large circles before they came to a stop. I gathered my wobbly body together and made my way over to them. I leaned against one of the horses and took off my hat as I gave thanks to God for His protection. I also asked Him for forgiveness for my complaining attitude toward Dad.

I approached the horses and drove them to the end of the field. There I tied them to the fence. I walked up to the shop and after a long search I found a longer pin. With the pin in hand, I hooked things up again and returned to my work.

My leg was sore for the rest of the day, and in the morning my whole side was black and blue. I also discovered a cut in the heel of my right shoe where the disk blades had passed over. I kept this shoe for several years as a memory of the incident. How I wasn't injured worse, I was never able to figure out. It must have been a miracle.

Winter Evening Chores

Ruth M. Bontrager

Blessed be the Lord, who daily loadeth us with benefits, even the God of our salvation (Psalm 68:19).

I
T
'
S FOUR O
'
CLOCK!
” M
OM ANNOUNCED
.

I looked over to my sister Elaine and could see she was experiencing the same feelings I was. Chore time in the cold winter weather wasn't always looked forward to, but once at it, we usually enjoyed the fresh air and our time spent outside with the animals.

“Come on, Elaine,” I said as I sprinted toward our garage. “Let's get the chores done before we need a flashlight.”

I pulled on my coat and scarf and stepped into my big boots. As Elaine appeared, I grabbed the egg pail and then turned on the hot water faucet and filled two bottles for the calves. When they were full, Elaine and I each cradled a bottle under our arm and made for the barn. Outside the wind howled in gusts and caught our skirts in the frigid air.

“Sure is cold tonight!” Elaine exclaimed, and shushed my response with a, “Shh! Hear that?”

I listened and sure enough, there was the distant
clip-clop
of fast-beating hooves. Dad was on his way home and would be here in minutes.

“He's early,” I rejoiced. “He'll be able to do his chores tonight.”

Dad taught school and often had to spend late hours at the schoolhouse. I knew he had to prepare his schedule for the next day and discuss school matters with his co-teacher, so we often did his chores for him.

We listened to the hoof beats for a few more moments but had to keep working. The cold was intense. Elaine and I entered the feed room
where we poured our bottles of water into a pail. The milk replacer bag stood nearby, and Elaine plopped in two scoops and then glanced around. “Hey, where did our ladle go?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said, peering first into the cracks between the bags. When I saw nothing, I looked behind the horse's oat bin. All this did was produce a scared mouse who scurried for a safer spot. I jumped back, but finally spotted the ladle under the oat bin. After I pulled it out, I held it up triumphantly and set myself to stir the mixture vigorously. So vigorously that I splashed Elaine's face.

I quickly apologized as I knew the unpleasant feeling produced from a similar shower. Elaine wiped her face with her coat sleeve and we poured the warm, white mixture into the bottles. With the nipples on we headed toward the other end of the barn, where the calves had spotted us the moment we came in the barn. By now they had bawled themselves hoarse. We placed the bottles in their mouths and peace and quiet descended on the barn.