Tag Archives: Barn

Farmer’s grove, treasure trove

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I’ve always been fascinated by the stuff farmers keep in their groves. Not that I’ve spent a lot of times in groves — we had a fort in ours on the family farm when I was growing up, while my Kandiyohi County cousins created a masterpiece that was the envy of all of us kids.

Their grove didn’t have just one fort, but rather consisted of a maze of rooms — probably half a dozen or so. One summer, when I spent a couple of weeks at Grandma’s house, my cousins and I would spend hours playing make-believe house and racing from “room” to “room.” We mixed up mud pies in old pie tins in our make-believe kitchen, and just had a wonderful time.

Our fort here at home was never quite so fancy. I think it was because our “new grove” was established in straight rows, not like the old groves that had no order about them. The old groves had character.

Of course, we always had plenty of supplies for our fort — the hand-crank corn sheller was used to supply just enough corn kernels to pour into a cracked bowl and put on the table (a discarded metal TV tray or one of those wooden cable reels). We had a stove (tossed out from the old farm house), pots and pans with broken handles and a smattering of no-longer-appreciated utensils. As a last resort, sticks were used to mimic wooden spoons, and leaves (especially in the fall) could be whipped into any kind of Minnesota hotdish our young minds imagined.

These days, it is the next generation that has taken over the fort-building in our grove. Over the weekend, I was out there admiring their handiwork.

Over the last year or two, Grandpa and the grandkids have transformed an old A-frame hog hut into a rather respectable dwelling. Old headlamps were nailed by the front door to serve as imaginary outdoor lights (imaginary only because they have not gone so far as to install electrical wires out there!) The roof has a collection of shiny metal hubcaps recycled from Grandpa’s junk collection, no doubt. There are chairs without seats, pans without handles and a mailbox post without a mailbox.

I have yet to figure out why my old hairdryer is secured just above the entrance — maybe it’s supposed to be the doorbell, or a weapon to scare off intruders, I have no idea! I was kind of disappointed that my little niece didn’t invite me in for tea on Sunday afternoon, but we had such a busy day driving over gopher mounds, walking to the turtle pond and visiting the baby chicks in the barn.

In between, my older nephew, niece and I explored the farm yard for eclectic items (Grandpa’s junk) that could become recycled treasures. Matt ended up claiming an old sign, and arrangements were made for Kaitlin to save a pair of old barn doors from the burn pile.

Just before the sun set, Katie, Zach and I had made our way to the far reaches of the grove and the shell of a car that’s been resting there since before my folks bought the farm in the mid-1960s. It was our last exploration of the day. That treasure is way too big for any of us kids to claim, besides, it’s got a rather nice resting place where it is — in the farmer’s grove.

Country Girl, City Girl

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My folks always had a rule – actually, it was probably more so my Mom’s rule – that there were to be no farm animals in the house for longer than they needed to be there.

Baby goats and lambs requiring some extra TLC under a heat lamp and training to drink goat milk from a pop bottle tended to be in and out in 24 hours – maybe 48. It never seemed to be longer than that, because the babies would perk up and want to jump out of the cardboard box that served as their temporary home.

Box babies became barn babies just about the time they could hop out and take a run for it through the dining room and down the hallway.

Said mom, “Animals belong in the barn,” although sometimes she wondered if her own children didn’t belong out there as well.

How many of you have ever heard a parent say, “What’s the matter – were you born in a barn?” (That was if we didn’t clean up after ourselves!) Then there was, “Sit up to the table – you’re not eating in the barn!” (I think that was mostly because our north-facing dining room window has a perfect view of the barn, and my brothers tended to lean back on their chairs.) And then there’s the saying, “You left the barn door open,” which, as you probably know if you’re a country kid, has absolutely nothing to do with the door on the barn.

Anyway, the story goes that animals are to be in the barn, and humans are to be in the house. At the Buntjer farm, the pets were lumped into the “outside critters” category as well. Cats and dogs did not belong indoors – certainly not to roll on the rug, snooze on the sofa or claw on the chair.

The rule worked fine for many, many years, but then along came my Molly. My parents “adopted” her when I bought my house in town. (I thought bringing her along with me broke some kind of “cruelty to animals” rule.)

Molly loves to run and jump and play. She fetches her rubber chicken, chases rabbits and deer, and barks to her heart’s content down there on the farm. She is also “training” my parents how to raise a completely spoiled pooch.

This winter has been kind of rough on everyone, including my Molly. I’m pretty sure she’s never been cold (she has a dog igloo in the garage filled with straw and her favorite quilt) … she’s just been lonely.

There isn’t a day that passes that she isn’t in the house, under foot (literally – both of my parents have nearly tripped over her), snoozing on “her” rug, eating her breakfast, dinner and supper, and even watching “Wheel of Fortune,” with her adoptive grandparents.

I used to tease my parents that they were just house-training her so she could come and live with me in town. Then, afraid they might actually force the issue (I’ve become like my parents – no pets in the house), I’ve reminded them how much they’d miss my Molly if she wasn’t there every day.

Hopefully Mom remembers that the next time my Molly scratches at the door at 5 a.m., and barks in intervals until said kind-hearted Mom opens the door a crack for the pretty pooch to weasel her way inside.

One, two, 10 … ready or not!

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Nephew Reece straddled the back of the loveseat in the living room of the family farmhouse Saturday afternoon and, with a great big grin, said, “Count to 10, Julie, and then come find me!”

I pretended to close my eyes, started to count and smiled as Reece giggled and slipped behind the loveseat in a corner of the room that is a favorite among the little Buntjer kids these days.

I never made it to 10 … I’m not sure I even made it to 5 … before Reece called out, “OK, come find me.”

I don’t know what was more funny – that his giggle gave up his exact location (although it could just as easily have been the one-foot-over-the-loveseat move), or that he was surprised when I poked my head over his hiding spot and said, “Aha!”

By the second round, Reece and his cousin Katie – they’re both five, switched places. She hid behind the loveseat and he hid behind the chair. This was equally as funny, because as Reece giggled behind the chair, Katie kept peeking over the back of the loveseat, wondering if I was on my way to find her. Add 3-year-old Alayna to the mix and, well, Hide-n-Seek turns into Here-I-Am.

The kids were having fun, and I guess since we were all stuck in the house because of the snow and cold, that’s a good thing.

Still, I couldn’t help but think about the fun the kids and I had last summer playing Hide-n-Seek around the farm yard.

There was this one episode I’m pretty sure none of us will ever forget.

It was nephew Blake against Reece and I, and I found the perfect hiding spot … or so I thought. As Blake was counting on the front steps, Reece and I took off across the yard and through the big barn door. Oh yeah, my dog Molly was with us too.

We stepped over the cat food dishes, darted down the alley way, moved with precision across the bales of grass hay and ducked behind one of dad’s big steel tanks.

“He’ll never find us here!” I told a giggling Reece. “Ssshhhh!”

We were frozen in place for less than a minute when I just couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t that my legs ached from my standing-sitting position, or that Blake was remotely close to finding us – it was that my nose and my eyes were starting to burn and I just couldn’t breathe anymore.

The cause of my calamity? Cat poop.

What I thought was our perfect hiding spot turned out to be a veritable outhouse for the farm cats … and I, with my big feet, managed to step right into it.

Reece, bless him, never once said, “Uffda, you stink!”

He just giggled as he followed me back to the alley way, where I slid the soles of my shoes across loose hay and then tried to scrape them on the steps leading to the haymow.

From our position, we saw Blake searching for us under the big pine tree by the wash house, then behind the old garage. Every once in a while he’d look in the direction of the barn, but he never came toward us.

Eventually, Reece and I got bored, stood by the barn door (only the top door was open) and watched as Blake continued his search.

I think Reece’s giggle eventually gave up our location … although it could have been me making faces at Blake and chanting na-na-na-boo-boo.

On second thought, the words might have been … na-na-na-pew-peeewwww!

My poor shoes were never quite the same.

Playing Hide-n-Seek in the house may not be as much fun as playing outside, but at least it’s safer.

Bye-bye birdhouse

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I drove out to the farm Saturday afternoon for some much-needed solitude when I noticed our barn is taking on a new look. Actually, it’s mostly just a new paint job on the front, but in the process Dad is having new windows and a new door installed.

It’s looking pretty nice once again, although our barn has always looked good to me. Ah, that barn is filled with so many memories.

I could share some of them with you, but tonight I must write about another building on our family farm … the chicken house.

Mom called tonight to tell me she and Dad pulled the chicken house down today and had a bonfire.

“What? Why?” were the first words out of my mouth. That six-sided chicken house was still good yet. Sure, the door was hard to open and it had started to sag on one side, but – it’s the chicken house.

It’s the place Mom sent me as a little kid (before I started kindergarten) to pick eggs when customers pulled in off the county road to buy a dozen or two. (She advertised farm fresh eggs, and that’s what the customers got!) I remember when eggs were 50 cents a dozen, and then 75 cents a dozen on our farm.

Whatever we were paid, it wasn’t enough for me to endure the pecking of those mean old hens, I can tell you that! Actually there were only two or three who really made my job difficult. They’d sit on their eggs as any good mother hen should, and when I’d reach in underneath their fluffy, feathery breasts … wham, they’d poke their beak into my tender-skinned backhand or forearm.

It was almost worse if they waited to peck after I had the egg securely in my hand. If she pecked me then, more often than not the egg hit the wooden roosting bar, broke and left a slimy egg yolk at my feet.

After we called it quits with the egg-laying chickens, the chicken house (also called the brooder house) was used every summer for our 4-H projects. When my oldest brother was in his last year of 4-H, he showed chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese, all of which got their start under the heat lamps in the chicken house.

Had we not raised poultry all those summers while I was growing up, the chicken house would have made the most awesome fort. It had six sides, a trio of south-facing windows and a roof that would allow a tall kid like me to stand up straight only in the very center.

I have no idea how old the chicken house was. It stood there for as long as I can remember. It’s going to be tough to see the bare spot when I visit the farm this weekend – I’m already shedding a few tears for what was lost.

Horse in the Haymow

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In honor of National Agriculture Week, I will be sharing my own “memories of a former kid” growing up on a rural Nobles County family farm. Check back each day this week for some of my most memorable experiences of farm life.

Whenever Mom was upset with us kids about leaving our dirty laundry on the floor or our dinner dishes on the table, she’d often ask, "What’s the matter with you? Were you born in a barn?"

Often, I’d reply, "Well, that wouldn’t have been so bad!"

The barn was a great haven on the family farm … it still is.

When I was growing up, I spent hours out in the barn. Most of the time, I’d grab a five-gallon bucket, tip it upside down and sit in the goat pen among my herd of pets. I’d watch them eat their feed, chew their cud and pick through the alfalfa and grass hay mixture.

I’d let the kid goats chew on my shoe laces and Butterscotch chew on my coat. Trav could spend half an hour rubbing her head up and down my arm as I told her about my day, while Misty would be standing in the corner – grinning because her bottom jaw stuck out just a bit more than it should have.

The goat pen was my refuge. For my three brothers, it was the haymow.

As much time as I’d spend chattering with my goats, the boys would spend upstairs shooting hoops.

I can remember when the makeshift court was created up there. A piece of plywood passes for a backboard, while the hoop is nothing more than an orange rim. To us farm kids, it was good enough.

When our basketball court – a clearing in the center of the haymow, surrounded by stacked bales of hay and straw – was still a novelty, I’d play along with the boys. We’d play H-O-R-S-E, and when we didn’t have time for a lengthy match-up, we’d shorten it to P-I-G, C-O-W or G-O-A-T. On rare occasions, we’d lengthen it to D-O-N-K-E-Y.

I’m pretty sure I never won any of the games. Basketball just wasn’t for me.

These days, it’s the next generation of Buntjer kids that gathers in the haymow. Oh, there’s some basketball still being played up there from time to time, but mostly the haymow floor has become a race track for the pedal tractors.

The four-year-olds, niece Katie and nephew Reece, love to go out to the barn, climb the ladder and play among the hay and straw bales in the haymow. They call it the "hay mountain."

A century ago, the barn was considered one of the most important buildings on a farm. Many farm families built a place for their livestock before they built a place for themselves on newly homesteaded land.

It’s pretty safe to say that if walls could talk, the barn on the Buntjer farm could share more stories than the house ever could.