Root Jumper Read Free Page B

box of big, fat fish worms anyway.
    Dad had about a third of the field plowed when I heard him yell “whoa” at the horses. We ran to see what had happened. Dad was holding his side. He said to Werner, “You take the horses home. The plow just kicked me in the side.” We helped him down the hill to the house. He was laid up for several weeks, but the boys finished the plowing that Dad had started.
    Dad felt so bad because of all the work that needed to be done and that he wasn’t able to do it. But we managed. That summer we had the greatest pole beans, tomatoes, and corn you ever did see.

The Old Barn
    “We must not cease from exploration and the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we began, and to know the place for the first time.”
    T. S. Eliot
     
     
    Old barns are living monuments of home. In the fall and spring, I always get the urge to go home. I am so thankful that I can still go home and roam around over the old farm. There is nothing left at the home place except the tie house (where we tied tobacco), the corn crib, and the barn. The barn is what draws me back.
    When Dad bought the farm, there was an old log barn that stood across the creek. This is the first barn that I remember. There was where the low gap was for the cows to feed and be milked. On the other side of the barn was a corn crib. Nothing remains there today—just a small plot of land. When I look at this tiny piece of ground, I think that there is no way a barn could have stood there. The creek runs past this land, and, after about a hundred years, it has just given up to the creek.
    I remember this old barn so well. It was always a favorite place for kids to play. The boys always sneaked around back of the barn to smoke. This barn was made from hand-hewn logs. We stuck our bare toes between the logs to climb to the loft. There was where the hay was kept. It wasn’t one of these big fancy rolls of today. We pitched the hay up into the loft, and pitched it down for the livestock. I heard my cousins say, “Hey, Teen, race you to the top.” We stuck our toes between the cracks and raced like squirrels to the top. Once or twice a year, my parents got ice somewhere and stored it in the hay. We would stick our toes through the cracks, and it felt so good on our bare toes. Of course, my parents didn’t know we did that.
    I got kicked by Barney the horse in this barn, but only on the palm of my hand. I came in behind her, startled her, and then she kicked me. I started screaming. Dad came running, and he was yelling, “Are you hurt?” I wasn’t, but it stung a little. I was just scared. After he saw that I wasn’t hurt, he was sort of mad. He said, “How could you do a dumb thing like coming in behind a horse. You always come along side of the horse and speak to him!” I just stood and looked at him.
    One crisp fall morning, I left the car parked at the big road and walked across the creek. I found the path that followed the creek. The goldenrod was in full bloom. The yellow blooms were leaning over and they seemed to beckon to me. I was too early to strip the seeds from the stems. The beautiful, wild, white morning glories with their pale green faces nodded to me as I passed. I saw the brown stems of the dock plants. They were curled and twisted into many shapes. I stopped to look closer. A spider had interwoven his web with the brown stems to catch his next meal. This plant looked completely dead. However, as I looked closer at the bottom of the dead stem, there was tiny, green growth.
    Our barns grew up with us, rising in the wilderness from the soil of the hills and mountains and from the great hardwood trees. They are symbols of America’s best, of all its glory and hardships. Now so many of our barns, the symbols of all that’s good and beautiful, are slowly returning from whence they came.
    Our barn was built back in the 1930s. The men went out into the woods and were able to look at a great oak and tell if it would work