Building a Barn from Scratch

Solatium – a compensation given as solace for suffering or loss

by Carl and Elizabeth Evans of Fountain, Colorado

In the crisp mountain air, the horses seem to glide through the timber, side-stepping small trees and fallen logs. The chainsaw roars devastation, but the mighty pines float to the ground as they fall. These are the dead and dying, those that have been singed by fire, invaded by the beetle or abandoned by the rain and snow. The limbs fall to the forest floor as mulch, and the stripped trunk leaves its birthplace. The horses snort and bow their heads as the men call out short and simple commands through the sawdust fog. But the horses know what to do as they feel and guide the load, drawing on the generations of toil and experience of their forebears. As the sun climbs into the sky, sweat marks new hatbands on the men’s brows and the harness leather becomes warm and soft to the touch. As the men and horses move out, a solemn silence fills the air, and younger standing trees turn to their new sun and reach for higher air.

What appears as stacks of lifeless trunks fills the south yard. Dad’s sawmill sings in high pitch and the dust smells sweet and strong. The green wood is velvet to the touch as the layers and the years are stripped away. It is a moment for reverence as the log bares its soul and its history. As the new boards are stacked neatly in line, the bark and slabs are set aside. Anything that is not used in the structure is to be put to use in other ways as mulch, firewood, treehouse, or fence. In the meantime, the slab piles make safe haven for new crops of cottontail and toad. The COA troops (Canines On Alert) are kept busy on patrol with endless challenges to their speed and agility. Even the Felines join in to hone their stalking methods. But having superior math skills, the cats quickly calculate the unreasonable odds and abandon the chase long before heavy panting ensues.

Suddenly, thirty hearts once again stand upright in new boots, their strength and stance tied together by a lattice of beams and rafters cut from their shells. The hearts are cloaked in a tapestry woven in the din of hammer and saw. Knots dot the panels, noting the shape and direction of the limbs that once reached to the skies. Even the demise of the trees becomes part of the beauty. Brought in by dirty little beetle feet, the fungus that once spread through the wood and suffocated the flow of nutrients now weaves blue-gray into the rain of the walls. Fire and remnants of old fence add red depth to the yellows of the sapwood. Twisted trees that withstood years of wind and uncertain sustenance now expose beautiful gnarls and curlicues in their grain, tactile evidence of the broad life experiences they endured through decades of growth and observation in their original station.

The dead and dying have been asked to take a new station to protect and support new life – that of working animals that seek protection and safety from the weather and of a family building a dream.

Many hands make light work, but many hands also make a large barn. The men in the mountains were Carl, Will Yoder, John Nissley, Bill Getz, Kevin Doehring, Ed Evans, J.R. Rohrbacher, and Rex Miller. The horses worked in teams and as single – mares and geldings, – Suffolk, Belgian, Clydesdale, Percheron and the ubiquitous and indispensable mule.

At their new home, the logs and the lumber were cared for by many from our community. J.R. Rohrbacher, Keith Stoudt, and Ed Evans were stewards of the logs, transforming the trees to posts, beams, and rafters. With a master’s eye and skill, Carl Stoudt gave life to paper sketches, recreating them into a three dimensional structure of art and function. Rick Miller worked steadily on corners, bats, and doors, hanging from scaffolds and two-stepping across roof rafters. Rod Allen joined in as the barn was sheathed from the sky with a strong roof. Mike the Welder fashioned custom brackets for beams and posts. Eric Thompson, Bill Peyer, Bob Freeman, and Christian Howells moved earth and molded concrete. Jim Keane and Michaela Lucente installed the utilities of cold running water and electricity. Sabine Stoudt and Sally Miller were always on hand to assist in feeding the workers. All who have touched this barn will now dance under its roof.

And the interior is furnished by many. Ada Rock’s chairs have been recovered in flowery denim, Nan Riegel’s rocker has claimed its own corner of the visiting room. Wayne Magninie’s little potbelly stove warms the gatherers and the gear, Grampa Allen’s old enameltopped table hosts card games and coffee klatches. Rod Allen’s old picture windows light the loft and the old Millersville, Missouri school bell rings again. Ancient ropes and old chains provide safety railings in the loft, and the doors and gates hang on hinges retrieved at auction. Even the discarded hospital gurney provides a unique mobile workbench. Salvaged scrap iron lies silent and strong within the concrete slabs. Grampa Miller’s army saddle, old harness and tools take their posts in the gear room. Everett Lowry’s spring wagon has its own stall now.

The dead and dying, the throwaways, the leftovers from another generation – all given new purpose, a new station.

But is it compensation for the trees or reclamation of the makings and furnishing of this barn? No, it is selfishness, a longing for the memories of clear mornings in a pristine forest… for tracings of years gone by and suns and moons never seen… for the smooth edges of worn wood on furnishings that once belonged to someone dear… for a sense of warmth and familiarity when the rain falls, the snow flies, or the world spins too quickly. Instead, the barn enfolds an invisible restoration – solace – solatium for our own legacy.