A Barn at Christmas

There’s something special about a barn at Christmas. Actually, there’s something pretty special about a barn at any time of the year. I’m sure I’m prejudiced, but I especially love my barn this time of year. It’s an old barn, probably about 125 years old, at least the main part is. It was built by my great great grandfather out of huge hand hewn chestnut logs cut here on the farm. Sometimes I just run my hand over the marks and the notches that someone cut by hand. It’s a marvel to me. When I was a child, the barn was my favorite playground. The loft was usually full of fragrant hay, perfect for the building of forts and secret hiding places. Sometimes there were kittens to play with and it was a perfect place for a rainy afternoon in the summer. I used to also play in the corn and oat cribs, always watchful for snakes, who feasted on the mice that were drawn to the free buffet. I’m sure these areas would not be approved by the health department as safe play spaces for children, but they didn’t seem to do any harm to me! Of course, my very favorite spaces were the stalls where my horses lived when they weren’t being ridden or turned out in the fields. I could spend hours brushing and combing, dreaming of the day I would be a famous rider and own a whole stable of horses to choose from. I realize now I seriously underestimated the amount of time, sweat and money a whole stable of horses takes, and I have settled for just a couple of riding horses and only one or two at a time to show. I haven’t become a famous rider, but I sure have had fun with my horses. I have, for several years, invited friends and neighbors to my barn during the Advent season for a devotional time. We read the Christmas story from Luke, sing a couple of songs and talk a little about what Christmas must have really been like for Mary and Joseph and the tiny newborn baby Jesus. It’s a special time to pause and think of the simple truth of the season, a break from the madness and hurry of today’s holiday season. Sometimes I like to just pause in the middle of my barn chores and enjoy the silence and the history around me at that old barn. The people who built it, the folks who have labored so hard to make a living from the farm, the friends who have played with me there, the animals that have been such a special part of my entire life. I feel very blessed to have grown up on a farm, and especially to have grown up on this particular farm. I love the legend of the animals talking on Christmas Eve. I am told that when my grandmother first moved here back in the twenties, she insisted on going down to the barn at midnight on Christmas Eve to see if it really happened. I never heard whether she heard them or not, but sometimes I think that if I could just have a child’s heart again, I might be able to catch the whispers of the horses, the cattle, the sheep as they remember that special night when God slipped down the back stairs from heaven and laid a baby in a manger. Merry Christmas to you all and may you, like the Wise Men, rejoice with exceeding great joy, during this time of year and all year long.

The Dog Who Hears Ghosts

First of all, let me make clear that Buddy, my mom’s dog, is just about the best dog we’ve ever had. He was a stray, apparently dropped off to fend for himself and taken in by friends of mine who then gave him to us. I’m not sure what all went into the mix that is Buddy, but I think there might be a dose of English Shepard, almost certainly some Australian Shepard and I suspect a little Rottweiler might be lurking the background. The main thing is, he is super smart and, at some point, had some pretty good training before we got him. Much to my surprise, he has ended up as a house dog. I never thought my mom would have a dog, especially a 60 pound dog, in the house. But there he is, and he is a great companion for her and a great companion for the two-year-old she babysits for a few days a week. But there is one great oddity about Buddy, which can be a little disconcerting. He hears ghosts. My mom’s house is an old farmhouse, well over 100 years old, and has seen many births and deaths within its walls, so it does not surprise me that spirits are present, at least if you believe that spirits exist. But we’ve never noticed them and other dogs we have had over the years have not noticed them, or have kept their existence to themselves if they have. Buddy, however, is not so considerate of our feelings. The first time Mom noticed it was just a year or so after Buddy came to live with her. They were sitting in the living room one night and suddenly Buddy got to his feet and started looking up with a worried expression at the ceiling, prowling around the room and growing more agitated by the moment. Pretty soon, he crawled under Mom’s bed, which in itself is quite an event since the bed only has about ten inch clearance and Buddy is a big dog. Getting under there is a monumental task and getting back out is even more of an event. Now, this ordeal happened not too long after both dog and owner had an unfortunate incident outside with a nest of hornets. So, our theory about Buddy’s panic was that he heard something in the attic that reminded him of the angry buzzing of the hornets and had a flashback. A week or two went by without incident and then it happened again. Actually it happened several times again, always starting with staring at the ceiling in alarm and then the dive under the bed, where he remained until morning. Then it got worse. One night, they were sitting in front of the television when Buddy slowly got his feet, looked at the ceiling a few times and then started prowling the house, sniffing the floor, behind the furniture and in every corner. He insisted on inspecting every room of the house, alternating between looking up at the ceiling and smelling the floor. Mom said it was pretty disarming and she began to think maybe someone was hiding in the rather large house. So, she got up and followed the dog on his tour, opening all the doors for him and half expecting to find someone hiding in a closet. The tour ended but there was no settling down for Buddy. Finally, she asked him if he wanted to go outside and they sat on the porch for a little while, after which he seemed to forget all about whatever it was that had alarmed him so. It’s a puzzle, I have to say. What does he hear that we can’t hear? Or what does he smell? We have no idea. It doesn’t happen every night or even every week. Maybe someday we will figure it out. If Buddy could only talk, I’m sure he would be glad to explain it.