Autumn 2008
2008 Ralph Nading Hill Literary Contest
Editor's Note:
Leif Tillotson, an auto parts salesman and photographer who lives in Enosburg Falls, is the winner of this year's Ralph Nading Hill Literary Prize. Tillotson grew up in nearby Bakersfield, and his heartfelt story about the rise and fall of Earl's barn speaks to larger truths about Vermont, our architectural heritage and the fragility of our way of life. The Ralph Nading Hill award is named in honor of the late author and Vermont Life senior editor, a tireless champion for preserving Vermont's history and telling its stories.
Earl's Barn
By Leif Tillotson
Twenty minutes. That's how long it takes for history to fall to the ground. Too short a time for a childhood landmark to become nothing more than memories with nothing physical to attach them to anymore.
The news came in a text message from my mother. It seems ironic that word of a 125-year-old barn burning to the ground would come in the modern form of a text message. The words were, "Earl's barn is gone. I'm sorry."
Yes, Mom knew that the fire was something to be sorry about. Lightning had struck the building and turned it into smoke and flames with very little left over in the end. Firefighters told the newspapers and TV crews that the building was lost before they got there.
It was more than a building that was lost; it was memories and stories, people that had come and gone, and a way of life that we will never know again.
It's hard to accept that the cause of the fire was an act of nature. Somehow it would have been easier to accept that old wiring had failed, or someone had tossed a cigarette butt. It doesn't seem right that a structure built by humans, a structure that only served for good, should be taken away by God.
When I drove by several days later there were dumpsters in the place where this great barn had stood. Today there is nothing, just a patch of land graded smooth, waiting to be covered with grass. People who don't know better will pass it by from now on and never know what once stood there.
Earl Gates' barn had been a landmark in the town of Bakersfield. The barn had stood like a giant watching all that went by on busy Route 108, across the road from my childhood home. It was built when cars were not yet made, had stood strong during wars and the Depression, through numerous presidents, through the introduction of electricity and telephones. Like a grandparent, the barn had watched young people grow up, serving without judgment or praise as a source of history and learning, offering lessons to those who were willing to learn.
Never painted, the wood of the building had aged to a dark gray over the years. It was the type of building that "flatlanders" from the city would pay top dollar for, and then dismantle and use as decorations in their modern homes. Inside were wooden wheelbarrows, wooden cow stanchions, cast iron watering bowls, antique Surge milking equipment and tools that were forged not by machine, but by hand. They had sat idle for more than 20 years since Earl had died.
My brothers and I had started working at Earl's barn at a young age. Like so many things that happen in our lives, I can't remember how we started going there. In our hearts, though, we've never stopped going there.
We were not paid, at first, for our help. We worked because that's what men do, even though we were boys at the time. Instead of money, we worked for the fun of it. I remember when Earl's wife, Hyla, first gave us a check. We were amazed that we could have fun and get paid for it, too. We were well into our teens when that happened. There were always people at the barn, Earl's sons, townspeople and people related to the industry.
The arrival of the milk truck was a big event for us. The driveway was so narrow and the hill so steep down that the truck driver stopped at the road and then backed down to get to the milk house. When he was ready to leave, one of us would station ourselves by the road and flag him when it was clear. He would then make a mad dash up the hill with his truck and turn onto the road without stopping, honking his horn as he left. Sometimes we would calculate wrong and a car would be coming too fast toward the intersection of the hill driveway and the road. We would have to wave the milk truck off as he charged to the top of the hill and he would roll slowly backward to try it again. On winter days he sometimes made it to the top but was unable to get enough traction to crest the hill. Numerous attempts at racing toward the top of the driveway and out onto the highway would be necessary.
For kids who didn't leave town very often, the coming of the milkman or the artificial breeder or the vet meant news and stories from abroad. We would hear who else that person had been to visit that day and how their farm operation was doing, the newest equipment they had purchased or who they had hired for help. Each bit of news was a morsel of information that we would toss around for the day.
It was in that barn that the circle of life played out. Calves were born and sometimes died, cows fell ill, chickens hatched and were later butchered, and pigs were raised to one day be taken to the slaughterhouse. These were the lessons they didn't teach in school.
It was fun to work at the farm, but it was hard work as well. The haymows were dusty and hot, the hay bales were heavy and the manure had to be shoveled and wheeled outside with a wheelbarrow instead of transferred with an electric conveyor. Anything that was done in the barn was done by hand. Three-legged milk stools, stainless steel milk buckets and wooden wheelbarrows for feed helped make the work easier, but in no way eliminated the sweat and swearing that came from the manual labor. We would hear of other farms and what mechanical devices they had to make their work easier. These marvels of invention never came to Earl's barn.
The rites of passage for young men occurred on the farm. It is where we first drove tractors, ran chainsaws, drove vehicles and milked cows on our own. We were never allowed to do these things without preparation leading up to the event. Before being able to drive the tractor, we had watched and ridden with others and taken a tractor safety course. Each time we were given a task with some responsibility (and privilege) to it, we felt like we were taking steps toward being men. We were learning lifelong lessons.
Even with those precautions, my brothers and I left blood in that barn. We had all been hurt at one time or another, but took our lumps and continued on. It was a part of the environment to get hurt once in a while. Earl was always bleeding from his hands or face and didn't know it. I find myself the same way now, with cuts and bruises and no explanation to offer as to where they came from.
As much as we were becoming young men, Earl never forgot that we were still children. He would tell us fantastic stories. He told us once that on Christmas Eve each year the animals would awake from their sleep and talk to each other. We imagined the magic of that moment, when the animals would awake from their slumber and speak to each other. What would they say? How long would they be able to say what was on their minds? We marveled as children do in the wonders of the unknown, doubting that Earl's claim could be true but also unwilling to dismiss it at the same time.
Along with the stories, Earl was also known for his colorful sayings. I used to collect his sayings on grain tags and keep them under my bed. As I grew older I passed them on to a Vermont author. I have lost track of whether those phrases and expressions made their way into print or not, but I hope so. My mother used to ask me what new "Earlisms" I had to offer when I would come home from the farm. These phrases and quotes were carried on with Earl and never went further. I had very meticulously saved those grain tags with scribbled words on them until much later in life, until throwing them out at some point. I now wish I had kept them, as they would have been a reminder of my life on the farm and a part of Earl's legacy to others.
I remember that one Christmas I received a denim jacket, denim overalls and black rubber boots with red bottoms and red across the toes. This was Earl's outfit. When I first wore it, I was picked on for looking like him. I never saw that as a negative comparison. The clothes and boots were functional for the farm. Over decades Earl had formed an opinion of what apparel worked for his farm, and he was right. As I grew older, and bigger, the barn clothes changed sizes but the designs stayed the same.
When I went to college in New York City, there were more people in my dorm than in my hometown. It was a very long way from Bakersfield to New York City. I didn't talk about my rural roots very much at school, for fear of embarrassment. I would think often, though, about how different the two places were and how the way things were done in the country made more sense.
Earl died in the years that I was away from home. His wife, Hyla, died a few short years ago. Neither of them lived to see their barn burn down. They had already watched their house burn many years ago. I am thankful, at least, that they didn't have to watch their barn fall as well.
Over the years Earl and Hyla's sons carried on the farm in a very limited way. They have other jobs and the farm was not the full-time job to them that it was to Earl. The barn had seen its heyday, and like an elder, it was in its twilight years when it was taken from us.
Few knew of the treasures inside this old barn. They never saw the antiques, or knew of the stories, or had memories of the people or events that took place inside this building. As Vermonters, we too often take for granted the history around us. In every corner of the state there are buildings that have architectural, historical and social significance. These structures are not just wood and bricks and nails, they are pretty shells filled from the inside out with laughter, sadness and stories that await hearing for those of us who are willing to hear. Every year we lose more buildings to vandalism, old age and natural causes, and demolition. They are not just buildings; they are a piece of the puzzle that makes us Vermonters who we are.
As an adult now, I am privileged to be able to drive around the state and take photos of our old buildings. Sadly, I never took a photo of Earl's barn. It is still with me, though, when I smell hay on a summer day and find my thoughts back in the haymow, handling hay bales that were half the size of my childish stature. The memories are with me when I drive by the lot where the barn was and close my eyes to picture it exactly as it once stood. Everything I have of the barn, everything that I took away from it, is in my memories and my heart. Every time that I pass an old barn now in my travels, I wonder if it holds similar memories for someone else, and if they, too, will hold onto those memories when that barn is gone, as I hold onto the memories of Earl's barn.
