Papaw's Barn

Shortly after Heather's grandfather Mr. Guy Lovelace passed away, the 100 year old barn on his farm burned to the ground one night. As you could imagine coming so close on the heels of his death it was a depressing blow for the family. Heather asked me to try to write something for the family and my dear friend and colleague at ECS, Vicki Hodge, sketched a picture from a photo for the background. We gave copies of the poem and sketch to all the families. My desire was to convey the idea that though the physical barn was gone, we all could still enjoy the memories we all had of that wonderful old building. This is the text of the poem.

Papaw’s Barn

By Alan Durham – December 1999

It was but wood and hay and stubble that burned and stands no more,

And now a heap of charred oak beams and ash and melted tin

Lies in the place where Papaw’s old, weathered barn had been.

Remember Papaw’s precious cows and wagon in the hall,

Or that corncrib filled with ancient junk and the woodpile ten feet tall?

Remember climbing in the loft and playing in the hay.

Or lying in the straw up there on a clear, crisp, autumn day?

I can still see dust flecks dancing in the sunlight through the cracks

As me and my two children lay stretched out on our backs

Resting from the games we’d played on the loft’s old, oaken floor,

And in my mind I see their legs dangling from that high loft door

Where an autumn breeze slips through the trees to brush their sweaty cheeks

Flushed red with play in forts of hay and straw built mountain peaks.

Though the flames of fire have consumed the work of hundred year ‘go hands

And brought to naught this wooden barn that was the work of man’s,

It was just wood and hay and stubble and really nothing more.

Oh, we think we’ve suffered loss because the barn went up in flame.

And we feel that special spot of ours will never be the same.

But the memories in our heart still stand and flame can’t touch them there,

Those times we walked the earthly floor or plucked hay from rumpled hair.

And remember the spot where Papaw fell on that frosty autumn morn,

Doing the things he loved to do since before we kids were born?

That dark, rich earth of his old barn cushioned his fall that day.

And I can’t imagine, if he could choose, he’d have had it another way.

Yes, I can see these scenes played out and many hundreds more,

For they’re not wood and hay and stubble that burns and lives no more.