Bartender 3 1 2012

On some evenings I’d be over at the Blackwell’s house visiting, as Flora had four children that I grew up with, including Mark who was my age. It was fun to catch up with everyone. When I’d head back to the house, it was so pitch dark out with no streetlights, I couldn’t see the road directly in front of me, even after my eyes attempted to adjust. All I could see at a distance on the right was the porchlight, far away. Talk about fright nights! I started jogging silently so I could get there quicker since my heart was beating out of my chest anyway!

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Closer, and slowly in my vision I could see the fireflies hovering around the bulb gathering some heat. When they were younger, my mother and my Aunt Billie used to call them lightning bugs. I remember visiting after I graduated high school when I was seventeen. My parents had bought me plane tickets as a graduation gift. Philip and his wife, Melanie, had now been living in the main house on the farm for several years now by themselves, so I stayed with them. Charlie was living up the road. Weeks went by too quickly even for a laid-back pace of lifestyle, and again, it was time for me to go.

Grandma and Gramps would always drive me back to the airport in Syracuse. It was another early morning take-off, I guess in order to get into Arizona at a decent hour, with the mid-country layover in Chicago. It was about a seventy-mile drive, and I was sitting in the back seat alone. I could overhear my grandparents talking about things. I wasn’t paying attention much, as I was staring out the window in my own little world. They’d ask me something now and then or I’d do the same. As we entered into the passenger drop-off area of the airport, the car came to a stop. Gramps turned off the motor, while Grandma went in to see if my plane was going to be taking off on time.

Within a few moments of silence, something hit me. They were getting a little older, and I guess I was too. I didn’t know when I would be back again, and that kind of scared me. After a little bit of last minute talking via the rearview mirror, Gramps turned around and I moved up to the middle of the back seat. Picture instruments color cone 1 1 download free. We looked at each other and started crying, missing one another already. A couple times during my stay, we had sat in the living room and watched a baseball or football game together. I could smell the cherry tobacco in his pipe. I was this kid, strong-willed, but couldn’t hold it together when it came to things like this; missing people, not knowing when I’d see them again.

Grandma arrived back to the car. Everything was running on schedule. I was hoping it would be late. It was difficult for Gramps to get out of the car and walk through the airport, so we hugged and kissed goodbye. Grandma went back in with me. It was the last time I saw my grandfather. We both had that feeling but couldn’t put it into words, and didn’t want to. At a certain checkpoint I had to go on my own. I hugged and kissed my grandmother goodbye, and told her that I loved her and I’ll see you soon. Even though I had a special bond with both of them, she knew I had a special connection with Gramps.

I remember him getting on me about making a groove path in the lawn above the ditch off the side of the road with the motorcycle, creating a fun jump for myself, but he didn’t care too much for what it was doing to the grass. I was being a bit thoughtless so, I would say “okay” and that would be the end of it. I stopped riding up it. No endless harps about it as long as I did what I was told. I got the message.

Here I was, roaming through the airport trying to find my gate with still-streaming tears in my eyes. I must’ve looked like a lost kid, but I was used to finding my own way through terminals. I just had to clear my eyes and find a bathroom to blow my nose.

Some years had gone by and I was going through a lot of changes in my life, working at a regular job now and paying rent like everyone else. I hardly had any monies leftover for play or vacation. I was working many hours and two jobs, living in Phoenix when the call came in a couple days after the fact.

It happened around 7:00 pm, October 5^th, 1981.

It was fairly calm outside. Some days of wind and rain had hit a month and two before, when the hay is cut and baled up into the barn’s loft in August and September. Turning dark quickly, Philip and Charlie were a little more than half the way through with milking the cows for the evening, when Phil noticed the lights flickering in the barn. This triggered a sign of two possibilities; electrical or temperature. There were three silos on the South side of the barn, right up next to it. The opposite side of where the main house was. It continued, so he took a further walk around and then went out back. Near the silo side, that’s where he noticed it.

Fire and smoke was coming from a corner of the barn loft. Phil immediately ran into the barn yelling to let Charlie know and to call the fire department. The main priority at that moment was to get the cows out of the barn, so one-by-one they were released from their stalls after the milking apparatus was moved off the floor and out of the way of the four cows currently being milked, two on each side. Not a moment to waste, the problem of containment had begun from the first notice of the flames, as the loft was full of hay just above.

The power to the barn’s lighting had to be shut off from the main power box, as the hot wiring above is what caused the flickering below. Dark inside, the cows were backing up trying to move onto the center breezeway and find their direction out the side barn door, slowing things up. A flashlight quickly helped show the way. Spreading fast above, smoke was moving everywhere. By the time they finally got all the cows out, the fire trucks arrived and needed to clear the area inside and out. The roof was soon to be engulfed. https://bestvfil396.weebly.com/snap-art-4-1-3-280-kg.html.

Not able to get over there in time to rescue them out of their separated pens, two calves died in the barn. This was a country fire. No pale of water was going to help reduce it any. Even with an entire lake so close, nothing could be done. It was high in the sky for almost seven hours. What all of the neighbors on old Storrs Road grew up with all those years as children and adults, and people that babysat me when I was young, watched through the trees of the road in tears as a family and area landmark in a small historic town, burned away.

It was spontaneous combustion. There was some wet/damp hay up in the loft, with some dry hay sitting on top of it. It started to sweat, and eventual heat levels rose to the point where it caught fire.

A quarter-mile down the land stretch on the road in a smaller retirement house built, my grandparents looking North out of their bedroom window, could only stand and stare at the decades of work possibly coming to an end. With a strong will and strong hands, it was a helpless situation. All the relatives living nearby had been contacted and drove over as soon as they could get there. But the way of life of a farming family had come to a screeching halt, and no one knew what to do or think for a while after.

Thoughts and worries filled the days and weeks to come, while the cows had to be transported and milked elsewhere, not to mention grazing and feeding. Eventually the decision was made to not rebuild, for many reasons. A couple years went by and, having suffered a major heart attack, my grandfather passed away in the Jefferson County Hospital in the spring of 1984. He was 72. He tried to stay alive, but there was just too much irreversible damage. I was never able to speak to him on the phone to his hospital room. When he died, I still hadn’t completely gotten over the loss the fire caused, and it’s like it started all over again for me. He was one of thirteen children, with most of them still alive today, in their nineties.

Today, the silos still remain along with the main farmhouse, unoccupied. A friend of the family who has a cottage down by the edge of the lake, bought up the property and surrounding land, and has kept it virtually untouched ever since, allowing for no development or changes. After forty plus years of tilling the soil, milking cows, and supplying dairy products the last thing it deserved was a tragic ending. My grandmother survived and lived on for more than a decade. I visited her often as she stayed in town in a retirement home nearby the families.

I still go back every few years, in the summer, as the winters are too cold for me to handle, being so used to the warm weather of the West. It’s beautiful at that time of year off the sparkling lake. I stay on Main Street in Sackets at a hotel off the water. After a late-morning breakfast, I borrow my Uncle Donnie’s bicycle and peddle to the farm, like I always do. I’d bike from the Harbor Hotel, around and past the Madison Barracks with my first stop being the old cemetery where my grandparents are buried. I walk the bike over to the gravestone and sit on the ground for a while, and just get there for a moment. I slow it down and doze off a bit, thinking of the past, and of them. I was never really afraid in the graveyard. It was quiet.

A mile or two away is old Storrs Road, where I make a left and head up to the property, peddling faster. From a distance I could see the farmhouse and the tall silos, like pillars of power once storing and fermenting the grains and greens for all the livestock. Corn silage or fodder, as they called it. “Branche Farms” was painted close to the top of the middle silo. The closer I got the more I felt at peace. Entering the driveway, the sun was kissing the water just right. The West side of the house was receiving a long period of extra shine, warming its bones again from the most recent winter.

I sit on the porch of the vacant farm house with memories flooding my mind, like I’ve never left. It’s warm, and I can hear the breeze telling me all is okay here. I don’t have to worry anymore. I can relax. I can smile and feel a sense of deep happiness, but not without a river of tears coming on and filling my eyes. It takes a while to pass, and than I can breathe deeply in.

I wave at people I used to know, and that used to know me. We were little then, but we’re still able to recognize each other just enough to say hello, and go about our day. After a while of doing nothing but staring at the hay fields being cut nearby, the sky being blue, and Ontario rocking with ski boat waves, I watch as two crows come near, landing at the top of the fireplace to join me in the sitting.

Every once in a great while I still have the dreams. Being in the farmhouse at night, being outside, standing in the barn, or walking the dark road. My grandparents would visit me, smiling to let me know that everything’s alright. Then I wake up from the trance. Of all the grandchildren, I was the only one who ever lived on the farm from what I can remember. I can only wish that all of my cousins had experienced it in the same way that I did.

Website – www.SacketsHarborNY.com

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