What’s a farm without a barn? I want to give a short descriptive tour, which may be boring for some, but not for me. I remember every inch of this fascinating building; it should be listed in the National Registry of Historic Places—at least in my humble opinion. There is so much history there. It will surely be standing one hundred years from now and longer.
I want to use that barn as a metaphor for life: the details of one’s life would be boring to others, but to the person himself, every minute detail is important, from the hangnail pain of the little toe to the accomplishments of life goals. Those details are what life is made of. But try to explain your typical day to anyone else and their eyes glass over after one or two minutes, or they wait a suitably acceptable amount of time to interrupt you with the excitement of their life—which seems boring to you.
My brother and I spent hours exploring inside and around the barn. You wouldn’t believe what a place it was. So let me see if you can picture it with me. The incredible structure was built to be indestructible, erected around the turn of the century (19th to 20th), during the general time period before World War I, around the time of the Wright brothers and the first automobiles. It was about the size of a typical barn but built to withstand a storm of any size.
The building of the barn came about as a result of a storm that had blown through the two forty-acre plots that made up the original settlement. The original owners of the land were the Pruki family, the stock from which my Grandmother Gustava Gianotti came. Her father was Samuel, born August 20, 1859, in Finland, and died November 7, 1904, age 45, in Ely, Minnesota. His wife, Maria Katarina Gustafson, lived until the early 1950s. Those were my great-grandparents. Later Jack and Gustava took over the property during the last years of Maria’s life while keeping their house in Ely. Thus, the Pruki farm became the Gianotti farm.
Samuel Pruki milled the fallen trees into twelve-by-twelve squared-off solid hardwood beams, huge by today’s construction standards. These became the barn walls, stacked on one another like a large version of the Lincoln logs I used to play with as a child. The upper floor was supported with slightly smaller-beamed joists, but the entire floor was supported by twelve-by-twelve posts. (Did I mention this was a solidly built fortress?) Flooring throughout was rough-cut wooden planks. The makeshift trusses were small tree trunks milled flat on one side so roof sheathing could be nailed onto it. Tar paper and a patchwork of shingles gave the roof a green-black checkerboard effect. Aged red paint colored the façade.
The front of the barn has a small window on the left, with a glass pane that looks like it has been sagging over the years, as most things and people do. The main door required anyone over five and a half feet tall to stoop when entering. Another window graced the rugged building on the other side of the main door, and then there was another door large enough to drive Grams and Gramps’ Buick in. Gramps’ truck remained outside to weather the elements. I can recall no windows on the upper floor in the front; I guess any hay stored up there would not need a window for looking out. Enough light came through the cracks and crevices to provide light, albeit dusty in the sunbeams. And there was a ladder slung up on the roof, where it remained year after year.
Gramps’ work area during the summers was the solid rustic table outside, to the left of the front door, just under the window. Affixed to the table was an enormous wrought iron table-vice. I inherited that vice and took it home, and after having it drop squarely on my toe, I can vouch for its weight—forty-five pounds by my estimation! Because of its size (humongous) and weight, my memorabilia display was not a suitable place for it, so it spent its last days in the shed out back of my home. It has since been recycled for a few dollars; hopefully it has been reincarnated into an artistic metal sculpture on display in a fine art show somewhere.
Walking in the front door of the barn, turning left, was the storage of all Gram’s and Gramps’ sporting stuff: fishing gear, camping equipment, hip-waders, paddles, outboard motors, and a multitude of aluminum fishing lures. Tents back in the day were all made of canvas, and of course, everything smelled moldy. But it was all usable.
The main room housed the collection of tools only seen today in yard sales by old-timers. Every imaginable instrument, gizmo, and apparatus could be found there, often in duplicate or triplicate. Indeed, it was a tool-lover’s paradise. No power tools other than a lawnmower.
The door behind the tool shop led into the darker recesses, where Gramps kept various things like old furniture and various other things thata cold be classified as junk. A ladder led up to the second floor, which was originally used as a hayloft. Yes, the homestead was, for a time, an actual working farm with cattle and other animals. By the time I came on the scene, farming was in the rearview mirror, so the hayloft was a largely vacant, huge open space piled high with odd furniture, sleds, and broken-down beds. My grandparents were the ultimate pack rats.
To the right side of the barn, as you look at it from the front, was an attached outhouse, a two-holer. Why there were two holes was beyond me as a kid—I would never want company when I was in there doing business—but there it was; I never asked questions. The only issue was to make sure there was toilet paper before you sat on the throne. Around behind the outhouse was the garbage pile, which was out of sight unless one was on the garbage detail, in which case, you just let the garbage fly.
About twenty feet to the right of the barn was the woodshed, and beyond that was a nondescript utility shed where Gramps kept the wooden boat for the winter. Looking beyond that, you would gaze across the front forty acres and see a swampy, overgrown grassy field divided by the farm road leading up through the tree line hiding the highway. The property had been pastureland at one time but was now retired to perpetual rest. I tried exploring in that area but was quickly chased away by the armies of mosquitoes and horseflies (depending on the time of year), making my way back to the farmhouse with squishy, soaked sneakers.
Family lore has it that the farm once raised mink during the “mink stole” craze of ladies’ fashion, but there were other animals in the old days, including horses. The shroud of history leaves us to our imagination. To the left of the barn was overgrown woods, not used for much—that’s back where the old broken-down school bus rested.
So what’s the big deal about the barn? Remember, I wrote earlier, this was a metaphor for life. It was a remarkable structure that still stands to this day, over one hundred twenty years later, and its association with my childhood vacations is indelibly etched in who I am. So often in life, things that are large and significant to us are considered small or unimportant to others. At times, we may wonder if our lives are small and insignificant, and we are tempted to think that maybe we don’t count for anything, like the barn details I just described. But just like every detail of that barn is significant in my memory, so every detail of my life is important to God, who created me. Jesus described how God sees us: “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows” (Luke 12:7). God sees you and me as valuable, even to the smallest detail. Now that is interesting!
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