Long Live the Barn

I’ve recently returned from a trip that has produced a reflection about a previous life. Over the past couple of days, my present self danced with a shadow of a former self and we twirled the nights away. I was visiting my best friend from high school who also happens to live out in the country, outside of a town whose population is small. This mouse has been city for most of my life, except for three years of high school. I was moved out of the largest school in the state to an existence composed of farmers and a graduating class number of 52. It was a shock. One of the first things I did was look for an outsider like me to become lifelong friends. My plan was a success. She was/is a rebel in her native land and will always be special in a shining way, different in her glimmer and possesses a heart the size of forever. I was very excited to see her. Automatically, we slipped into our friendship’s natural pattern and just hung out in a way that is so familiar and easy. Because we are Oklahomans, we have a morbid curiosity about tornado damage, so we drove around looking at broken trees in a straight line, branches jutting out like wooden bones. On the roadway, asphalt had been pulled up and thrown around. We talked about buildings that were once there and were amazed at the buildings that are still standing. This is the prairie. This is boot country.

When we settled down into a deck party, we clinked our glasses, smoked our cigarettes and chatted like chums.  When dusk fell, the night became chilly and every one retired to the barn where there’s a cast iron stove and a lovely bench on which to sit. Enjoying the cool summer wind that came through the big opened door, I sipped my bourbon and laughed, occasionally looking out into the solid black real estate of the outside world. As the evening rolled on, the radio’s volume level began to graduate and when the evening hit it’s fever, we sang like drunks in a midnight choir. We were/are a celebratory bunch. Long live the barn. Long live the country.