It’s time to clean out the barn

In the barn, under newspapers, behind the Case tractor, were dozens of boxes, some contents strewn across the cement floor: pens, screws, towels, toys; some things were tucked under blankets. Some boxes were forgotten, filled as they were with sticks colored by crayons, boxes tied by grass string; pages of sand figures made by glue set on drawings. There were bones I'd found in fields and by streams and bugs I put in plastic bags, delicate butterflies I studied and beetles I looked up the taxonomy of, and writings I'd left. The boxes held my life.

The things I have are who I am, who I've been. No valuable gifts, except for the memory and the spirit.

The dust and animal droppings around the boxes smelled sour. Hay and dirt, manure and dust, diesel, rope, moldy paper, all the smells of a barn that touch my soul.

I peered into the damage eight years had made. I saw reminders of character, of lessons and memories, love and laughter, of solitude and meditation.

In uncovering boxes covered by dirt, breaking mud wasp nests from the insides, I saw mortality. I felt the dust, became the dirt.

Today a treasure hunt and lesson.

I found stacks of paper with drawings, dozens of note books. I found toys I bought for my children and toys I bought to remember them. I found a war helmet to remember my dad. I found a towel that reminded me of my mom.

Huddled and sitting on my haunches, wiping sweat and dirt from my forehead. I saw a cup with a hundred yellow, folded bits of paper. I wanted to remember being without food. My wife asked if it was popcorn.

“Something else,” I said.

I saw a small house I cobbled together with wood scraps. A stuffed bear reminded me of my son. I called him the little bear. Old aviator glasses reminded me about high school and the days I thought I knew everything.

Taped on the inside of an old belt was a dollar. I remembered to be thankful for what I had.

I surprised a opossum who snarled.

I made an insect collection and a darn good one when I went without work.

I had saved wood chips to remember the months of sitting in the basement like the old man who sat in the tower, working on shoes in “A Tale of Two Cities.” I sat for eight hours daily, whittling away at branches I dragged home from the park. I made tractors, cars, animals, and little house facades.

I saw a jar of stones I gathered and counted, all cleaned, with many little silver and gold pebbles.

I had forgotten about the knife collection. I forgot the microscope.

Old gun cases were filled with paper cups, bits of scrap, and wrappers. Two cages made from wood slats were once home to frogs and a snake I caught who kept me company.

All of this, the litany and end and start of it, are the wheels and wagon of my life.

Many days I spent alone, watching trails and seeing deer cross a stream after they tested water and ice in early mornings. Many days I watched a river otter play with the waves. I saw tadpoles crawl onto shore for their first breaths. I watched infant raccoons chase each other along tree trunks. In seasons I saw caterpillars wrap into cocoons and found bones of deer and feathers of crows.

I saw countless sun rises and sun sets and studied the Sioux language.

After staring into boxes and reading old poems and prayers, saving stones from important intersections on wooded trails, a lasting “Aha.”

I've become who I hoped I would become. My faith was right.

Home is a place in my heart.

In the morning dew where I washed my face, in the dusk where I listened to the owl, in my dreams where I see the years, I celebrate.

It was time to clear out the barn.

Tim Trenkle has been an instructor in the college system in Iowa, most recently at Upper Iowa University. He lives in Dubuque.