Last year the problem was getting it out. This year, of course, it was the opposite problem.
When we were in the swirl of buying this acreage, Lori looked dismissively at the 30-foot by 40-foot metal building perched off the driveway to the south and west of the house and wondered aloud how difficult it might be to tear down. "What use do we have for a barn?"
"Well," we eventually concluded together, "we could always use it for parties." It is, after all, heated and has a simple but functional enough bathroom. And we have come to enjoy hosting. Party prospects, then, saved the barn, but it has been the rapid accumulation of equipment and tools that has turned it into a godsend. Chainsaw, power trimmers of multiple specialization, an air compressor to fill things, a power wagon to carry things, a commercial size diesel lawn tractor to mow things, when it isn't trans-fitted with an industrial snow blower to clear things in the opposite season. And, of course, the requisite pickup. I'm still not sure why we need a pickup, but everyone said we had to have one, and we are nothing if not compliant. And fuel cans. My heavens, do we have the fuel cans! There are cans for diesel, cans for gasoline, and cans for a gas/oil mix. And then there are the lubricants and the stabilizers and...well, you see my point. All of these necessities have to go somewhere.
The problem -- or the blessing -- is that we still choose to have parties.
In the barn.
Which means plotting a grand evacuation in the days preceding such an event. It works out fine; a few tarpaulin curtains to veil the miscellany pushed into huddles against the wall, a few hours with a broom and then a mop (did I mention the drips and drops of some heretofore unidentified petroleum product staining the floor?) with a heavily Pine Sol-laced solution. Of course all the major equipment must be backed out and parked for the night under a tree to make room. That's no problem for the truck or the power wagon. Frigid winter or blistering summer, neither seems daunted by the effort.
But the tractor has a mind, temperament and biorhythm all its own. Last winter, on the afternoon of the party, nothing could persuade it to start. Maybe the diesel had turned to pudding. Maybe it was simply in one of those moods. Whatever, neither key nor crank nor coaxing nor cursing would beckon it to life. Just to punctuate its defiance, the battery moaned itself into an neutered silence. A desperate call to a friend with knowledge of such things summoned eventual rescue, arriving armed with a jump starter for the battery, some miracle aerosol for the engine, and a fresh presence of optimism and patience. As if sizing up the odds and crying "uncle" the Kubota quickly roared back to life and the party was saved.
This time, as if to forestall eventual panic, I started the day ahead...without a hitch. The space was readily cleared, cleaned and decorated, and at the appointed hour some 24-hours hence, a good time was had by all.
But of course by then the weather had changed. The mercury had dropped, a dust of snow had fallen, and the two nights in oak's shade had not been kind to the Kubota. The truck returned to its cozy space inside, as did the power wagon, but nothing could convince the tractor that anything could be gained or enjoyed by cranking. Once again the battery suffered the consequences. It was morning, and it was evening, a third night spent outdoors.
This time, however, I did not panic. And of course this time I had my own jump starter, and my own reserve of patience. I've dropped a coin in this jukebox before. I had time, a few new ideas from my knowledgable friend, and a warming forecast. By lunchtime the engine had started, a few recharging laps completed, and its rightful place in the barn retaken.
There is something to be said for experience, even if that pool, after only one year, is shallow. I even put newspapers down to catch the drips. I wouldn't say I'm feeling cocky, but the squash bugs better watch out this summer. I'm on a roll.
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