The hadley Barn (working title) - Writers Forum

twitch · 05-21-2007, 04:21 PM

THE HADLEY BARN

Damian crouched down low as he peeked around the large maple tree trunk to get a good look at the large white barn on the Morrison Farm. On the outside everything seemed normal but in his gut he knew there was something strange and sinister going on in that barn. Damian had seen some unusual activity around the barn that just didn’t seem right to him. He lived in the same neighborhood as the barn, which really wasn’t much of a neighborhood at all. After all, this was farm country, part of an ancient alluvial flood plain located in the town of Hadley Massachusetts.

Here the land was flat and fertile, the result of centuries of flood waters from the neighboring Connecticut River overflowing its banks into the surrounding fields each spring. The indigenous Native American Algonquian tribe, the Norwottuck, and later the invading Europeans from England were quick to realize the value in this land for growing crops. For the past 350 years, the white settlers that had claimed this land had divided it up into scores of small and medium-sized farms. Several of the items of produce the farmers grew in these fields, most notably asparagus and corn, were famous throughout New England, where they were simply know as Hadley corn or Hadley asparagus. The recent demand for high-quality organic produce had boosted the already robust farming interest in the land.

Damian lived on a stretch of Maple Road in Hadley that had several farms laid back-to-back. Damian’s home was two houses down from the Morrison Farm. He lived there with his parents, Tom and Anne Kibbe, and his younger sister Tammy. The houses on Maple Road were at least 500 feet apart from each other, and the only trees to be seen were those maples that the farmers planted around each farmhouse for shade to cool the homes in the hot summer months. The rest of the land was flat and open and, except for the land immediately surrounding each home, was under some form of cultivation.

Although the Hadley Mall and Route 9 with its huge volume of student traffic from the nearby University of Massachusetts was less than a mile away, the countryside on Maple Road could only be described a peaceful. The sounds of songbirds were louder here than any road noise heard in the distance. This made it all the more unusual, at least to Damian, that anything notorious could be happening here. The house and barn that were attached to the property of the tree, behind which he now crouched, were known as the Morrison Farm. At the time its first owner, Henry Morrison, built it in the early 1800s many of his neighbors were building New England farmhouses with what are now known as “New England connecting barns”. With this type of structure, the farmers built the house so that it was physically connected to the barn. This arrangement made the early morning chores of milking and haying the animals somewhat easier, especially in the cold and snowy winter months. But when Henry Morrison built his barn, he chose to have it separate from the house.

As he looked from his vantage point alongside the maple tree, Damian could see what made the Morrison farmhouse and barn unique. Unlike the other farmhouses in town, the Morrison house was separated from the barn by a large open dirt barnyard that funneled into the driveway. Not only that, the Morrison barn was painted white instead of the requisite red, and it towered over any and all of the neighbors barns. It was huge! Damian wasn’t very good at estimating distances but he swore the barn was at least 75 feet tall and 150 feet long. The end of the barn that faced the farmhouse had five huge exhaust fans that faced outwards and turned lazily in their cowlings. On the days when Damian dared to edge closer to the barn, he could smell the rank odor that the fans spewed out into the barnyard. He wasn’t exactly sure what the odor was, but to him it represented the darkest and most notorious of all possible things … the smell of death. He wasn’t sure just what was going on in there but he knew one thing … he was going to find out.

Azmakna · 05-21-2007, 05:16 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by twitch

THE HADLEY BARN

Damian crouched down low as he peeked around the large maple tree trunk to get a good look at the large white barn on the Morrison Farm. On the outside everything seemed normal but in his gut he knew there was something strange and sinister going on in that barn. Damian had seen some unusual activity around the barn that just didn’t seem right to him. He lived in the same neighborhood as the barn, which really wasn’t much of a neighborhood at all. After all, this was farm country, part of an ancient alluvial flood plain located in the town of Hadley Massachusetts.

Here the land was flat and fertile, the result of centuries of flood waters from the neighboring Connecticut River overflowing its banks into the surrounding fields each spring. The indigenous Native American Algonquian tribe, the Norwottuck, and later the invading Europeans from England were quick to realize the value in this land for growing crops. For the past 350 years, the white settlers that had claimed this land had divided it up into scores of small and medium-sized farms. Several of the items of produce the farmers grew in these fields, most notably asparagus and corn, were famous throughout New England, where they were simply know as Hadley corn or Hadley asparagus. The recent demand for high-quality organic produce had boosted the already robust farming interest in the land.

Damian lived on a stretch of Maple Road in Hadley that had several farms laid back-to-back. Damian’s home was two houses down from the Morrison Farm. He lived there with his parents, Tom and Anne Kibbe, and his younger sister Tammy. The houses on Maple Road were at least 500 feet apart from each other, and the only trees to be seen were those maples that the farmers planted around each farmhouse for shade to cool the homes in the hot summer months. The rest of the land was flat and open and, except for the land immediately surrounding each home, was under some form of cultivation.

Although the Hadley Mall and Route 9 with its huge volume of student traffic from the nearby University of Massachusetts was less than a mile away, the countryside on Maple Road could only be described a peaceful. The sounds of songbirds were louder here than any road noise heard in the distance. This made it all the more unusual, at least to Damian, that anything notorious could be happening here. The house and barn that were attached to the property of the tree, behind which he now crouched, were known as the Morrison Farm. At the time its first owner, Henry Morrison, built it in the early 1800s many of his neighbors were building New England farmhouses with what are now known as “New England connecting barns”. With this type of structure, the farmers built the house so that it was physically connected to the barn. This arrangement made the early morning chores of milking and haying the animals somewhat easier, especially in the cold and snowy winter months. But when Henry Morrison built his barn, he chose to have it separate from the house.

As he looked from his vantage point alongside the maple tree, Damian could see what made the Morrison farmhouse and barn unique. Unlike the other farmhouses in town, the Morrison house was separated from the barn by a large open dirt barnyard that funneled into the driveway. Not only that, the Morrison barn was painted white instead of the requisite red, and it towered over any and all of the neighbors barns. It was huge! Damian wasn’t very good at estimating distances but he swore the barn was at least 75 feet tall and 150 feet long. The end of the barn that faced the farmhouse had five huge exhaust fans that faced outwards and turned lazily in their cowlings. On the days when Damian dared to edge closer to the barn, he could smell the rank odor that the fans spewed out into the barnyard. He wasn’t exactly sure what the odor was, but to him it represented the darkest and most notorious of all possible things … the smell of death. He wasn’t sure just what was going on in there but he knew one thing … he was going to find out.

very nice indeed! sorry i can't be more constructive than that. apart from a few sentences that i would have written slightly differently, there is little wrong with this. you could lose 'trunk' because 'maple tree is enough' but it's hardly worth pointing some of these out because it's so well written.

twitch · 05-21-2007, 05:27 PM

Yipee! thanks for reading...

Azmakna · 05-21-2007, 05:31 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by twitch

Yipee! thanks for reading...

i would get straight to the action and weave some of the detail into it, rather than have huge amounts of background information all at once. that's the only drawback really. you need to keep the reader involved in the story at all times and sometimes i was asked to step outside of the story. i'll go back adn highlight what i mean

edit: you see there is a lot there to get through before we hit the ground running, so to speak. even the last paragraph could be stripped down a little.

twitch · 05-21-2007, 06:37 PM

there is not much other extra info in the next chapter, acually ill post it now... but what have you written, id like to read it.

twitch · 05-21-2007, 06:38 PM

A CRIMINAL REQUEST

Damian jogged down the worn steps that led to his apartment. He pushed open the screen door, creating a deep, rusty squeak, and then a metallic rattle as it closed behind him. He shuffled through the thick dirt, heading to the crumbling shed. Damian kicked up dust, creating a lightly shaded whirlwind of sand. He slid open the thick door to the shed, the white paint peeling away slightly beneath his fingers.

Damian stepped into the shed, a thick musty smell greeting him, and almost brought him into a heavy gagging fit. He hated that smell, and did his best to avoid it, but his mother insisted he put his bike in here, as to not have it run over. Being only fifteen Damian could not operate, nonetheless own a car, therefore used his bike as his main means for transportation. The rotting floor cracked slightly beneath him, but Damian ignored it and took a steady grip on the bike, and tugged it from its place near the back of the shed.

Only minutes later Damian was pedaling down the road, heading towards his friends house, Jon shared Damian’s wondrous thoughts about the farm, and could most likely be persuaded to come along in the little ‘adventure’ Damian was planning. His pedals creaked in protest of being pushed at high speeds, and the chain chattered endlessly, smacking lightly against the frame of the blue mountain bike.

Damian screeched to a halt in front of the sickly green, two story house. The walk up to the building was overgrown with thick, dieing weeds. Damian stepped up the cracked steps, and reached out almost hesitantly. His finger brushed the doorbell, and in only moments, Jon threw opens the door and trotted down the steps.

“Hey dude, what’s up?” Jon asked in a half whisper. His throat, being slightly sore appreciated Jon talking softly.

“Not much man, I have a few plans for later, tonight,” Damian answered “how’s it sound?” it was not an outright ask for accompaniment but Jon caught the drift and smiled warmly.

“Depends, what is it you doing later?” Jon said letting his smile die away.
Thoughts of the farm had been creeping through Damian mind the past hours, wandering happily through his mind, causing Damian a certain degree of discomfort. He longed to know what was there, with its foul smells that washed over him when he approached.

“Hadley farm,” that was all Damian needed to say to arouse Jon’s attention.

“I don’t know man; do you really think we should? I’m willing to do the crime, but not the time,” Jon said in a whisper, shivering slightly.

“Come on Jon, what’s the worst that can happen?” Damian said with a grin.

“I don’t know, maybe death, and or torture?” Jon let loose a tremendous sigh. “What time?” He asked, extending his hand simultaneously.

“Now were talking, eight o’clock,” Damian shook.

Azmakna · 05-21-2007, 06:41 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by twitch

there is not much other extra info in the next chapter, acually ill post it now... but what have you written, id like to read it.

i'd wecome that. i'd like some critique from you, you write well. remember a story is sold in this order. amazing first paragraph, incredible first page, intriguing first chaper. after that it's plain sailing - if you can be consistant of course

click on my username and look at threads started by Azmakna

there is also two in here

twitch · 05-21-2007, 06:47 PM

okay, what have you written?

Azmakna · 05-21-2007, 07:10 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by twitch

A CRIMINAL REQUEST

Damian jogged down the worn steps that led to his apartment. He pushed open the screen door, creating a deep, rusty squeak, and then a metallic rattle as it closed behind him. He shuffled through the thick dirt, heading to the crumbling shed. Damian kicked up dust, creating a lightly shaded whirlwind of sand. He slid open the thick door to the shed, the white paint peeling away slightly beneath his fingers.

creaking? slightly isn't needed.

Damian stepped into the shed, a thick musty smell greeting him, and almost brought him into a heavy gagging fit. He hated that smell, and did his best to avoid it, but his mother insisted he put his bike in here, as to not have it run over. Being only fifteen Damian could not operate, nonetheless own a car, therefore (he) used his bike as his (only) means (of) transportation. The rotting floor cracked slightly beneath him, but Damian ignored it and took a steady grip on the bike, and tugged it from its place near the back of the shed.

lose this. you need to be more definite with what you are describing 'making him gag' lose this too

Only minutes later Damian was pedaling down the road, heading towards his friends house. Jon shared Damian’s wondrous thoughts about the farm, and could most likely be persuaded to come along (on) the little ‘adventure’ Damian was planning. His pedals creaked in protest of being pushed at high speeds, and the chain chattered endlessly, smacking lightly against the frame of the blue mountain bike.

not needed

Damian screeched to a halt in front of the sickly green, two story house. The walk up to the building was overgrown with thick, dieing weeds. Damian stepped up the cracked steps, and reached out almost hesitantly. His finger brushed the doorbell, and in only moments, Jon threw opens the door and trotted down the steps.

this is one for Mama but i think it should be 'sickly-green, two-story house.' i would rethink this though.

“Hey dude, what’s up?” Jon asked in a half whisper. His throat, being slightly sore appreciated Jon talking softly.

'jon whipered, his throat soar'?

“Not much man, I have a few plans for later, tonight,” Damian answered “how’s it sound?” it was not an outright ask for accompaniment but Jon caught the drift and smiled warmly.

“Depends, what is it you doing later?” Jon said letting his smile die away.
Thoughts of the farm had been creeping through Damian mind the past hours, wandering happily through his mind, causing Damian a certain degree of discomfort. He longed to know what was there, with its foul smells that washed over him when he approached.

if its 'wondering happily' why is it causing him 'a degree of discomfort'? rework this sentence.

“Hadley farm,” that was all Damian needed to say to arouse Jon’s attention.

you can 'arouse' interest but not 'attention'

“I don’t know man; do you really think we should? I’m willing to do the crime, but not the time,” Jon said in a whisper, shivering slightly.

“Come on Jon, what’s the worst that can happen?” Damian said with a grin.

“I don’t know, maybe death, and or torture?” Jon let loose a tremendous sigh. “What time?” He asked, extending his hand simultaneously.

“Now were talking, eight o’clock,” Damian shook.

you've got the basics right here, but a few of the sentences are awkward. if you alter it as i've suggested, i'll go through it again and point them out. okay?

Azmakna · 05-21-2007, 07:13 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by twitch

okay, what have you written?

http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=78528
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=78858
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=77863
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=77603
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=77869

twitch · 05-21-2007, 08:15 PM

BACK ON THE FARM

Dust swirled as Damian skidded his bike around the maple tree in front of his home and into his driveway. He dutifully replaced the bike in its rightful place in the shed and walked back towards the house, lost in thought. He was glad that Jon agreed to accompany him tonight but felt a shiver run through his body at the thought of what they may find at the Morrison place. He couldn’t help but think that it was opportune that summer vacation was still four weeks away. Otherwise, he just might give in to the fear and call the whole thing off. It would be hard not to follow through on tonight’s meeting with Jon. Now that he had set the plan in motion, postponing it was out of the question. Besides, it was Saturday night; the last non-school night until next Friday. If he flinched now he wouldn’t be able to investigate the barn with Jon until Friday night at the earliest. Even though he was fifteen, his parents still had strict rules about going out with his friends on a school night. Checking out the barn would be stressful enough. He didn’t need to be sneaking around behind his parents’ back too.

Damian entered his house through the back door that led to the kitchen. His home was and 1830’s style white farmhouse, not unlike many of the others in town. The kitchen was fairly large and had a hallway off to one side that connected it to the barn. A stairway that led up to the second floor was located next to the kitchen, in the entryway to the hallway to the barn. Damian liked to use this hallway, especially when he wanted to leave the house without notice. His family rarely used this stairway. They disliked its narrow stairs and it was very cold in the stairway in the winter.

On the other side of the kitchen was the family room. It was a smallish room with a raised floor which was typical in the post-colonial era homes of the time. The resulting low ceiling clearance wasn’t a problem for the people of 1830. But it was definitely close for modern-day American men. It would always generate some anxious comments from any of the Kibbe’s guests that were above average in height. His Dad’s friend Bob Porter stood at six foot two, and he always complained that the room gave him claustrophobia. Bob always told his dad that if he needed a hand dropping the floor a few inches, he’d be the first in line to give him a hand.

The main stairway that led to the upstairs bedrooms was located between the family room and the living room. This was the stairway that his family used to get almost exclusively to go upstairs to the bedrooms. Unlike the back stairwell, this one had nice wide stairs that were easily negotiable. This was particularly important for Damian’s mom Anne, as she needed to feel her way up the stairs with full baskets of cleaned clothing.

The living room filled the front of the house. Damian’s mom had decorated the room nicely but it was seldom used. Damian always wondered why they even bother to build homes with this useless room. One day, however, his teacher cleared up the mystery as she told his class that in the olden days, the family would have visiting hours for deceased family member in the living room. Back then it was known as the “parlor” (as in funeral parlor). It was only in the last half of the 20th century that the language usage had changed to give this room its more politically correct name of the “living room”.

It was Damian’s great-great-great grandfather, William Kibbe, who built the farmhouse. He began building the home in 1829, and he finished it a year later. William considered the house his crowning jewel on the 50 acres of prime farmland that he had purchased from Earl Russell the year before. With construction complete, he married Sarah Phelps in 1830, and they made their home in the newly-built farmhouse. Together they had six children, four boys and two girls. It was the oldest boy, Zachary, who inherited the farm in 1859 and began the generational tradition of bequeathing the home to the oldest male child. By the time Damian’s dad, Thomas Kibbe, had inherited the property in 1989, farming was not the premier occupation it once had been. But Thomas, who had graduated from the nearby Stockbridge School of Agriculture at the University of Massachusetts, loved the land and was determined to work the farm and to raise his family there as he and his ancestors had been raised.

Thomas married his college girl-friend, Anne Barry, in 1990, and they made their home on the farm. Anne soon became pregnant and had their first child, Damian, in February, 1992. Tammy followed in 1995 and, unlike Thomas’s ancestors, he and Anne decided to only have two children. That was just fine with Damian. There were times when he thought it would have been cool to have a younger brother, but he was unsure whether he would have felt the same way about having another sister. He loved the idea of having another sibling in the family, but shuddered at the thought of another sister joining forces with Tammy.

Its not that he didn’t love his sister Tammy, he did. But their relationship was one of constant competition and verbal sparring. Tammy would like nothing better than to expose any and all of Damian’s shortcomings to her parents to make him look bad (at least that’s how Damian saw it).

As he stood in the kitchen, Damian thought he heard the creak of the door to his sister’s bedroom upstairs. He had become attuned to its sound, as it was his early warning signal to his sister’s presence. He knew they were the only ones home at the moment as his dad was helping his friend, Bob Porter, build a new garage. His mom was on a lunch date and shopping trip with Bob’s wife Gail.

Damian’s stomach growled as he opened the refrigerator door to survey its contents. He thought he’d need a good lunch today to prepare himself for his adventure later in the evening. He could hear his sister Tammy coming down the stairs as he foraged for lunch material.

“Hey,” said Tammy as she entered the kitchen.

“Hey,” Damian replied.

“You making lunch?”, asked Tammy.

“Yeah,” said Damian.

“Oh, good. I was just getting ready to have lunch too, and I didn’t want to eat alone.”

Damian inwardly cringed. He had a lot on his mind that he wanted to think through. He didn’t need his sister there asking him a lot of questions. He sighed as he pulled some cheese and cold cuts from the meat drawer. He resolved to being good company for the duration of lunchtime and then using the afternoon to devise some sort of plan of attack for tonight. Besides, he did notice a peculiar phenomenon in their relationship whenever they were alone in the house; it got better and almost approached normalcy.

“I can make you a sandwich if you’d like one,” said Damian.

“Wow, are you okay?” said Tammy. “I can’t remember the last time you offered to make me lunch.”

Damian was instantly annoyed … so much for normalcy … but he tried to hide it as he didn’t need Tammy to make any waves that may interfere in his evening plans.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just asking my only sister if she’d like a sandwich. It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, I’d love one“, Tammy cooed. “Ham and cheese on white, please, and NO mustard.”

Damian chuckled to himself, as he is a mustard-lover and is known to put ungodly amounts of the yellow gold on his sandwiches.

“Mom said I could have Mary over after she gets home from shopping. But I have to clean my room first,” said Tammy.

Mary was Tammy’s best friend and they often would get together at one house or the other on the weekend. Anne would use the “home” get together as an opportunity to have Tammy clean her room. It wasn’t that Tammy wouldn’t clean it otherwise. It was just that she performed the duty with agonizing slowness unless she had a reason to do it quickly. Having Mary over was a good reason for Tammy to get the cleaning done quickly and not get lost in the multitude of distractions that lurked throughout her room.

Damian liked it when Mary came over. She and Tammy would stay in Tammy’s room and play quietly, not bothering with Damian or (perish the thought) try to get into his room and mess with his “stuff”. He enjoyed the calming effect that Mary had on his sister and silently wondered if this was how it would have been had his parents had that third child and it was a girl.

“That’s nice”, he said. “Mary’s an okay kid”.

“Okay?” asked Tammy. “Compared to some of your weird friends she’s a princess!”

Damian decided not to bite, and suppressed the urge to begin the verbal volleying with Tammy. He needed to devote his energy to devising a plan for tonight. Besides, he knew that Jon was high on the “weirdo list” with Tammy and thought it was best to steer clear of that subject.

“Speaking of weirdoes, you aren’t planning to have any of your friends over this afternoon, are you?” she asked.

“No”, said Damian. “I think I’ll probably just hang out in my room and maybe straighten it out a bit”.

“Wow, you must be sick”, she said. First you volunteer to make me lunch and now you’re going to clean you room without Mom asking you? Are you sure you’re all right?”

I’m fine, I’m fine”, he said, emphasizing the last word. “Here’s your sandwich, did you want a drink before I sit down?”

“Yes, milk please”, she said, with a look of wonder on her face. Was this really her brother here being nice to her?

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but I like it”, said Tammy.

As her words faded, Tammy could feel her antennae rise up. Something was going on with her brother, she could just feel it. He was not being his normal abrupt and selfish self and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Mmmm”, grunted Damian, so much for not arousing her sister’s suspicion. He’d need to be more careful if he was going to make his plans for investigating the barn and then carry them out tonight undetected with Jon.

He smiled at his sister as he placed her sandwich plate in front of her at the table and put down the glass of milk beside it.

She returned his smile with a quizzical look of disbelief. She was not used to this type of treatment from her brother. Just what was he up to?

Damian exhaled slowly as he turned around and opened the refrigerator door to return the cold cuts to the meat drawer. He glanced at the digital clock on the oven. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon. It was still seven hours from his rendezvous with Jon and the Morrison’s large white barn. He had a lot to think through and plan and he needed to get started.

twitch · 05-26-2007, 04:52 PM

twitch · 05-28-2007, 11:10 AM

JON’S HOUSE

Jon lay on his bed, eyes focused on the black stain on the ceiling. It seamed to have spread throughout the years, to him it seemed like a deep colored watermark. He shifted gently, causing his fiery red hair to gently sway. He swung one leg over his bed, thinking deeply about his and Damian’s adventure later on. Jon’s fingers drummed ceaselessly on his nightstand, creating a hollow thud after each finger connected with the wood.

“Jon! Get down here right now!” his mother shouted, her voice thick with alcohol. A moment after she added, more quietly, “Can’t do anything right, goddamn kid” Jon trotted down the stairs, dreading the inevitable bite of his mothers cold eyes.

“Jon” she seamed to spit the word at him, as if it were something foul. “Look what you’ve done!” she said, motioning towards the single track of mud on the normally shiny strip of tile. She did that with her free hand, the other one tightly grasped the neck of a beer bottle. Her face contorted in a drunken mask of anger “What have you got to say for yourself?” She shouted at Jon, spraying spittle across his black shirt.

“Sorry Julia,” He began. He hated calling his mother mom, like most kids his age was, in his opinion she didn’t deserve that title. “I didn’t know my shoes were muddy-“Jon was cut off by a sharp blow to the check. His head swung to the side slightly.

“Take off your shoes,” She said leaning in so she was only an inch or so from Jon’s face, her wrinkles prominent in the midday light “and clean that shit up, Im going out to see Jake,” Jake was her equally drunk boyfriend, who would rather spend money on booze than on health care, so in many ways Jon’s mother and Jake were similar.

“Okay Julia, see you tonight,” Jon replied in a low monotone voice. She spun, pulling her keys from her pocket, and marched out the door, leaving thick black tracks of mud on the floor as she left. The door slammed behind her, rattling the hinges.

Jon rolled his eyes as he spun to the closet, were the cloths were, and opened it up. The gold handle spun easily in his hand. “She’s smart, so I guess she has something going for her right?” It was a hobby of Jon’s to talk to himself when he was alone. He drew a white cloth from the closet, it was embroidered with blue string, and he walked into the kitchen, and spun instantly to the left and twisted the sinks handle and icy water spewed onto the cloth. “Actually,” he was laughing now “I’m not wearing any shoes” he giggled like a little girl at that.

Moments later he was kneeling in front of the muddy tracks, rubbing them away. Water leaked from the cloth Jon held, all over the floor, and he stood, admiring the cleaning job he had done. Julia wouldn’t be happy about the wetness. Screw her, Jon thought unhappily. He trotted back upstairs, wondering how they were going to approach the Morrison farm, and debating with his inner fear of being caught. The chance of that was very high, and he was nervous.

Jon knew that he couldn’t wimp out or he’d risk being seen as a wus for the rest of his high school days. Another thought flashed through his head, Jon suddenly wanted to bring along Andrew, the third link in Jon’s chain of friends. He turned around and trotted down the stairs, wrestling with the thought of inviting Andrew. He wanted him along but was sure Damian wouldn’t be happy if he did. He was sure He could talk Damian into seeing things his way, what’s the big deal, right? He lifted the phone off the hook and punched in Andrew’s number, hearing a thick crackle before the ringing started.

“Hello?” the sound leapt from the phone louder the Jon remembered.

“Andy? What’s up?” Jon replied.

twitch · 05-30-2007, 08:05 PM

come on guys....

twitch · 06-03-2007, 01:36 PM

BOB’S GARAGE

Tom Kibbe and his friend Bob Porter both leaned back on the front fender of Tom’s pickup truck and gazed down at the freshly-poured foundation which would soon be supporting Bob’s new garage. Next to each side of the base of the garage, lay the framed-out walls that they had completed this morning. The garage would be a good-sized one. Bob had purchased plans for a four-car garage. He wanted to be sure it would have room for the family cars and provide him with two new bays for his car-restoration hobby. They took a moment to rest and admire their framing job and the smooth concrete that the concrete company‘s workers had just finished troweling.

“Lookin’ good, Tom,” said Bob as he opened the cooler at his feet and quickly produced two cold cans of iced tea.

“Thanks,” said Tom, as he took the icy can while still admiring the job.

Tom chuckled silently to himself as he broke the vacuum seal on the can. He flashed back to the early days of their friendship when they were classmates at UMASS Stockbridge. Back then they shared a house off-campus with two other roommates, where the whooshing sound of a can being opened was usually a beer rather than iced tea. Thankfully they had both matured since then with the responsibilities of a wife, family, and a full-time job, and had left their beer-drinking habits behind.

After graduating from Stockbridge, Bob had landed a job driving the delivery truck for the local feed store. It was not what he had been expecting as his first job after leaving college but it paid the bills. That was important as he and Gail had gotten married during their senior year and they were anxious to start a family. And it also kept him close to the other things he loved the most at the time: his home town of Hadley and the local farming community. His customers were always glad to see him arrive in the Amherst Farmer’s Supply truck. These were his local farmer friends and acquaintances and they were happy to have him delivering the hay and feed to their farms, saving them from a trip into town to pick it up.

Once Gail became pregnant with their first son, Dave, Bob became even more focused on being a good provider for his family. Within six months of Dave’s birth, Bob worked his way into a counter sales job at the store. His sales the first year were 40% higher than anyone else in the store. Within two years he was managing the feed store, a job he still held today.

“The framing looks good“, said Tom. “With any luck we can get a couple of the walls up today.”

“Yeah,” said Bob. “Hey, Gail made us a bunch of sandwiches this morning and left them in the ‘fridge for our lunch. Would you like roast beef or turkey?”

“Roast beef would be great”, said Tom.

Tom’s truck squeaked slightly as Bob pushed off the front fender and began plodding his way to up the house to get their lunch. Tom could hear the sound of hammering coming from the other side of the garage, and could just see the tops of Bob’s son’s heads over the foundation. Bob had recruited his teenaged sons, Dave and Will, to help assemble the walls. Bob was using rough cut lumber from his neighbor’s sawmill as siding, which was going to save him a bundle on the cost of materials. He had pre-cut the pieces and piled them next to the wall frames that he and Tom had built last weekend. When the two boys had come outside earlier today to help, Bob had two hammers and a five gallon pail of nails awaiting. After some quick instructions on the assembly plan, the boys had eagerly started pounding nails into the boards. The boys enjoyed this work, and they particularly enjoyed Bob’s rules - he only had one - use as many nails as you need to get the job done ... period.

While Bob was in the house getting the sandwiches, Tom let his mind drift back again to the beginning of their friendship. They met as classmates at UMASS Stockbridge back in the 1983. Their friendship solidified quickly as they both shared a love of farming and agriculture. UMASS was a large university, with over 23,000 students enrolled on the Amherst campus alone. In the midst of this large University setting was the Stockbridge School of Agriculture. With a total enrollment of 220 students, Stockbridge (as the students called it) was a tiny school within the larger UMASS campus. But its roots ran deep, as UMASS was originally founded in 1867 as a land-grant agricultural college. It began on 310 acres in rural setting with only four building and four faculty members. It’s nickname of “Mass Aggie” stuck until 1931 when it was renamed Massachusetts State College (although some of the old-timers still called it Mass Aggie). As its curriculum and size grew, it became the University of Massachusetts at Amherst in 1947. Stockbridge School of Agriculture remained though, on the original land-grant acreage and with the original mission as the agricultural school of Massachusetts. Its 310 acres were now tucked in the northwest corner of the sprawling 1450-acre UMASS Amherst campus.

Bob and Tom both shared common interests in farming and agriculture. But they could not have been more unlike the typical UMASS student. With its world class research facilities and a top-ten engineering and chemistry program, the UMASS of 1983 was worlds apart from the original “Mass Aggie”. One of the things that set the Stockbridge School of Agriculture apart was that with its small size and the common interests of its student body, pretty much everyone there knew everyone else (a trait not shared by the undergrads in the larger UMASS body). Most of its students were passionate about farming, either on the agriculture side, animal husbandry side, or both.

Tom thought about his own reasons for going to school there. He remembers as a very young boy having this tremendous feeling of connection to the land and to the people that came before him. Growing up on the family farm in the house his great-great-great grandfather built has something to do with it. But for Tom it went beyond that. He just felt that his family farm in Hadley was the one place on earth that he truly belonged. He could feel it in his heart and in his soul. As he manned the plow and turned the earth in the springtime, he could feel the spirits of all those who came before him. It was as if his ancestors and even the early native Americans who once lived here could communicate to him through the fertile soil that was now under his care. And he knew that his sons and their sons would feel these same feelings and care for the land as deeply as he did (it never occurred to Tom that any of his offspring may not choose to farm the land as he did).

He would often stop his tractor, bend down to the ground, and scoop up a large handful of the fertile soil with both his hands. He’d bring it up to his face and drink in its aroma, like a vintner who swirls a glassful of his finished product and sticks his nose into the wine glass to check its finish. Where someone else would smell musty earth, Tom smelled the origins of life, ready to spring forth in the warmth of the springtime sun. There was something deep in his core that wanted to be as close to the earth as possible. As much as Tom knew he needed the tractor to be able to farm his 50-acre spread, he often longed to walk behind a plow and a couple of plough horses with his boots firmly on the soil like his grandfather did back in the 1930s.

His day dream was broken as Bob hollered from his front porch. “Food’s up!”.

“Be right there”, Tom hollered back.

“Dave, Will, come and get it!”, hollered Bob again.

His sons came running, eager to take a break and devour some food. They each poured themselves a large glass of Gail’s homemade lemonade, grabbed a bagged sandwich, and walked together to the picnic table under the large maple tree.

“Those are good boys you’ve got there Bob”, said Tom.

“Thanks”, said Bob. “They certainly seem to enjoy each other. I enjoy them too. I don’t know what I’m going to do when they go off on their own”.

Tom smiled, wondering when (or if) that would eventually happen. In a way, Tom considered Dave and Will as throwbacks to an earlier time. Both loved cars and working with their hands, and neither espoused to go to college. Tom found that particularly ironic given their close proximity to the largest university in Massachusetts. But Bob and Gail did not model or preach any sort of college expectations to their sons as they were growing up. And Dave and Will obliged, choosing to be like their Dad and not straying too far from the farm or from Hadley.

Dave was a high school junior and his pride and joy was a 1947 Chevy pickup truck that he was restoring in the rear of Bob’s barn. Bob began tinkering with car restoration as a hobby when the kids were young. It wouldn’t be unusual to find Bob spending time on Saturday morning at his favorite local junkyards, combing them for the needed spare parts for his latest project. Occasionally he’d come home with an entire car; much to Gail’s consternation. She supported Bob’s hobby as long as it didn’t spill over into the yard and create an eyesore. But he had two small bays in the back portion of the barn dedicated to the car project so that he could usually keep everything contained there. He’d then spend the afternoon out in the barn installing the reclaimed parts and planning the next phase of the restoration project.

Dave became interested at a young age in accompanying Bob to the junkyards. Bob certainly didn’t discourage him, and was delighted to have his son show an interest in his hobby. Dave enjoyed the trips as for him they resembled more of a treasure hunt than what they really were; climbing through the vermin-infested junk cars that hadn’t traveled on any roads in years. What really hooked Dave though was the body work. He saw that as the ultimate art form, where one could transform a rusty hulk that only resembled a car into a shiny, gleaming, and stunning piece of machinery. He watched his dad as he cut out the rusted body parts, filled them with Bondo, and then sanded it down to a fine finish. The real art came in as his dad would sand and mold the body into the original lines of the model year. He begged his father to let him work with the sander as soon as he was old enough to hold it. Bob eventually relented but only if Dave religiously followed all of his safety instructions. Tom remembered seeing Dave in the barn, sander in hand, working the fine lines of a fender when he was only twelve years old. As he finished his meticulous work, he’d rub his hand over the now smooth finish and admire the lines.

Tom glanced over at Bob as he felt the soft springtime breeze cooling him down and the sandwiches refueling his body.

“You make sure you thank Gail for making these sandwiches for us“, said Tom.

“I will”, said Bob. Hey, it’s the least we could do for you coming over and helping me out”.

“No problem”, said Tom. “That’s what friends are for”.

“Well thanks”, said Bob. “Gail and I really appreciate it”.

“Well, you’re welcome”, said Tom. He hesitated as he considered what he was going to ask Bob. But as he hesitated, he realized that Bob was like a brother to him and he could talk to him about anything.

“Hey, Bob, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you”, said Tom. “Have you noticed the comings and goings of folks over at the old Morrison place?”

“Not really”, said Bob. “But you’re a heck of a lot closer to them than I am. All I know is that they don’t get any feed delivered there from the store.”

“Kind of unusual, don’t you think?”, said Tom. “I mean a big old place like that, with those fields and that barn … it’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t be farming the land or raising some animals.”

“Well Tom”, said Bob, “it wouldn’t be the first gentleman’s farm in these parts. Look at what that retired Boston lawyer did to the Phelps place up on Mount Warner Road. Took 75 acres of Hadley’s best farmland and grazes his pet sheep on it.”

“Yeah”, said Tom. “But there’s something about the Morrison place that just doesn’t sit right. Heck, they don’t even have pet sheep there!”

“Yeah”, said Bob. “Who knows. The way I figure it, it’s their land and if they want to let it lay fallow, have bridge parties or whatever, then it’s none of my business. Maybe it’s my Yankee upbringing, but I say it’s there land and their business. I don’t try to let those things bother me. Besides, in this day and age if I did I’d probably have myself a couple of ulcers or something.”

“Yeah, you do have a point there”, said Tom. “If it wasn’t so close to me maybe it would be easier to ignore.”

Tom shivered as the breeze kicked up, and his mind clouded over. It was hard for him to admit that there were people in town who didn’t love the Hadley farmland with the same intensity as he did. Maybe it was a curse or a burden of sorts stemming from the centuries of care that his family provided to his 50-acre Kibbe plot. As his mind cleared, Tom thought that maybe Bob’s way of thinking was healthier than his. He made a vow to keep his focus on his farm and his family and leave the worrying to someone else.

“Okay Bob”, said Tom, “what do you say we get started. With any luck we can get those walls up this afternoon.”

“Let’s do it”, said Bob, as they both launched themselves out of the porch chairs and thumped down the front stairs on their way back towards the garage.