By Anne-Marie Oomen
Flattening the Barn eloquently remembers writer Anne-Marie Oomen's own trip as she discovers herself an interloper on her family members farm positioned in western Michigan's Oceana County, within the township of Elbridge-a couple hundred acres in the course of rural the US. Written as a chain of heartfelt interlocking narratives, this number of essays portrays the realities of farm existence: haying, choosing asparagus and cherries, the equipment of tractors and pickers; yet every one bankruptcy additionally touches upon the extra airy and barely articulated: the stoic love that permeates a family members, the farmer's fight with id, and how land can form a adolescence. With its wealthy language and elegance, knocking down the Barn engrosses the reader in Oomen's memories-setting attractiveness and sweetness opposed to paintings and loss-and paints a poignant portrait of transforming into up in rural Michigan.
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Extra resources for Pulling Down the Barn: Memories of a Rural Childhood
Example text
Rick does not stop. Scaredy, scaredy. “If you stop singing that, I’ll jump,” Tom announces. I hold my breath. 38 Pulling Down the Barn Rick laughs and repeats, “Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat. . When his body appears again at the edge of the loft, he is lugging a metallic cylinder riddled with wires and casings with strange holes and grids wrapping a copper core. It is a small but heavy motor, its innards half revealed and coiled. Tom walks awkwardly, as though he were carrying something dead. He looks down at Rick.
He’s barfing blood,” he says, and picks up Patti, rocking her on his lap. She looks confused and fusses. I stand at the window, rolling the edge of a torn drape in my fingers. I am wondering if I should pray when I hear the low clank and shimmer of a car with tire chains. Uncle Ed’s rusty Buick, chains wrapping its old tires, labors up the driveway. There is no sound quite like the chinking sound made by tire chains. It is a small, skidding power against a storm. Then the sound grows more complicated.
They run apart, then together, then apart—but never very far apart—and often they both run away at the same time without either of them suggesting it, as though the thought came to them at the same time. Alone together, they fish in the stocked ponds down the road or build fantastic frog reservoirs in the creeks. They are always called the boys. We are playing in the loft over the stable. It is a child’s gold mine, filled with pieces of barrel staves and the circular iron bindings that hold them, as well as parts of the old irrigation system, the clamps used to hold the pipes together, a broken hammer, two gray squirrel tails, bird feathers, pigeon droppings.