By Anne-Marie Oomen
Flattening the Barn eloquently remembers writer Anne-Marie Oomen's own trip as she discovers herself an intruder on her relations farm positioned in western Michigan's Oceana County, within the township of Elbridge-a couple hundred acres in the midst of rural the US. Written as a chain of heartfelt interlocking narratives, this selection of essays portrays the realities of farm lifestyles: haying, deciding upon 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 kinfolk, the farmer's fight with identification, and how land can form a early life. With its wealthy language and magnificence, knocking down the Barn engrosses the reader in Oomen's memories-setting attractiveness and beauty opposed to paintings and loss-and paints a poignant portrait of becoming up in rural Michigan.
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Extra info for Pulling Down the Barn: Memories of a Rural Childhood
Sample text
I try to match pods, but they will never fit. I think about what the falling motor looked like, replaying that moment of impact. And I imagine and reimagine the moment the big male cat pounced on the kittens in the litter and opened their throats, ravaging their innocence and taking back by any means necessary the power it once had. Winter Fields The temperature in the old farmhouse varies directly with the cold outside. Even the newly installed coal stoker, which allows us to heat the house all night, cannot fight uninsulated walls and caulking lost from storm windows.
He runs to the edge of the loft and stops, pretending to wave wildly, catching his balance. “Cut it out,” I tell him, but he does it again, giggling wildly. He scampers down the ladder and looks up at us. “Hey, it’s not that high. ” He scrambles back up, but when he gets up to the top again he feels the height and hesitates. He is not foolish; his survival instincts are in place. But he already enjoys defying the world he encoun- Violence 35 ters. He is a critical year older than Rick, and though it rarely matters, he can sometimes judge distances better.
I grab the pommel, tangling the reins. I’m not quite tall enough to bear down on the stirrups, and his movement up the slope throws me off balance. Everything feels too high. He walks again, up the yard. I shift a little, trying to keep my seat. He sidesteps and moves a little faster. I slip more. He dances, lifting his hooves up and down, punctuating his rhythm of power. With only the smallest thunk, I fall off, crumpling on the ground like an empty sack. The Second Fall 25 Though the heels of my hands are scraped and my knees ache, I am not hurt by this fall.
