That Barn! He always has a million ways to surprise us, or as I like to say, re-surprise us. Re-surprises are those gestures and words he repeats over and over, managing to find a way to surprise you again. It’s uncanny.
When we were growing up, neither The Barn or The Peg spoke the words “I love you” to us. Didn’t have to. They kept us in a warm home, they fed us nutritious food, they took us to church, and they scolded us and inflicted corporal punishment (now commonly referred to as “abuse” in circles where love is only shown by saying the words “I love you”). They spent their summers in a tent so we could see the country, and they forfeited their peaceful evenings to the practicing squawks of our musical instruments. They also made us go to bed on time, they refused to choose our friends for us, and they gave us regularly-scheduled chores.
We were Baby Boomers. All the kids on Quincy Avenue had similar home lives. We know, because their parents did the same things to them, right out in the open, just like The Barn and The Peg. Once Allen Chickering’s mom swatted his fanny with every step he took until he got into that house and took that garbage out like she had asked him to umpteen times since supper. Allen lumbered, unaffected by the token “whipping”, grumbling, “I know, I know…” all the way to the kitchen door. It was hilarious – always was when someone else was getting paddled.
Once we were grown, about half of us found the occasion to go into therapy. Remember, we are Baby Boomers, and there is a market out there identifying us as emotionally needy because our parents didn’t say “I love you.” When I did my stint, it struck me that while my parents never said “I love you”, I actually believed they did. My therapist struggled with that notion, not able to get me to understand that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Denial. That was the answer. I was in denial.
In their retirement, The Barn and The Peg had the extra time to tune into Oprah and discover the error of their ways. They had also been the focus of an “I love you” intervention, brought about by those of us who were enlightened and no longer in denial of the horrible upbringing we had. Whatever the cause, they “I love you-ed” us every time we spoke starting in the mid-‘80’s. They never, ever forgot, either. Every phone call, every visit was another chance to proclaim their love for us. It seemed to set them free.
But, old habits die hard with The Barn. He kept doing nice little things, whether we appreciated them or not, because he was accustomed to showing us he loved us, and it didn’t occur to him that he could replace actions with words. He got a Hallmark card program for his computer, and he created cards for every occasion – thank-you cards and birthday cards were his specialty. He sent us cards, he sent the grandchildren cards, he gave the mail carrier cards, his friends in the nursing home, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got cards. I don’t suppose he told all of them he loved them, though. They’d have to read that between the lines, like we once had to.
Christmas was always a time to be re-surprised. The Barn and The Peg wouldn’t buy just any presents; the presents they selected were given after a great deal of thought. Once, for Christmas, The Barn and The Peg gifted me with a lovely set of decorative covered mixing bowls and a matching Dutch oven. They were gorgeous, but impractical – I could tell that the minute I unwrapped the package. Who would use these enameled and flowered mixing bowls, or put that Dutch oven on the stovetop?! Uffda! I kept them in their boxes, slightly annoyed that The Barn and The Peg were so short-sighted, despite them telling me they thought I, whom they perceived as keeping a beautiful home, would enjoy them like no one else they knew.
The Barn is also known as The Breadman. He mastered the art of bread machines, and he spread the wealth of that knowledge. He gave bread to all of us, bread to the grandchildren, to the mail carrier, his friends in Assisted Living, the guys he used to teach with, everyone got bread. Whenever I visit him, lots of people at church tell me about the good bread they’ve received from him. He’ll even make them a second loaf if he thinks the first one didn’t come out just right.
The Barn and I had father-daughter outfits. I’d help him with whatever home improvement project he had going in his workshop, and we’d often need to pick up a part, or some screws, or whatever. We’d put on our khaki shorts, white t-shirts and white Keds, and off we’d go to O’Hara’s Hardware. He didn’t tell me once, not when we were in the workshop, or when we split up to change into our father-daughter outfits, or all the way to O’Hara’s and back that he loved me.
Right after The Peg died, I was visiting The Barn, and he told me his bread machine had broken down. We hopped onto the Information Highway and researched a proper replacement, then went on a hunt to find a Breadman brand bread machine. We didn’t wear matching outfits, but we checked out O’Hara’s, which had moved from the South Side in Ottumwa to down by the train depot. They had two left, and they were cheaper than the review on the Internet! We giggled as we hauled it home and unpacked it.
The next morning The Barn said he was going back to O’Hara’s to get me that last Breadman brand bread machine. He thought we should have father-daughter bread machines, and we could call each other and compare recipes and results. He fared better with The Heavenly Whole Wheat Bread than I. My favorite was The Peg’s Famous Swedish Rye Bread, which she had converted from an old family recipe for use in a bread machine. We had such fun baking bread together, and at the end of each phone call, he’d say, “I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
The Barn and The Peg never had a favorite among their five offspring. They didn’t say “I love you” to any of us. They also boasted they treated us all exactly the same. The Peg once told me she wished they had the childrearing books that our generation enjoyed. If they had, she said, they probably would have tried to individualize their treatment of us a little more. They only had the examples of the generations before them, and so they just wanted us to get perfect attendance in Sunday school and they spanked us when we were naughty. They also made sure we didn’t get everything we wanted, even if they could have afforded to, which they couldn’t.
The Barn got sick one Monday. He called the nurse over from Assisted Living, and she and Brenda from Independent Living called the ambulance. Brenda rode with The Barn, even though she wasn’t supposed to because she isn’t “family”. That held no truck with Brenda – she knew we depended on her. At the hospital, they discovered he’d had his first-ever heart attack and decided to airlift him to Iowa Methodist in Des Moines. My younger sister Mor-Lora (that name is a story for another day) and I dashed to meet him at the ER there.
They admitted him to the ICU/CCU, up on the Third Floor. It was after 6:00 p.m. by then, and we didn’t know how much damage had been done. They wanted someone from the family to stay at the hospital that night, and Mor-Lora needed to run home to get her classroom in order; the immediate future was uncertain. I had T-man with me, and we settled into the family quarters. The Barn, in his usual good spirits, was expressing sincere gratitude to his nurse for the excellent care she was giving him. “You had good training, but it’s more than good training. I can tell you love your job. I’m so lucky you’re my nurse.”
We were all concerned. We gathered in Des Moines from hither and yon – Neil and Judith from Boston, Jeanie from North Carolina, Paul and Carol from Chattanooga, The DeWolfs from Cedar Rapids, grandchildren from Chicago and Seattle. The Barn couldn’t have been more pleased! “Aren’t I lucky?” He sat up in his hospital bed and reveled in our presence. We fussed and cooed over him, and he held our hands and told us how special we were.
Pastor Kister came from First Lutheran in Ottumwa on Friday. He brought Pauline with him, and Harry and Jean Carter came in their own car. Together, twenty of us had communion with The Barn, including two of his great-grandchildren. “Ohhhhh…ohhhhh," he said as each of us entered his room, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes with gusto.
Afterwards, he cupped his hands around his mouth and pointed his words in Paul’s direction. “You’re my favorite,” he mouthed. Then to Neil, in the same clandestine manner, “You’re my favorite.” Then to Jeanie, to me, and to Mor-Lora.
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
“You’re my favorite.”
Silly, but we were having fun.
By Saturday, we were all preparing to leave. The worst was behind us, and from the many consultations we had with the cardiologists during the week, it was determined that he would go back to Ottumwa to Vista Woods, the nursing home connected to The Barn’s independent living apartment.
“Now, Kari. You’ll have to come to Ottumwa and stay for three or four days, at least,” he said, jabbing his noontime fork in the air to emphasize the point. “I get awfully tired, so wear your watch and make sure no one stays too long.” Lots of visitors were expected after this near-miss.
“Okay. I’ll see you next week.”
“I sure do love you, Honey.”
“I love you, too, Daddy.”
Jeanie went back to North Carolina, Mor-Lora and I back to our homes in Iowa. The others were scheduled to leave in the next day or two, and what turned out to be a big party in Des Moines was over.
That night, at about 12:45 a.m. on Sunday morning, Carol called. She was sitting with The Barn, holding his hand.
“Kari, Barney just died.”
Why else would anyone call at that hour?
“Are you with him?”
“Yes. He was sleeping. He just put his hand up over his head, like he was greeting someone, and took his last breath.”
“Oh, how peaceful – how beautiful and kind.” He was, indeed, lucky.
“I have to go now and call the others.”
“Thank you, Carol. Thank you for telling me the story.”
The Barn re-surprised us, and he went home. He died on All Saints Day, his favorite day in the Christian calendar.
If you see me shed a tear, it’s because I feel so lucky, that my siblings and I are the lucky ones. The fact that we had such wonderful parents is taking hold of my heart. We weren’t perfect, but they didn’t expect us to be – they wanted us to be the best we could be. They weren’t perfect, yet sometimes we punished them for their imperfections. They loved us all the same, both by their actions and their words.
As for The Barn, we were all his favorite, and he will continue to re-surprise us for the rest of our lives.
That Barn!
Bernard Orius Onerheim, March 18, 1917 – November 5, 2006
Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns December 2006
