Haunted Barn

     I have a theory that ghosts are left-over energy. I've heard them, even when I have not seen them.

    Are our barns haunted?  I believe so.  Perhaps my definition of haunting isn't quite the same as that of the ghost hunters on TV.  (I won't be calling them to inspect our property.)  My husband is a fan of all the shows that follow people in so-called scary situations, but I'm a skeptic.  Those shows look staged to me.  I don't find my barns frightening, but maybe they are to someone not as familiar with them.  After living on this property for over 30 years, I can attest that the barns, especially the main barn, are haunted, and they probably appear like ghost hunter terrain to some folks.

    We are in the process of renewing our farm insurance.  Usually the process is only a case of adjusting a few numbers, but this time the insurance company requested we refill a bunch of forms - pages of them.  They also wanted pictures of the hours and the two barns.  The demand made me have a good look at the buildings, especially the barns.  Although we had them painted a few years ago, they are looking weathered.  I know those buildings are about 50 or 60 years old, but still. ...

    If the exterior is looking worn, the interior is not better.  The inside of the main barn shows its age.  Only the tack room, in the original, smaller barn, is not to disreputable, but that is because my husband and father re-paneled the area.  They did a fantastic job, and the room is still the attractive, if cluttered. 

    But the rest of the barns, well, it has never been too great.  At one point we took advantage of the appearance.  We promoted an event for the community before Halloween.  The barn was advertised as haunted.

    Before we started to decorate, I mentioned to a young neighbor boy who had been helping us with the feeding when my husband and I were at work.  In the winter, that occasionally meant he had to be in the barn at dusk.  When we said we were going to advertise a haunted barn, he muttered, "Won't take much.  It's already spooky." 

    Now, this isn't going to be an Halloween blog, and I don't think that boy meant that the barn is haunted.  However, it is.  All year 'round.

    I don't see ghosts in the barn.  I hear the sound of my horses - the horses who have passed away.  Recently we lost a draft horse, a huge ton of loving mare.  Bonnie greeted me from a stall as soon as I walked in the barn.  Her neigh was a deep rumble in keeping with her prodigious size.  I heard her before I saw her when she was alive.  Now there is no Bonnie to see, but many days and nights I still hear her.

    Other horses make themselves known.  Me beloved pony, Peecheeyouresocute, called PeeChee, still makes herself heard.  Little Donny, our Miniature Horse stallion, is audible to me, hooves scampering down the aisle of the main barn,  Buddy, the Arab, occasionally stomps in the first stall at the entrance to the barn.  William shuffles about in the next stall.

    And there are others.  since we have been in business in one way or another for over 40 years, it makes sense that we have lost a lot of horses.  Most of them lived to old age, at least into their 20s.

    I'm not sure how I know which horse is the ghost, but my brain will say, "That's Skeeter or Flax or Peach.  Yet, I will hear a sound, and they are with me.

    Neffy (Nefertiti), was a catty little cat, and she was my cat - her choice.  She was an indoor/outdoor cat back before the huge subdivision grew by us.  In those days we were at the end of the road with trees and pasture around most of the property.  The area was ideal hunting for a canny little cat.  She used all her nine lives, and made herself useful every day.  She cuddled with me, but no one else.  Even then she was a hunter.  I used to point out that I wasn't sure she knew how to retract her claws.  When she crossed the rainbow bridge, her presence was felt in the barn, and sometimes in the house.  For a short time her brother, Toot, was around, too, but he didn't stay long.  I heard him in the hay loft.   

    The barns are the main source of ghosts, but the house has one persistent presence, and that is our last cat, Boyd.  Boyd was a 15 lb Manx.  He lived his last years in the house because the new subdivision
produced traffic - lots of traffic.  Boyd didn't have car sense.  However, when I insisted he become a house cat, he wasn't upset.  He settled in, content to chase crochet balls of yarn.  (He hid his favorite purple ball, and I still haven't located it.)  He spent his evenings cuddling beside me.  Although he and the dog, Snickerdoodle, were not friends, I would consider them close frenemies.  They took comfort in the company of each other, especially when the humans were absent.  Boyd's kidneys failed him a few years ago, but he haunts the house.  Even Snickerdoodle notices.  The dog often looks for his cat companion, then seems to find him.  I don't see Boyd, but perhaps Snickerdoodle does.

    I want to go back to my theory that ghosts are energy.  The first law of thermodynamics, which has to do with conservation of energy states: Energy can change forms, but is neither created not destroyed. 

    My companion animals including cats, dogs, horses and birds have strong personalities.  If their energy cannot be destroyed, it is somewhere.  I believe a lot of it is in our old barns.

    I have one more example of ghosts as energy, and it has nothing to do with death.

    Years ago, when we were preparing to move from Auburn to Buckley, I stood in my treasured wooded backyard.  Moving is traumatic, even if it is positive.  Suddenly, that afternoon, that yard was full of ghosts, only all of them were still alive at the time.  I heard myself telling my parents I was pregnant, I heard the arrival of our first two horses, I heard our son playing with his remote controlled cars, I heard moments of love.  There were many, many haunting memories, tumbling over each other.  In fact, on that occasion, I even saw images, as the memories came.  Good memories all.  Ghosts of the living, but energy left over from past strong emotions.

    So, if my barn is haunted, so be it.  I don't mind.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story

     My short story Update: Morph, had a beginning in a dream.  Yup, a real I'm-asleep-dreaming dream.  I often remember my dreams, but rarely are they coherent or particularly interesting.  Well, this dream sure was interesting, at least to me, and it made coherent sense.

    I recall waking up several years ago thinking,  "Wow, I've got to write that one down."  I admit, the story, as I eventually wrote it, has a lot more detail than a 10-15 minute dream.  Also, the actual dream ended with the arrival of the police officer.

    Many elements of the dream are very much a part of my own life.  The horses, the dressage, even the cat/s are bits that anyone who knows me will recognize.  My son had transformer toys.  Some people will even recognize the car.  I'll write more about that a little farther along.

    The end segment of the actual dream annoyed me, because I definitely was enjoying this particular dream.  It struck me as something my imagination had grabbed, and put into my subconscious so I wouldn't forget it.  I had not wanted it to end.  Dreaming it was like reading an excellent tale, or watching a film, and enjoying it immensely.  The end was a disappointment because, well, I didn't want it to end, and I sure didn't like it finishing with the car being forced to its original form.  I seldom wake up angry, but that cop had me more than irked.  He didn't get it!  My horse was a car!  My car was a horse!

    So, I wrote the story, and gave it an end, one that pleased me.  I did submit a version of my work to my college extension writing class, and a number of students said the ending frightened them.  Interesting.  Just proves writers don't always know how their stories will strike other folks, because I had intended nothing scary.  In fact, I found my story rather comforting.     

    Now this particular work was on my computer for a number of years, and it went through many, many tweaks.  In fact, the version that appears here, in my blog, is different from the document I used to type it into the blog formatting, and even more different from the story I presented to my writing class.

    Perhaps the biggest change, though, is the model of the car, from Tesla to Galloway.  As I got ready to publish it here, I found myself surrounded by different times.  The culture of the United States has changed.  When we bought our Tesla in 2019, we were environmentally conscious.  My husband and I were showing we cared about the environment, and we were taking our stance against the gas companies.  Our family was among the first half dozen in the town to have an EV with self-driving capabilities.  We were also purchasing a car that was noted for its safety, especially in regard to senior drivers like us.  The AARP had highly recommended it.  (I wonder if they still do.)  Anyway, I've been in the car when it has been threatened.  Some careless driver was coming out of a side street, barreling along with no regard to other traffic.  We were nearly t-boned.  The Tesla flashed red on the dashboard, blared an alarm, and if my husband hadn't immediately jammed the brakes to prevent the thoughtless driver from ramming my passenger door; the car was ready to stop itself.  To quote the young man who went with us on our demo drive, "Teslas don't like to get hit."  I realize accidents happen, no systems are perfect.  But in our case, the car was out to protect us.  I like that.

    Tesla Motors keeps updating their cars to that our 2019 model has the same bells, whistles and features as the 2025 models.  Other EVs, as far as I know, do not offer this feature.  What you buy is what you get, even with an electric Corvette (I asked), but not with a Tesla connected to Wi-Fi.

    No, we are not selling our Tesla.  It continues to keep us safe, and it doesn't use gas.  If we sold it, someone else would be driving it, anyway.  I'm fond of Amenadiel, and he is not responsible for a CEO who has gone off the tracks of sanity.  (Yes, we named our care Amenadiel.)  To protect it from vandalism, we felt the necessity to purchase a couple of decals.  We didn't want to be too antagonistic, but we did want to get our point across.  We chose the message "Vintage Tesla.  Pre-Madness Edition."  So far, so good.  Amenadiel remains unmolested.

    Anyway, I decided I didn't want Update: Morph to get tangled in politics, or magnetized decals, so I chose to change the name of the motor company.  I've always enjoyed research.  My criteria was high.  I wanted my car to be for women, designed by a woman, and I wanted it to be based  on reality.  I didn't have to look far, nor was the search hard.

    Almost immediately, thanks to Google, I found a woman automotive engineer, Dorothee Pullinger, who was instrumental in creating a car for women after the First World War.  Further, the workforce at Galloway Motors was largely women, at Dorothee's urging.  The Galloway was produced from 1920 until 1928.  The company was located in Scotland, and that appealed to my own Scottish heritage.  I like all the information except the fact that the Galloway is no more.  However, in my world of the future, Galloway Motors still exists, and has evolved into an automotive giant.

    So Isaac, a fictional cousin to Amenadiel, came into existence as a Galloway.

    Isaac is a car - who purrs, and can do dressage.

    I have dreams for Amenadiel.