Barnheart

by Jenna Woginrich

  I drove faster than I should have. The music was loud and emotional. I was listening to a new passion of mine, Gregory Alan Isakov. I was drumming with my thumbs on the wheel while the violins started to shudder in “The Empty Northern Hemisphere.” As I crossed the state line into New York, I felt the rush of quiet panic mixed with the excitement of something new. A few miles up the road, as the song galloped into the bridge, a pair of crows flew over the truck. I let out a long exhale. Everything would be okay.

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur. A pile of meetings, lawyers’ offices, paperwork, and handshakes. The whole time I was signing documents, I couldn’t believe this was actually happening. The idea of getting my own farm just a few months ago was a fantasy. My credit score was horrible. I didn’t have a savings account. I had no real plan to find or buy land, and yet here I was, four short months later, being asked if I wanted extra title insurance and being handed a set of keys. When all was said and done, I stood up from the heavy wooden desk and realized I was shaking, like I was in love.

  I think I was.

  I drove back to the Jackson house, my house, as it started to rain. I had a thick packet of papers and a smile that would not hide. I kept checking my phone to hear word from friends and family. Two coworkers would be coming over with pizza and beer later to celebrate. My parents showered me with congratulations. I thanked them all, over and over. But despite their kindness, I could not wait to hang up and go home. I wanted to walk around the property, planning animal housing, running extension cords, making the place come back to life. That dead farm was about to get a few hits of Jenna. It would resuscitate, and thrive, and feed people again. I was drunk on the dream’s turning into reality. I wanted more. I wanted to be in the house. I drove like it.

  Then I almost hit Stumpy.

  Stumpy was an aging golden retriever who happened to be strolling down the middle of Route 22 (a busy rural highway), not even trying to dodge the passing cars. People who noticed him cut him a wide berth, and others slammed on the brakes. I knew his name was Stumpy because I pulled over and hollered “Hey! Dog!” and he trotted toward me. A line of cars was slowing to watch this dumb girl try to flag down a senile dog, but I ignored them. (If that were my dog, I’d want someone to call the name on the collar.) So, Stumpy came to me and sat with me on the side of the highway, and we got acquainted. I called his owners, and they said they’d be down to pick him up. While we waited for them, I told Stumpy about my day. I was grateful to have met him; he got me to slow the hell down and just sit. His horrible pedestrian ways let me take in what was actually happening. And I was secretly happy to have an arm around a dog. Dogs are my people. We talked like old friends. I was somewhat sad to see him hop into his owners’ car.

  Keys in hand, dog rescued, and barely a mile from my new home, I drove a little slower. The road that led to my new address was a winding one, curving around new-growth forests that were once pasture. I pulled into the driveway, parked, and grabbed the Buddha and the guitar. I opened the door and stepped into the warm house, which was filled with rays of afternoon light. It was so much brighter than the cabin was, even on its best days. I set down my keys and the guitar case and walked around, trying to catch my breath. I felt the stairs like they were lightly vibrating with electricity. I walked the rooms as if the walls were lined with paintings. I drank it in. Everything made me feel brand-new.

  I sat down on the floor, opened the guitar case, and played a song. “Upward Over the Mountain” rang through the old farmhouse and echoed upstairs. I played it like it was the last song I’d ever get to play.

  Mother, don’t worry; I’ve got a coat and some friends on the corner.

  Mother, don’t worry; he’ll have a garden. We’ll plant it together.

  Mother, remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?

  Blood on the floor and fleas on their paws and you cried ’til the morning?

  So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten.

  Sons are like birds flying always over the mountain.

  Sitting there, sweaty and excited, daunted and alone, I sang. I was overwhelmed and happy. Really happy. But understanding and feeling those things all at once, I started to cry. It wasn’t a cry that belonged to any particular emotion. It was a homily and a eulogy; hope and fear; desire and despair. I just cried. I held a black guitar against my chest, shook, and cried. Some things can’t be helped.

  So much of my story is about wanting. To finally have it is a relief so complicated and beautiful it breaks me to understand it.

  Crows fly. Buddha sits. I farm.