Tabacco Barns

I grew up in an old town in western Massachusetts. The early industries were farming, apple orchards and harvesting redstone and brownstone to be used for buildings in New York City. When we would cross over into Connecticut and drive towards the river, the land became more rural. There was an old Shaker village, it starks buildings making big statements within the dried out cornfields of November. There were also large tobacco barns, as the soil up and down the Connecticut River were right in composition for growing shade tobacco to be made into cigars. As I gained my independence, I would spend evenings driving through the countryside listening to music, trying to sort out the pile of sad and hurt feelings that some of us young people experienced as we careened through our teenage years.

For some reason, the sight of the tobacco barns in the grey fields always put me at ease. It was as if I was driving into a pastoral George Inness painting, leaving a confused mind behind and then becoming a part of art. The barns were so simple in design; large red or grey rectangles with large doors on either end. The vertical siding would be propped open in order to dry the tobacco. The rigid architecture in contrast to the ruffled harvested leaves peering through the slats was intriguing. It reminded me of when I saw Autun Cathedral in France, a hulk of a structure dominating the countryside but with intricate details only to be revealed as one got closer.  I always wondered what it smelled like inside the building while it was packed with freshly picked tobacco.

Almost 3 decades later, I drove to an open-air shopping mall before Christmas that seemed to be dropped into the middle of a Connecticut farm. On the edge of the property, there were some dying tobacco barns, their roofs partially collapsed and the walls overgrown with field grass and vines. I walked inside, the hair rising on my arms. The air was cool and dry inside, my nose filling with musty smells with a strong tinge of rodent. It felt so good to be in this dilapidated shell. Peaceful, like a sanctuary of sorts.