Barns!

The prelude to my exploration of the Western National Parks is a quick run across country. Although originally anticipated as a leisurely exploration of Kentucky – a state I had never visited – my schedule for the first part of the tour had been compressed by the need to reach a meeting point where my son Dan and his wife Betsy will join me. As a result, I decided to go directly to Denver via Route 80, the Interstate that runs across the middle of the county from New York to San Francisco. This would allow an extra three days to spend exploring the parks.

Although I had anticipated a grueling, generally uninteresting but occasionally scenic trip, I got totally distracted by the barns. Much of the territory through which I passed was rural, beginning with a short cut across the western corner of the Southern Tier of New York State. Real working farm-country rural, not the rural with which I am most familiar in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the Union. And the thing that impressed me most of all were the regional curiosities of the older barns.

I first noticed certain anomalies among the barns in western NYS. Yes, many were the archetypical gambrel-roofed frame barns with round silos, painted the familiar “barn red.” But then there was one with a rectangular appendages mounted on the side of the silo, from ground to the roof. Then another had a small cabin mounted on top of the silo, with a gambrel roof to match the main barn, and joined to it by a covered walkway. That got my attention. Questions jumped to mind about what possible reason would have cause some taciturn farmer to build this folly. A minor amusement, trying to figure that out. Something to pass the time.

Dropping down into Eastern Ohio from NYS was a less interesting ride, and by the time I reached Cleveland area, where I stayed with Betsy's parents (thanks for the kind hospitality!), the scenery offered more typical highway fare. The next day, however, the road passed through the farmland of western Ohio, where substantial farms stretched for hundreds of acres along the highway. Tidy buildings, fields planted with crops in neat rows. And suddenly I noticed that, unlike the red barns of upstate NY or the green barns of New England – most of these barns seemed to be painted white. In fact, most of the buildings on the farm were white. Gleaming, pristine white. Open doors were black rectangles against those blindingly stark walls. Now why, I asked myself, would anyone in their right mind paint a barn white? Doesn't it get dirty? Don't you lose site of the farm when it snows? Do you have to see it more clearly from a distance in the summer? Is white paint less expensive than red or green?

And then there were the roofs. Gradually, the typical gambrel roof gave way to pitched roofs. White barns with pitched roofs. Fascinating. Not all barns, of course, had pitched roofs. And not all were white, but such types were plentiful, nonetheless.

As I skirted the populous south end of Lake Michigan – Gary, Indiana, to Joliet, Illinois – farms gave way to industrial parks, shopping centers, and tract houses. But soon I was back in farm country again. Along both sides of the highway from north central Illinois through the western part of the state were even larger-scaled farms set among rolling fields. We were beginning to penetrate more deeply into corn territory. Fields of waist-high corn were clearly recovering from some heavy rains that had left small ponds in the midst of some of the fields. And here I noticed another regional quirk in barn construction.

Barns in northwestern Illinois have a small frame monitor on the ridge of the barn, which looks like a miniature of the barn it sits on. If the barn has a pitched roof, then the monitor has a pitched roof. If the main roof is a gambrel, then the roof of the monitor is a gambrel. I even saw a Gothic barn from the early 20^th Century with a Gothic-roofed monitor. Sometimes the ridge of the monitor is perpendicular to the main building, sometimes in the same direction.

Usually, the barn on which such a monitor sits has two large doors, one at each gable end. Often they are open, so you can see clearly through the building. The monitor also has openings or vents – often small windows, one at each side. In one instance, there was a conveyor into one of the windows from an apparatus on the ground. Sometimes there is another barn nearby that is more tightly closed.

Are the barns with monitors for grain storage? That might be the reason for the additional ventilation. Is it for livestock? If so, how does heat stay in the building in winter? Was this form a vernacular version of what is now the ubiquitous round metal vents along the ridge lines of barns? Unfortunately, these questions probably will not be answered while en route. Maybe later. The best I can do at this point is take some photos as I drive past, in an effort to keep the questions alive.

Early Road Trips

I have lived on the East Coast of the U.S. my entire life. In upstate New York as a child and in northern New Jersey for now almost 40 years. Aside from a cross-country expedition with my family in a pop-up trailer when I was fifteen, I have seen little west of the Mississippi River. But I have inherited from my Dad a certain wanderlust. Although he was a model of stability, a meticulous record keeper, and good provider, there was nothing he loved more than riding in the car - it didn't matter where he was going, just that he was en route to somewhere.

Sunday rides were always a welcome interruption of the family routine. After church and lunch, Dad, Mom, Grandmother, my brothers and I would pile in the car, taking along an extra sweater, a picnic if the weather were nice, and maybe the Sunday paper for the grown-ups to read. We headed out of the driveway to ... well, not exactly "parts unknown" since we often traveled the same roads time after time ... but on each trip, they seemed somehow different from the times before. The light, the weather, the season - all were ever-changing. Dad's child-like delight in all that made it an adventure for us, too.

During the summers, we might stop alongside a country stream. Before the appearance of the ubiquitous yellow "No Trespassing" signs, we were allowed to take off our shoes and socks and wade in the cold water. If it were hot enough, we could even strip down to our underwear and splash around in the rocky pools. When I grew older, Mom and Grandmother and I would stroll among the tombstones and flowering shrubs in the old country cemeteries. They seemed to know the all of the wildflowers - names that even today jump into my mind when I see them growing along the road.

Six decades later, when Dad and Mom grew too old to have a car, I would drive the three hours from New Jersey to upstate New York, settle them in their favorite spots - Dad in the front seat, Mom in the back - and we'd go for long rides over the same roads I traveled with them as a child. There was little left that gave them joy in the senior living center where they lived. Rides in the car were something that re-introduced them to the world, let them breathe the fresh upstate air, see blue sky, clouds, cows, the change of seasons. I became reacquainted with the beauty of upstate New York, too. At the end of the afternoon, Dad would often remark, "Mary always takes us on such interesting rides."

It wasn't until after my father died two years ago that I came to understand that driving through the countryside was really only Dad's joy, not Mom's. My mother just liked being with Dad, no matter where he went. He was her center, her merry-maker, her socializer. Without him, her reason to go for a ride in the car was gone.

In the year after he died, I used to take Mom for rides with my brother. But, except for a rare remark about how beautiful the clouds were, she always ended the ride asking where Dad was and becoming more frantic with each mile that we had left him [somewhere]. It was heartbreaking. I don't take her for long rides any more. She seems perfectly happy to sit and read magazines with me. Reading - that was really always Mom's joy. I don't know why I didn't see it clearly before now.

In any event, I have inherited my father's love for traveling by car. Not to disparage trains, airplanes, or cruises, but there is nothing quite as  .... well, grounded ... as riding in a car. You get a sense of the distance you have gone, of the gradual change in weather, in the shifting topography and the colors of the landscape. There's just nothing like it. I can't wait to begin this new adventure.

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Park-to-Park 2010: An Exploration of the Western National Parks

It's snowing here in New Jersey. Some 12 - 15 inches are expected. What better day to start thinking about the the western mountains and plains.

I am in the midst of planning this summer's sabbatical to explore America's Western National Parks. This theme has gotten great attention this year, as we celebrate 150 years of their history and preservation. Filmmaker Ken Burns's series for PBS, The National Parks: America's Best Idea was the glamour feature of the fall 2009 PBS lineup, but the documentary that captured my attention was another documentary entitled Paving the Way: The National Park-to-Park Highway , which retraced the route of good roads advocates who braved the poor roads between and through the Western National Parks for 76 days in 1920. The film's website describes the reason for the tour: 

"[At the time,] roads for automobiles were crude at best.  There were no reliable maps, gas stations, or convenience stores.  Accommodations were few, far between, and expensive.  Because of this, the newly established National Park Service decided to promote both tourism to the National Parks and the good roads to get there with the National Park-to-Park Highway.

Two characters played major roles in organizing the inaugural tour of this highway.  Stephen Mather, the director of the National Park Service, was the major advocate for the highway linking the National Parks.  However, Anton Westgard, a pathfinder for AAA, was the one who mapped the route through the parks and led the motorists on the tour.  One provided the idea, the other provided the manpower."

The film was inspired by the excellent book The Playground Trail: the National Park-to-Park Highway by Lee Whiteley and Jane Whiteley, which documented the trip with historic photos and copies of original materials. 

I decided that this year, I would try to discover parts of this country that I had never seen before - starting with the Western National Parks. Not only for their natural beauty (which will make a fine subject for my photographs and perhaps later paintings), but also for the park architecture, the landscape design and engineering work that helped frame vistas, bridge chasms, and harness mighty rivers.The trip itself should take some 4-6 weeks. 

This journal is part of this expedition. I have named it Ribbons and Lines, for the highways that carry us through our remarkably beautiful landscape. I dedicate it to my father, Raymond W. Delaney, who filled me with a love of the road.