A Little Bit Like Home

Barnwarming

Long before escape rooms were part of anyone’s vocabulary, our FFA chapter built them out of small square straw bales. They were among the attractions at Barnwarming, the annual fall dance. While they weren’t exactly engineering marvels, the tunnels were elaborate enough that a person had to crawl up, over, and back down before finding the way out. For a bunch of farm kids who had spent their summers stacking small square bales in barns, building a tunnel seemed like a perfectly reasonable form of entertainment.

Barnwarming was held in the agriculture shop just north of the high school in Hopkins. For most of the year, the shop was a place for welding, working on equipment, learning skills, and occasionally discovering that something was hotter than it looked. But for a few days each fall, our FFA chapter transformed it into something resembling a dance hall. Welders were pushed against the walls, floors were swept, and greasy spots received a special kind of attention.

The hay tunnels were always a highlight. We generally built them along the back and side walls, taking advantage of the building itself as part of the structure. Straw bales became walls, ceilings, and steps. Some sections were stacked so guests could sit on the bales when they weren’t dancing. It was practical, economical, and about as close to agricultural interior decorating as a person could get. Most of the boys knew how to stack bales, which was probably more experience than some of us had on a dance floor. Decorations were simple. There was a refreshment table, the straw bales, and whatever else we could find to make the shop look less like a shop.

Our FFA adviser, Dick Baldwin, oversaw the preparations, but everyone was involved in the work. Barnwarming was a joint FFA and FHA event, with FHA adviser Judy White and school administrators joining the festivities. Country music generally dominated the evening, which made sense considering the crowd. It wasn’t necessarily a fancy affair, but it was our party, and we had worked to make it happen.

We had a good FFA chapter. Mr. Baldwin worked hard preparing us for fall and spring contests, and we had competitive teams that represented our school well. Between contests, varmint hunts, trap shooting, fruit sales, chapter meetings, and trips to the National FFA Convention and other events, there was always something going on. Barnwarming was different. It was a chance to put the work aside for an evening, enjoy one another’s company, and have some fun. Looking back, I hope Mr. Baldwin enjoyed it as much as we did. He invested a great deal of himself in the students who came through that ag shop.

Of course, no school dance would be complete without a little teenage drama. One particular Barnwarming produced a story that was repeated throughout the rest of the school year and for years to come. A girl from our school and her date, a boy from out of town, arrived considerably later than expected. Mr. Baldwin, who was never one to miss an opportunity for a little good-natured teasing, asked where they had been.

They explained they had stopped for pizza. A reasonable explanation, except that Mr. Baldwin followed up with a perfectly reasonable question.

“Where did you go?”

“Pagliai’s!” one answered. “Pizza Hut!” came the other response.

They looked at one another, apparently realizing their mistake. Both immediately changed their answers, each hoping to agree with the other.

“Pizza Hut!” “Pagliai’s!”

They had managed to disagree twice, using the same two restaurants in reverse order. Their credibility was suffering, and Mr. Baldwin immediately recognized the opportunity.

“So which one was it? Pagliai’s or Pizza Hut?” he asked with a big grin and a bit of a wink. To their credit, the couple seemed to recognize that further explanation would only require additional creativity and wisely decided to stop digging. Neither restaurant was responsible for their late arrival. Let’s just say their evening may have involved more parking than pizza.

Decades later, I couldn’t begin to tell you every song we danced to or how many bales of straw we carried into that shop. But I remember the people, the laughter, and the time we spent together.

And I still remember two teenagers who couldn’t agree on where they had eaten pizza. Twice.

Tom Brand is a St. Joseph, Missouri, writer whose latest book, “You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back,” is available at RichardsonPress.com. He still believes straw bales make perfectly acceptable dance hall furniture, provided someone else helps carry them out afterward.