Press

Timmy and Max were inseparable. They went everywhere together, shared all of their secrets and spent hours and hours playing outside. Mom never had to tell them to go outside to play. It was all she could do to get them to come inside for dinner or to go to bed.

Max hadn’t lived in the neighborhood for long. He was a new addition, but as far as Timmy was concerned, he was THE BEST thing that had ever happened to that neighborhood. Their rural neighborhood consisted of open fields, heavy woods, swamps and a real live creek. And not too many people to yell at them for playing where they shouldn’t. There were a few neighbors that they had to watch out for. They couldn’t play on Mr. Thuman’s lawn with bikes or heavy toys, especially when it was wet, because they would leave marks.

They spent all day, day after day, climbing trees and playing hide and go seek. When you’re playing hide and seek with just two, in a five-acre radius, it can take all day to just be found once. If one of them was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it. Many of their games consisted of a nice nap in the sun while waiting to be found. Counting grass blades and searching whole fields for four-leafed clover were also frequent activities.

Since it was summer, they were free to do as they chose all day, every day. Timmy was the organizer. The idea guy. Max was happy-go-lucky and followed Timmy around. Max seemed to have sinus trouble, as he was always sniffing. Especially in a new environment. Max was a little younger, so every idea that Timmy had seemed like a brilliant idea to Max. Just so he didn’t have to stay at home by himself, that was all he cared about. If he was with Timmy doing anything, he was happy.

The day they spent wandering around the old barn was a great day. They had so much fun and found so many great treasures. You and I would not consider them treasures, but for those who are blissfully ignorant of the cold realities of the world, stray marbles, dusty feathers and ancient farm machinery are to be cherished. Of course, they couldn’t all be tucked into pockets and carried home.

When they walked into the barn, they stood for a minute adjusting to the dim light. And the ancient odor of a million musty yesterdays. Max was sniffing as though his life depended on it. Timmy sniffed a few times, but the got used to the mustiness.

They began to explore, going in opposite directions. Max found a dead rat in the corner. It looked ancient--mostly from its style of dress—no self respecting rat would dress like that today. It was perfectly preserved, including the top hat. If you didn’t know the rat had to have been dead for 70 years, likely more, you might have thought it passed away yesterday. They really did some things well in those days, that’s for sure.

Downstairs there was tack on the walls, as this was originally a horse barn. There were several stalls, most of the walls still standing, but long empty. At least of their original occupants. There was evidence of many others living here, or at least passing through over the years. Timmy and Max studied the feathered remains, the droppings, the flotsam of the birds and rodents who had refuged here at some point.

Then they went upstairs, very carefully, as half of the floor was gone and the other half was going fast. They made extensive use of their athletic abilities just to get up the stairs. It was like jumping hurdles, but vertically. Eventually they arrived upstairs and once up there they poked, and poked, and poked.

They found scraps of old newspapers. Max found one from December, 1917. The headline was sensational: “ATTACK.” Timmy had found one sticking out of the wall that was dated 1898. Could that be? His father had told him that this was the original barn and that it was the only original structure still standing. If you can call that standing. Some might call it listing.

His dad said it was old. Timmy had thought that meant it was really old, like twenty years or something like that. He was surprised to learn that it was, according to his third grade math, at least 90 years old. That was beyond Timmy’s comprehension. And definitely beyond Max’s.

The rafters were amazing. They had to be a foot thick and still had much of the bark on them. The supports and the studs in the walls were all at eight inches square, except they were mostly semi-square and semi-round. They no longer found it amazing that the barn still stood. Instead, they questioned the poor quality of materials used on the horizontal planes. The floorboards and the stairs had not held up so well. One exterior wall was mostly missing, so it apparently wasn’t all quality all the time. That must have been the “Friday wall.”

Timmy spied some ancient machinery. He hop scotched across the soft floorboards to get a closer look. It was a printing press. Timmy explained to Max how it must have worked. A few of the letters were still in the rack, the rest scattered through time. They were fascinated. That explains that crazy headline and more so the crazy dates. Someone had been coming up here and printing out crazy stuff to leave around for impressionable little kids to find. An adult misinformation campaign. Now Timmy was expecting to find a paper that was appropriately yellowed and with a headline of “Timmy to go to prison for not cleaning his room,” or some such nonsense.

Still, despite the campaign, the press fascinated them. Max found a few other letters and brought them over. There were still several missing, but they decided to make it their project that week--or that summer--to search the barn until they had scoured every inch in order to find as many letters as possible. Timmy figured that the stuff had to be more than twenty years old. Once he was done playing with it, he could have his dad sell it on eBay for at least twenty dollars. That’s ten dollars each.

Timmy tried to drag the press out into better light. It didn’t budge. Max came over and they pulled together. It started to move, and then, with a high- pitched screech, it moved. Too fast. The press crashed down on them both. Max danced away, he was struck while it was on the way down, but had cat-like reflexes. He shook it off. Timmy, however, was pinned and he was screaming bloody murder. It fell across his legs and at least one of them was bent at an odd angle, with the press on top of it.

Max didn’t know what to do. He tried to pull it off, then using his body weight, to push it off. After a few understandable moments of panic, Timmy got control of himself and pushed with Max, but the press wouldn’t budge, even with both of their efforts. Exhausted from both effort and fear, Timmy realized that Max would have to go for help. They were too far away from home for anyone to hear screams, so Max would have to go. He told Max what to do. He had to make his way down the stairs, and go home and bring mom and dad back with him. Max listened intently. He stood next to Timmy for a minute and then he began his journey.

Timmy could hear him picking his way down the stairs. There was a tense moment when he heard Max hit too many steps all at once, too hard, but it sounded like he recovered and Timmy heard him scrambling below him, then he heard no more and assumed that help was on the way.
Max got to the doorway. He started for home, his nose in the air, running hard. He was halfway there when he smelled something that brought him to a dead stop. He froze, one rear leg still in the air. He sniffed.

Yes! He made a ninety degree turn and took off as though his life depended on it. Lassie was in heat. It just might be his lucky day.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.