Heaven's Barn Door

Don't forget the Funyuns

I once was a girl who lived on Mutton Hollow Hill Road.

Hours in the creek, catchin’ crawdads, smashing open geodes, the only worry in the world was accidentally sneaking up on a water moccasin. My dad would always say with a reassuring tone, “They are more afraid of you than you are them.” I would think to myself, I guess you don’t know me really well.

I once was a girl who lived On Mutton Hollow Hill.

When I got thirsty wading through the creek, I’d ride my bike to the Bethpage store, a gas station a couple miles away. I’d pay with quarters and dimes most of the time. Always the same thing: one mini bag of Funyuns and a can of strawberry Fanta. I’d play a game with myself on the ride back with the chips tucked in my armpit. I’d have to hold them firmly to prevent them from falling to the pavement; but not too firmly to crush the rings into bits. I’d peddle back stopping to give my thighs a break from the freezing soda can that I had to wedge between my knees. My inner legs would be damp and raging red from the freezing aluminum against my sweaty hot body. It would burn it was so cold sometimes.

Wanta Fanta, Dontcha Wanta.

I once was a girl who lived on Mutton Hollow.

The big red tobacco barn by the creek had square bales in the loft where I created a fortress of straw. I smuggled a burnt orange quilt from the linen closet one day and I nestled it in the center of four walls of square bales. The quilt had a cigarette burn in the bottom left corner. No one in my family smoked and I was always curious about the one responsible. Perhaps I did not know my mom + dad really well. I would let my pinky gently broach the inside of round burn trying not to stretch or tear the seared opening. The quilt was thick. I had it doubled over on the floor of hay so no straw could poke up through to prod at my exposed legs. A few months prior, I lifted the center hay bales up high around me where I stair-step stacked them until I had a deep center I could jump down into. Looking up from the barn dirt floor, you couldn’t tell the hay loft center was hollowed out. After I made it back from the gas station, I’d have to gently toss my chips and soda down for the final test of resilience. I would send a silent prayer hoping my drink wouldn’t take a hard bounce and bust open leaving me with a Birds Eye view of a spinning spew of red liquid dousing my sacred hideout. The finish line was my final jump down into the center of the hay. I had to carefully position my drop as to not land squashing my pantry goods or accidentally roll an ankle on my soda can. I never rolled an ankle and no matter how hard the can bounced on the quilted hay; it never exploded.

I once was a girl who lived on Mutton.

The tobacco barn hadn’t been used for drying leaves since my family bought the property years ago. You could still smell remnants of that aged smokey leaf; still see the stains on the rafters. I’d lean my back up on against the hay wall, rocking my shoulders and side sweeping my back until any straggler pieces of straw would no longer poke me. I’d pincer grasp the bag of chips symmetrically at the seams to splay open and peer down to see how many full rings made it through the tricky journey. I’d always eat the broken pieces first. I’d carefully contort my hand around intact rings to scrape the small chunks up out of the bag into my mouth. The only thing I had to listen to was the loud crunch of dried onion chips and the trickle of the creek east of the barn. I gave my recently dropped drink some time to rest as I crunched away. Once I only had the full intact rings left I would open my Fanta. Sometimes the soda would be a quiet but high pitch whistle with small bubbles at the rim. Other times the loud crack with my thumb nail would be quickly followed by a lava of foam over the silver edge that I’d have to suck and slurp frantically. I’d tightly close my legs and sacrifice my shorts and t-shirt to the linear puddle of leaked soda all to spare the quilt below. After the long bike voyage and the warmth seeping from my thighs through the can; the strawberry pop would taste sweet but I’d always wish it was colder. I’d lean it in the corner and return back to my chips. It was time to eat the full remaining rings. My favorite part of my little game.

I once was a girl who lived on.

My appetite was now satisfied and the silver crinkled bag is now bare. I would roll the mini yellow bag in on itself into a tight pointy wad that I’d poke into a crevice of hay bale. There had to be 10 to 20 rolled Funyun bags pierced into the layers of my hay fortress. I wonder whatever happened to them. Did they get discarded properly? Did my parents ever ask me about them? Is the quilt still there? Buried and molded into the layers of dirt floor of the now abandoned barn. After hours in the sun, a snack, and a soda pop it would be the smells that would lull me to sleep. I fondly remember the swirl of all the scents: the dried tobacco, the hay, the freshly opened bag of Funyuns, the fabric softer my mom used on the quilt. If there is a heaven, I imagine mine resembles the rolling hills of Bethpage, Tennessee. Instead of a big pearly gate, I’m met with giant red tobacco barn door. There’ll will be a rope woven basket with a burnt orange quilt draped over the side. I’ll look for the familiar but mysterious cigarette burn in the bottom left corner but there will be a patch in the shape of a carousel horse in the place the burn used to be. Neighboring the quilt will be a bag of Funyuns and a crisp cold strawberry Fanta. There will be a little card stock note in my grandmother’s cursive handwriting that reads:

The Warmest Welcome. Let’s get you settled in up here. You lived such a good lyfe’. You must be tired. How about you enjoy a 43 minute nap in one of your ole’ favorite spots. I hope it’s heavenly.

I once was a girl who lived.

If it’s okay with you, before you go…Can we take a breath together?

Inhale…2…3.

Gently exhale 1…2…3.

BeckA🎠

¹Someone tell my husband to order me this Funyuns painting.

Yum Yum Funyuns

1. In stock· Brand: UGallery

Artist of Yum Yum Funyuns: Karen Barton - Funyuns is a cult classic snack food, quips artist Karen Barton. It definitely pairs well with a good movie.