I’m friends with Vernon Buller.

Well, maybe that needs qualifying. 

Vernon is my go-to friend when it comes to the art of drawing anything and everything.

Obviously the same couldn’t be said for him, because I have nothing to offer him in the shape of helping him draw better. 

The other evening, I got out of my car and walked myself into Vernon’s place.

As far as I know, I have never been in their house, but no matter.  I felt comfortable there the minute I walked in.

Vernon is 88 years old; I am 48.  Makes a nice age gap where a person can learn a lot from folks like him if they are of a mind too.

So, we sat hunched over at his kitchen table.  I sat as close as I could to him and watched as he showed me how to sketch in the first details of a picture and then how to add the finishing touches that make it come alive in 3D proportions. 

And after an hour and a half of this, we pushed back from the table, and I felt raring to go on some of my own stuff and just as much on the picture I had sent him earlier that I wanted some help on getting started.

But that’s not all.

Being with Vernon made me realize something else that has been niggling at the edge of my mind for the last while.

You see, it’s like this.

I’m a little weird this way, but I think something is happening in this area that only those of my generation and upwards are aware of.

There is a whole era that is slipping away from us right before our very eyes.

It involves the old barns and old men in our community.

I think I drive by one or several of these old barns almost every day.

And every day, I realize these old barns are slowly falling in on themselves.

But they aren’t falling in without a struggle, that’s for sure. 

Because they have been built with quality material, and built stronger than they needed to be, in a time that called for quality, not quantity, like the squeaky tight margins that today’s buildings are built. 

It’s amazing, to realize when you walk up close to these old structures, that every lasting board was cut by hand, fitted and nailed into place by hand, and as the barn grew in height, each board had to be handed up to someone who had gotten themselves up there, high in the air, by ladder and scaffolding, and not with some telehandler or manlift.

You could say each of these barns have been built with brute manpower and ingenuity, and I think that is why these old barns still stand the test of time.

And, you could say any one of these old men in our community come from the same mold as these old barns.

My friend Vernon is just one such man. 

There’s a man who drives a red Chevy pickup; I don’t know his name, but every day I see him parked at the local assisted senior living place.  This last summer I saw him take his wife out almost every day to the garden in the back and sit with her under the shelter, hand on her hand, each sharing the years that have built up on them, knowing, more than likely, that those years are coming to an end.

His kind of dedication isn’t seen as much anymore.  It’s the kind of dedication that has been built with the same value as those old barns and it looks like it holds true, easily, to the original framework it was built on.

A lot of these old barns are pushing the their timelines out in measure much the same as these older men are pushing their timelines out.

And I’m afraid certain values will fall off the end of their timelines, just as surely as they come to the end of their lifespans.

So, even though it probably doesn’t make sense to anyone else, I like to draw these old barns.  (I couldn’t be forgiven enough if I tried to draw the men, that’s for sure.)

Even if it is only for myself that I am drawing them.

Which is one of the first tidbits of wisdom Vernon gave me the other evening.

“Do what you are doing for you, not because of pressure from someone else.”

Another bit of wisdom—Always finish what you’ve started.  Even if it seems like an abject failure, if you keep at it, you’ll almost always be amazed at what it turns out to be in the end.”

And the last piece that he left me with, as he took the sketch he had been working on and held it inches from his face, shook his head and then held it out at arm’s length—”Always take a look at it from a ways back; it looks different there and gives you way more to work with than when you are looking at it close up.”

And if I ere not, every one one of these old barns were built on those same tenants, which of course, include most likely and quite literally, blood, sweat, and tears.

Thanks Vernon. 

I’m looking forward to the next evening I can spend with you hunched over your dining room table.