It was an antique red barn being remodeled into an old red barn.

It was a red barn because red paint had been on sale.

My neighbor Crandall and I had just entered our teenage years. We were in the hayloft (we called it the haymow) of the extremely tall barn. We were stacking rectangular bales of hay held together by twine. The bales had been dumped into the haymow by means of a pulley system that ran on a track along the peak of the haymow. The bales were carried from a hayrack by a hayfork equipped with sharp spikes that allowed the apparatus to move six bales at a time through a gigantic access door. The door dropped like a drawbridge to allow hay to pass. It was our job to store the bales in the best way possible. We didn’t have careers — we had chores.

The barn was in that state of disrepair that accompanies renovations and was in just good enough shape to house some hay, a herd of milk cows, and a few rogue chickens. The built-in ladders that allowed a person to climb into the haymow had been removed and had not yet been replaced. We solved that problem by leaning a rickety extension ladder against the large haymow door. We scrambled up that ladder like firemen and then dropped down into the haymow.

The haymow was a stuffy place to work, but we were motivated. We had a baseball game we wanted to play in about four miles away. We needed to stack the bales and then ride our bicycles into town.

Our industriousness paid off, and the bales were stacked better than the shelf of any grocery store.

We climbed to the ledge of the haymow door. We would have hurried down the ladder and jumped on our bicycles but for one thing. There was no ladder. That’s not completely true. The ladder was there. It was lying on the ground.

Some of Crandall’s brothers, we never did get an accurate count of how many were involved, had pushed the ladder away from the barn. It was as Roseanne Roseannadanna said on “Saturday Night Live,” “It just goes to show you, it’s always something.”

Crandall and I looked down at the ladder lying useless on the ground. We stared at it as if we were deer caught in the headlights of a Buick.

We considered climbing down the ropes that were employed by the pulley system. They hoisted hay bales, but the ropes were not dependable — they were old and frayed — bought second-, third- or fourth-hand.

“We’re stuck up here. We’re going to miss the game!” I whined. “The coach is going to be steamed. Why did your brothers do this?”

“I don’t know,” replied Crandall. “They did the same thing yesterday.”

“What? How did you get down?” I asked.

“I went to the other end of the haymow and used that little door to jump down onto the manure pile,” said Crandall.

Our existence was a manure pile-rich one. We were blessed with free fertilizer given by cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, goats, horses, turkeys and sheep. A wise walker looked down before he looked up.

We clambered over bales and found our way to the small door with the scenic overlook of a humongous manure pile. A cow’s diet is rich in fiber. I wasn’t bothered by massive amounts of manure. I’d eaten a baloney and ketchup on Wonder Bread sandwich while seated on a tractor pulling a manure spreader. I wasn’t squeamish about a heap of cow pies, but this one did look a little soupy. I shared my concerns with my fellow prisoner.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured. “I jumped yesterday and I’m here today.”

“How did that go for you?” I asked.

“Well, I did sink in a bit, but only up to my ankles,” he responded.

That was perfect. I’d take my shoes off, jump, wash my feet, and pedal to the ballgame.

I looked over the edge at the manure safety net. It was like the scene from the movie “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” when the two were about to jump from the cliff. I wanted to tell Crandall that I couldn’t swim, but instead yelled, “Geronimo!” We jumped.

I hit the manure pile with a ssspppllllluuurrrrpppp! It smelled just as it sounded. I know because I was in cow exhaust up to my ears.

When I was able to free my mouth, I growled at Crandall, “You said up to your ankles!”

“Well, yesterday, I jumped head first.”

I am thankful for many things. One is that the manure pile wasn’t any deeper.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.