As we pull in, Fred comes out and lends a hand. In his late 70s, he climbs the rafters quickly and tosses bales with ease. Fred's barn was built in the late 19th century. He feels that there is a nicer one farther down the valley. "It has straighter beams and has held up better over the years." He keeps count as we toss bales to the trailer below.
When I ride, I pass old farmsteads and hay barns like Fred's. Most are more than a century old. Built by hand, the their beams are worn smooth from decades of use.
As a child these barns hosted endless games of hide-and-go-seek, supplied a refuge from the prying eyes of parents, and offered the occasional stolen kiss. The air in the barn is sweet and smells like late August. And as I climb the ladder to the hayloft, the worries of my week pass. I am a kid again.
2 comments:
Having been raised in the city, I can't completely say I know what you're experiencing. But my husband grew up in a town of 100 people, rural, farms and he has stories that conjure up the images you've written about. There are urban equivalents that make me feel like those early days of childhood. Very nice blog.
Is that Fred Burris?
Post a Comment