memories

My grandparent's farm.

There are stories here. That's what I almost called this post, instead of memories. In one of the tilting outbuildings I discovered an icebox filled with letters and a chest of disintegrating clothing. Judging from the dates on the letters - 1933 - the pretty fabrics could have been from that era, but they crumbled in my mittened hands - a snug winter hotel for the critters of the farm.

The history and stories that belong to this place are like the roof of the collapsing barn - layers upon layers of weather-beaten materials that for all their beauty have a sharp edge in places.

It's sad that many of our barns in the Midwest face the same fate as this barn, which is now in such a state of disrepair that it's only fit for the bonfire pile. (One last hurrah on a cool summer night. Something to entertain the local teenagers, though there aren't many of those in this area either.)

I can remember playing in this barn as a very small child - though is was rickety and tilted even then. We grandkids were banned from the barn our entire childhood, which was a wise decision on the part of the adults.

But still . . . what would it be like if the hayloft of this barn was filled with golden straw? What if there was a rope swing in the rafters that the new batch of great-grandkids could spin each other on until they got headaches and saw stars?

I think a lot of people have a fondness for a weather-beaten barn that's still standing. I guess it speaks to some thread of our collective and imagined past. We all wish we could've spent some happy hours in a big red barn - even a faded one will do.