Aren’t barns superb?
I mean, the old sorts of barns, of course. Lucky me, to have spent much of my childhood in areas where these still exist, when many are disappearing.
They have been places for play, for rest, for work. They have been places for thought. For being alone. For discovery.
Last Friday we moved a red barn from one of our locations to the spot where I live in the white farmhouse. The barn is still propped above the place where it will settle, once the foundation is built up under it. It’s still hooked to a big ol’ Mack truck.
But it is here, rounding out the space. We all feel pleased when we catch that line of roof against the sky.
It makes the farm feel like a farm.