SHUT THE DOOR, WE DON'T LIVE IN A BARN!! So said mom when I was a boy and left the house ajar on a winter day or tarried at the open fridge too long.
I didn't grow up in a barn, but we spent much time in or near one.
My parents hauled my sister, bro' and me out to visit Grandma and Grandpa's farm every couple weeks. Excitement to arrive made the hour slog to their country oasis drone on forever. I couldn't wait to leap outta the Dodge Aspen station wagon, eager to stomp muck in my cowboy boots and pee in the breeze beyond the barn. Grandpa or his twin boys, Uncle Bruce and Brian, would tractor me out to pasture on the Allis Chalmers.
We'd feed cattle.
Collect a dusty load of alfalfa.
Rifle a couple rounds of .22.
Or just sit and listen to windy silence.
It was the antithesis of city life. I loved it.
Grandma and Grampa passed a few years ago, Uncle Brian took over the family farm, and it's been awhile since I've visited. So I was happy to learn Uncle B. and his wife would be hosting Thanksgiving on the farm this year. A chance to let Pigtails run ape-wild
and pee behind the barn.
It was as open and free as I remember it decades ago. I chisel plowed a couple acres with the big turbo diesel John Deere. Family gabbing mixed with turkey and smoked ham hit the spot.
|no idea what's going on there|