My grandpa was a Kansas farmer. From our few but precious visits to see him and Grandma, I fell in love with cows, pastures, tractors, pick-up trucks, and all things farm. But the thing I love most is a barn. He had a great big ole' white one with a large center aisle .
A couple weeks ago, en route to pick up Joel from camp in central Pennsylvania, I took some pictures of barns. Can you guess which one is my favorite among these?
Several months ago , Paul and I ran into old friends we hadn't seen in over a year. The husband has a friendly Southern accent and an easy-going, "don't hurt nobody" kind of spirit, so it's hard to be really offended yet very easy to joke with him. He is an avid photographer and, unbeknownst to me ,a man with a great memory for details. Too great for his own good!
Turns out I had forgotten that I had told him (who knows how long ago) this tidbit about myself, that I love barns. Well, after hugs and "how are you and the kids?" all around, Roger says, "Zo, I thoughta you th' other day when I was shootin' an old barn."
I teased him mercilessly. "What are you saying , Roger, that I look like the side of a barn? I mean, I know I've got weight to lose, but really! Or are you emphasizing the old part? Huh? Huh? Whatcha sayin'?"
Oh, he turned as red as the barn in this picture above and tried to back-pedal.
" Naw, ah naw, not at all. I jiss--I jiss remember ya sayin' once how much you like ole barns. Thass all . Oh, look what I got m'self into!"
2 comments:
My fave is the last one. Is it yours? I also like the old abandoned barn a lot. Maybe I have more sympathy than neccesary for those magnificent abandoned barns.
Yes, Laurie, my favorite is the last one. Even though Grandpa had a white barn, I absolutely love red ones .
I also like the weather-beaten, worn out and abandoned one. Artistically it has great lines. Historically it must be full of stories. Did I ever blog about the time I (a PK at the time) was smoking cigarettes in the loft of a friend's barn in Kansas? Stupid 3rd graders .We were up there puffing away when we thought we heard footsteps coming up the ladder. I threw my cigarette down on the hay-strewn floor. Yeh, real smart. Thankfully my foolish comrade has one shred of common sense and stomped it out. The footsteps, it turns out, were only figments of our imaginations/stricken consciences .
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