The Barn

I have a friend who has a bumper sticker on his truck that reads, “As a matter of fact, I WAS born in a barn.”

I don’t know if he really was born in a barn or not.  I doubt it.  But he’s as country as you can get, so it’s entirely possible.

None of my children were born in a barn, but my daughter once wanted to live in one.

When we started fixing up the farm we quickly realized that the old stable was just too far gone to save.  It was a grand old building and I hated losing it.  But we had no choice.

So we built a barn.

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I greatly admire homesteaders who build their own barns and homes, but I don’t have any of the necessary skills, and in those days I had no time either. So if we were going to have a barn we knew we had to hire someone to build it.  Fortunately for us they did a great job and were a pleasure to work with.  We struggled and battled with the contractor who built our house, but the barn-building sailed through without a hitch.

Our daughter loved the barn.  She loved it so much she asked if she could live in it.  And she was serious.  Had we let her she probably would’ve have bunked in the stall with her horse.

She’s grown and gone now, and her horse died tragically several years ago.  Now the barn serves as shelter for our herd of goats and the horse who lives here.  We store hay in the loft and keep most of my tools in the tack room.  We get lots of use out of the barn and I don’t know what we’d do without it.

Maybe someday another little girl will plead for permission to live in it.

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