Sunday, February 21, 2010


I have a thing for barns. I'm sure the magnetic pull toward these rustic, wood laden structures stems from a childhood lived amongst trees, dirt roads, country stores and county fairs. My family always lived in small towns, but my original homestead, where I lived for the first 10 years of my life, was by far the most rural and remote. Our property was a vastitude of orchards, vegetable and herb gardens, sprawling lawns, playgrounds, forest, streams and....of course, 3 barns. These barns were foreign lands with endless crevices to explore, the places I could usually find my father working in his wood shop or rebuilding a car, the secret corners where my sister and I would play our games of make believe, and the hideaways I could always count on.

Today I am still drawn to barns, but my attraction is more aesthetic in nature. I am fascinated by the flawed ones, marvel at the new, modern ones and am comforted by the historic ones. When I passed by this particular barn with my fiance on a visit back to our hometown last week, I insisted he stop so I could capture this broken down barn I must've passed hundreds of times in my life without noticing. As I dodged traffic in my high heels and sunk into mud holes while attempting to capture this magnificent structure, I returned to that simple time.....when I was barefoot and a pile of wet dirt was something to delight in.

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