Growing up on the farm was somewhat magical to me. As much as I enjoyed taking an "adventure" through the woods, playing house in the old chicken coop that was converted into our playhouse, and climbing into the tree fort my dad built there is nothing that will ever compare to the memories of the "old farm". The year I was born my parents built a new house on the same land that my great grandparents called home, thirty years later they still live in that same house but before I called it home my beloved Grandma Dale was raised on that land with her two sisters. Just a bit down the road and through the trees from my parents house stood a giant white house with 6 bedrooms, a large walk in pantry and a huge enclosed sun porch. Soon this giant white house became my "playhouse". No one could ask for a neater "playhouse"...two stories plus a basement, an upstairs full of different colored bedrooms, a big kitchen that still had the old stove and vintage teal sink, old vintage light fixtures, hardwood floors and all together 16 different areas or rooms to run around in not to mention a HUGE attic where you could walk through as long as you could balance on the floor beams. See what I mean about growing up there being magical?Across the old farmyard from the house was the barn. The barn my great grandpa Peterson built in 1928 (or 1931...my dad can't quite remember). As far as barns go...that was also giant in size. I have to admit, when I was little the barn kind of scared me. It was dark, had spiders and at one time we even had cows in there. As I got older though I started appreciating that barn just as much as the old house and would love just walking through it and checking out every corner, crack and dimly lit room. I think i almost expected to find some really neat, really old treasure one of the times...of course I never did. Growing up I loved looking into the silo and yelling as loud as I could just to hear my echo, I swear it looked bigger from the inside of it then it does from the outside. There was also this little room off to your right side when you walked in the front door. That room was filled with tons of little junk...nails, rusty old tools and some other random stuff I couldn't describe. I used to go in there and look at that stuff over and over again...again, I suppose, searching for some hidden treasure. Then, when I was done exploring the barn I would go behind it and lay down in the long grass for hours on end, staring up at the sky I would talk to my grandma. Grandma passed away in 1991 and I swear every time I go down to that old farm yard I can feel her all around me. To both of us that was home.
Now, thirty years later I can still picture exactly how that house looked including the color of each rooms paint and where each piece of furniture or old box was abandoned. The house was starting to fall apart so bad it was burnt down just a year or two ago. I think it was more emotional for me then most of my family. For a combination of reasons I had a strong attachment to it but knew it wouldn't survive forever. The barn however is still standing and just last weekend when i was home for Christmas I trekked my way through all the snow to get down to the old farm yard. The intent was to get some photos of the barn as well as just to breathe in the air and feel the magic surround me.
When I showed this photo to some people they commented on how great of a photo it was. When I look at this photo though I don't just see a pretty barn. I see my great grandpa working the farm while my grandma runs around playing with her sisters. I hear laughter and people yelling at the farmhands to work harder. I see myself as a kid walking through each room searching for treasures. I see a million memories wrapped up into one little 10x8 black and white photo. A photo that no matter how "good" people say it is, it will never compare to the real thing.
