About midnight, under wet clouds, whump thunk sounds muffled their way through open windows. The Husband got up to peer out the back, searching for who invaded our night space, and after some time he said, “I think that old barn isn’t there anymore!”
I got up to peer out and couldn’t see the usual huge latticed silhouette of a hay storage barn, but maybe it was due to the really dark skies in that direction. So, back to bed.
The drizzly morning revealed the pitiful sight of a collapsed-within-itself-hay-barn, like a massive crashed Zeppelin air ship, unburned, or similar to a wall-less three ring circus tent. A sad picture of the fall of something that was once needed, once served a purpose, but a continued unconcern had left it to decay and crumple alone in the dark.
There exists the stray person among us who lives her whole life not knowing that she is actually a Barn Person, until one day she moves to a land loaded to the gills with new, old, colorful, sagging, huge, small, single-deckers up to quadruple-decker barns. Barns are on every hill, in every valley, climbing hillsides, or even existing as part of houses like in Europe. When this stray person among us gazes upon such story book barn scenery, she inexplicably wells up with tears, sensing overwhelming bliss from even the land, the trees, farm houses, fences, horses, and cattle that surround the barns; and she constantly whispers or chokes out, “It is so beautiful!” pronouncing every consonant slowly and clearly. This stray person’s spouse has to pat her on the hand and continue driving around more curves, each one creating new tearful, happy, emotional outbursts of “It is so beautiful!”