A barn is a reminder of work once at hand. Some of it is ongoing, while in other instances it was and then put aside, perhaps for another time. Cows – even imaginary – won’t wait long. Everything needs repair or weeding. Feasting is countered by fasting. Again, the season turns. All together.
The barn was my own. A carriage house, actually – in a small city, the oldest settlement in New Hampshire and seventh-oldest in the nation. How I got there is a long story, told in part here at the blog and in part in the novels.
The barn was a central part of my domestic labors, with dreams of a loft studio, once more pressing house repairs were in place. At least its back half was no longer sinking toward collapse on rotted sills. In our possession, the structure did hold a mother-in-law apartment. The remainder provided storage.
A writer collects many materials – fodder for winter. More important, eighteen years after a divorce, I had remarried, this time with children. Once again, I was with gardens and this time, trails of toys, clothing, and chipped dishes. We did have woodstove heat in the kitchen ell.
Not that anyplace with children is truly idyllic. It was always a near-catastrophe, of the best sort.
Jnana's Red Barn 