I want a barn.
For the past few years I’ve been harboring this fantasy of having a barn. Why? Well, think of all the cool things you can do with a barn. It’s a place to store things, you can stand inside with the doors open in a storm and watch the rain while you feel the breeze, and you can run your hands over the weathered wood and appreciate the years represented there.
Now, of course, in my barn fantasy there is no dirt, no leaking roof, no mice, no snakes, and no bugs. And there is certainly no livestock, and no poop. There are also no other unsavory critters like possums or skunks in this idyllic fantasy. I offer that non-exhaustive list only because my previous experience with barns has always involved one or more of those.
Barns must be wood. I simply won’t accept any other material fashioned into a rectangular shape as a barn. It won’t do. No. Absolutely not. It must be a wood barn. Preferably old wood. With character.
I’d also like my barn sitting out behind my Queen Anne style Victorian home – completely restored, of course, thank you – and with nary a need of upkeep on the horizon. I’m not sure where these lovely structures reside, but I know they’re frequented by friends and loved ones as we live happy, content, healthy lives. Thank goodness there’s a gardener to take care of all the land because I don’t even like to mow my little yard now.
Truth be told, I don’t need a barn. But I want a barn. I don’t have a single thing I need to keep in a barn. But I would find something, no doubt. When you have a barn you probably have things they go in a barn.
Sunday afternoon I was taking a drive and ran across this barn. I don’t know the owners, but that’s a cool barn. Very cool.
I like to engage in these flights of fancy on occasion. It’s refreshing to think about the person you would be if you lived in a restored, rambling, ornate, yellow Queen Anne house with a big old barn out behind it.
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