A Farm, a Story

If you look very closely at this picture, you can see a couple of buildings on the flat green meadow. It's a 100-year-old dairy.

Since I've been a child, I've been fascinated with this place. I love it. Although impossible to see in this picture, the house is a plank wood building and the barn is one of those old two-story building with a huge loft.

I've never been any closer to this farm than this, across the valley. Once, when I was a young kid, my dad guided some dudes (trail riders) along the southern border of it, there in the pines. But I don't remember that trip.

Isn't that odd?

Anyway, this farm has always fascinated me. Although difficult to see in this picture, there is a narrow, steep road leading up the side of the mountain to it. The owner, many long years ago, drove off the side of the road and died.

The eastern relatives wanted no part of it, and sold the cows and built a gate across the road. It was left intact, with all the implements and furniture. Until thieves stole everything. As a kid, I sometimes wondered about that man who died, and what it would be like to walk into those furnished buildings.

I fantasized about it often, made up stories in my head about the people who had lived there, and those who might move in.

You see, I've been a dreamer my whole life.

A story weaver.

And I still am.