My Grandpa's barn

I loved my grandpa's farm.  From the pasture, to the mulberry trees, to the ponds, and best of all the barn.

Grandpa would let us take his car to drive around his pasture.  We'd weave through roads built around crops, fenced areas, and ponds.  If you drove far enough you'd get to the Pease River where the red mud would sink under your feet and the cool water would bring ease to the hot day.  We'd hook the trailer up to the tractor and have hay rides out for a weiner roast by the water.

Behind my grandpa's house, past the tire swing, were rows of trees.  We'd go there and pick berries.  Mom would make a pie but I liked the berries in a bowl with sugar and milk.

I'd spend hours in the barn.    I'd climb up to the top layer of the barn by climbing on the bails of hay.  Or I'd swing on the long rope hanging from the ceiling of the barn.  I knew every inch of that barn from where the cows would get branded to the stalls for cows giving birth.  I'd walk the wide expanse of the barn with  my mother.  Mom had so many stories of being about to kill a mouse by throwing a rock, her brothers playing tricks on her and gathering eggs.

I loved Grandpa's farm.  We'd go there every few months and enjoy being out away from town.  It was a wonderful childhood.