Our barn is sacred.
It’s a beautiful old redwood barn with long, simple lines and tall, generous doors at either end. It was originally built in 1886 as a white dairy barn. It was here before the house, even. I love to imagine it brand new, teeming with warm cows and hay in the loft. It’s had many lives, most unknown to me. And now it’s the center of our little universe.
When anyone enters the barn for the first time, they are in awe of it. “Wow!” they say. “This barn is amazing!” And they begin to list all of the things the barn would be good for. The occasions, the activities, who would be there….the seasons. The barn begs for gathering. The barn begs for purpose. The barn welcomes you. The barn rocks.
It was lovingly refurbished by its previous owners. From the talk of our neighbors, many of whom pitched in to help with the project, it had fallen into a sad state. But the bones where good and the heart of the barn was still beating, so back to life it came. This time as an art school and gallery. An apartment on occasion, too. And even after 120 years of service, its future stretches out before it still. From a raucous night of family and friends playing board games by the warm stove, to a benefit ball to raise money to rescue horses. A neighborhood watch meeting or a Christmas Eve crab feast. One day a church gathering complete with Catholic Mass, and
another a sorority retreat with 100 coeds camping out for the weekend. My husband is a brewmeister. Good at it, too. People flock to taste his concoctions, which only begin with beer. He makes wine, too. And sake and port. The barn is perfect for this. And on a particularly stormy night, it’s refuge for a miniature horse, the first night away from his mother in his 8 months of life.
The barn practically breathes. It’s like a favorite uncle who is always a good sport. Steady and fine. Patient and ready. The barn drew us to this farm. The barn is sacred. And it’s not ours, somehow. We belong to it.
Lucky, lucky us.