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As far as I knew it
had always been
there. At least
as long as I could
remember. It was
considered a land
mark, a geographical
reference point denoting
the last of the wheat
fields to the north.
Beyond it the terrain
grows rugged, the favorable
climate and fertile
soil yield to a harsher
land.
Its foundation is comprised
of stone and mortar as
are the walls, and so it has
been aptly named "The Stone
Barn".
Atop those crude stone walls
a majestic network of rafters
and beams comprise a huge
hay loft which can be spotted
out on the horizon from miles
away. The old barn truly is
a spectacular site. Many a
ride was defined simply by
stating , "we're headed for the
stone barn". T'was just such a
day that a Sportster gave chase
to my Thruxton, like two school
children embroiled in a game of
tag we raced through the coulees,
over the scab rock, then merged
with the fertile plains of golden
wheat. The Thurxton swooped
through the curves of the meandering
road which seemed in no hurry to
head north. Eventually the road
straightened and speed increased.
I scanned the horizon for that grand
old loft.
Heat mirages vanished before me
then reappeared in the distance
looking like pools of water on the
asphalt surface. Whirlwinds danced
playfully forming dust clouds out on
the summer fallow. The suns rays
radiated into the grain of my leather
jacket, the lining wicked away
sweat. Had it not been for the ribbon
of asphalt I would have sworn we
were lost, for the towering loft of
the stone barn was nowhere in sight.
We pulled into the broken
down corral that surrounded the
barn. I switched off the ignition.
Skip lowered his sportster onto
its side stand, lit a cigarette and
blew the smoke into the swirling
breeze. "That's a ***** shame,"
he said." There before us lay the
remains of the loft, weathered
beams and battered joists in pieces
on the ground. The splendor of their
formation never again to be beheld.
I always assumed that if it was on the
horizon I could reach it. If within
my reach I could grasp it.
Skip puffed on his cigarette, the pipes
on his Harley popped as they cooled.
I recalled the times I had stood inside
those stone walls and stared up at
the beams of light that shown through
gaps in the dilapidated roof.
It had been a tranquil place, the soft earthen
floor a composition of dark soil,
decaying manure and rotting hay.
The air in the old barn was thick and
musty, remnants of the shake roof provided
shade from the glaring sun. It was easy
to imagine myself standing there again,
such was the aura of this place.
Skip took one last drag from his cigarette,
then ground it out on the heel of his boot.
The Harley's exhaust echoed off the stone
walls as he pulled away.
We returned the way we had come, but
with a relaxed canter. A gentle breeze
blew across the rolling plains forming
mosaical patterns in the golden
fields of ripened grain. Just before dropping
down into the coulees I glanced back over my
shoulder, as if to see the loft one last time.
It seemed a most natural thing to do. For
as far as I knew it had always been
there, at least as long as I could remember.
Merrill
[ This message was edited by: Merrill on 2005-11-12 10:56 ]
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