This photo from three years ago popped up on my Facebook memories the other day, taken during the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic. Being retired, I had time on my hands and was trying to keep myself occupied while socially isolating. Rebuilding part of our old cow barn seemed like a good project to take on. Two sides of the barn were in rough shape from decades of exposure to weather and needed extensive repair work. I figured that would keep my mind and hands busy for a while.
There hadn’t been a need for me to go up to the hayloft in a very long time. I climbed the stairs to get an up-close perspective on some of the work I would be doing, remembering to duck my head in that one low spot just before the landing. I’ve always liked our hayloft; it’s spacious and solid and has a level tongue-and-groove floor in it. If you can ignore the occasional mud dauber buzzing around, it feels comfortable up at tree-top height.
I came down the stairs feeling nostalgic.
Our boys learned to rollerblade in that hayloft. Here in the country, we didn’t have concrete or pavement for them to learn on, and the hayloft became a space where they could practice, dimly illuminated by the sunlight coming in through the two small end windows. They fastened a small basketball goal at one end of the hayloft and played rollerblade basketball, little brother outsized but displaying spirited competitiveness.
When they were a little older, they strung Christmas tree lights from the rafters and would have friends over; the names of their friends are still visible, written among the rafters in glow-in-the-dark paint. They would sit around on hay bales talking and playing music from their boombox.
The boombox … I had forgotten it was still up there, all covered in dust now. So much has happened since that boombox was last used. I left it there as a reminder of those times — it’s still there today.
