When we were kids, the haymow above the barn was a great playground. It was a place to build forts and tunnels, to jump off piles of baled hay into piles of loose. Then we grew up. The once playground became a place where you sweated in heat, sneezed on dust, and where your arms got scratched stacking the endless lines of bales coming off the elevator.
1 comment:
I remember when I got to stack bales in the haymow, instead of unload wagons. It meant I was becoming a man.
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