On my last trip to Northlandia in November I made a point to stop by the owners of this farm, Mr. and Mrs. George Ewing for a picture, a single picture of something inside.
The snowy pic is one I found that was taken a couple years ago by someone, not me. It's a great pic because of the fence shadow. The one above I took in November. When I knocked on the door I was greeted by them and ushered into the front room where we chatted for an hour or so.
We talked of the past, our families, the barn and the Internet. George was one of the older kids when I was growing up but always a nice guy. His brother is Ivan of the infamous Buster Board gutter incident when we were in high school.
They can't get Internet out there because Hughes, the biggest rural provider, came as far north as the stop sign then decided anymore wouldn't be economically feasible. They tried a dish but signals are impenetrable with that house of theirs. Apparently it is a mystery.
Finally, we went out to the barn. It needs some work after the last few big blows, as you can see on the right, but it remains basically unchanged since the last haying of the livestock many, many, decades ago.
But that's not why I'm here.
The livestock would amble on the outside area here, and the hay would be dropped from the middle. It was assumed to be more efficient. Other forces would put the round barn industry out of business after about 20 years. Rectangular and standard would reign supreme.
But that's not why I'm here.
There was one thought that round became popular so the devil couldn't hide in the corners. But in Illinois, the popularity was due in large part to the University of Illinois. The agricultural department began building them and many farmers subscribed to their farming journal. Although Mrs. Ewing mentioned Amish influences, I couldn't find any references to them. It would appear that it was simply a more efficient means to feed the cows - gravity.
But that's not why I'm here.
I climb the somewhat rickety ladder to the hay loft. But I stop when I get my picture. When you get older nostalgia is just as powerful as salmon who swim upstream. When we were in high school we'd come out here on winter weekends and play basketball. We were oblivious to the cold. None of us were that good, but it wasn't about the win, or the ability. It was the fun. The backboard and hoop are still here. Waiting like an abandoned sentry. Waiting in silence except for the swirling winds that seek entrance and exit. Waiting for resumption of games that ended years ago, when firmly cloaked in youth. There are not many places, as we age, that we can return which remain unchanged. This is one. I can still hear the bouncing basketball, the contact under the net, the retrieving an errant toss, the visible breaths in the cold, the laughs.
It is rare to find a place where time does not pass.
That's why I'm here.
Great memories. Thanks for sharing.
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