I love barns. I love barns so much I bought one. A proper barn. 100 years old – up North Michigan by the Lakes. It was built into the side of a south facing hill the way a barn was meant to be with rocks in the foundation so big it would have taken all the mules in Twenty Mule Team Borax to move them. The huge timbers were scored with adz marks. It was three stories. The lower level where the animals kept warm from the low winter sun. The hay loft complete with ladder. And the main level with a hay mow made of timbers. I had never ‘felt’ thunder until I was sitting on the hay mow to escape a storm and the thunder passed through the ground, into the barn and then rolled through the hay mow and out the other side of the barn. Time stopped. As usually happens there was a house that came with the barn complete with a 2 inch, 20 foot deep hand pounded water well and electrical wires sheathed in brown ‘fur’ suspended from glass insulators. We moved in. My daughter Amanda had a chicken named Peeper and a cucumber named Ed. We heard horse hair plaster give way upstairs one evening and found a good chunk of ceiling on her bed. The place was…wonderful. We no longer have the farm but every barn I pass has to either be photographed, noticed in great detail, or in this case painted. The great old buildings that have been kissed by time and made beautiful are passing away. This one looked to me like a perfect patchwork quilt sewn from timber and tin.