I love barns. I love the country. When I worked patrol for the Sheriff’s Department, many times my work zone encompassed the north end of our county which is mostly rural. It seemed as though as soon as I left the city behind and drove into the country, my whole body just went “ahhhhhh”. My mother was born in 1929 and raised on a farm that had been in her dad’s family for 50 years before that. She was one of eight children so us grandkids always had tons of cousins to play with when we went for family gatherings at Grandma and Grandpa’s. There was a hayloft in the cow barn the boy cousins and more adventurous girl cousins jumped out of. We played baseball in the side yard dodging chicken poop and gathered eggs, hoping we didn’t get pecked while doing it. Grandpa grew feed corn and us kids loved to shuck the corn and watch the chickens come running when we dropped it on the ground. Occasionally we got to ride the tractor down to the field with grandpa or swing on a grape vine that swung out over the creek. That was great fun until the day the grape vine broke and I landed six foot down in the creek. The farm is gone now, sold by my grandmother in the 1980s to a contractor who turned it into a subdivision.