My PaPa built this barn, back oh I don't know, maybe 60 years ago. I can remember a time when it was filled with the squeals of pigs and surrounded by a field full of cows swatting flies with their tails. My Papa drove a beat-up Ford truck, wore faded OshKosh overalls and dusty brown boots everyday. In his pockets he carried peppermints and a dog-eared miniature notepad with notes about his brood..."such and such pinkeye 3 days...etc.". I have only those kinds of memories about him, things a little girl would remember.
Like when he laughed and laughed after pulling my little sister out of the bed of the truck and set her sqaurely down into a fresh pile of manure. She was wearing her new Mickey Mouse flip flops that matched mine and well...she was not happy. She was crying, he was laughing, and I was standing with my hands on my hips yelling at him to "Stop laughing at my sister! Hmmp!".
One day while my Granny was frying up some goodies, he walked into the kitchen and forgetting my sister and I were there I think, "goosed" my Granny right on the rear. She screamed, smacked him and they both turned back to see Andi and I cracking up at the table.
I miss him terribly and wish he was here to see his great-grandbabies. The tobacco he farmed is the reason my memories of him stop at age 12. Two of the other barns have already been torn down, but I think they are gonna have to get through me to take this one.
