Memories: The Old Barn I

 I have been told by many that I should write.  I a frustrated at times for the knowledge I have and the stories that go behind who I am.  I am hoping in time that my creative juices start flowing and I can somehow come up with a way of using this knowledge and these stories to make a difference in someone’s life. 

          I was raised in northern New Hampshire , in a small town named Clarksville . Clarksville is neighbored by Pittsburg , the largest township this side of the Mississippi (M, I, double s, I, double s, I, double p, I.)  We always told people that we live in Pittsburg , because it was much easier to see on a map and you didn’t have to explain where Clarksville was, as Pittsburg was right at the tip of New Hampshire and big enough to see that you didn’t have to squint.

The winters were cold, and we had the snow to go with it.  I can remember it being 50 below.  We lived upon a hill that over looked the town of Pittburg , on the East Side of the Connecticut River, which by the way starts between the towns of Pittsburg and Clarksville .  What a tremendous view we had.  Our property consisted of an old farmhouse and a huge barn with drive in wharfing to the top level.  So many of my childhood days were spent in the old barn and my memories recall it as if I was walking into it at this point.  The hay was dropped down two stories into the bays and stacked with bales until it would reach the third floor and the then the roof. I am sure that in years previous to baled hay, that hay was pitched in loose and tread to compress it down. 

The old barn was built post and beam style.  My dad spent many hours a year fixing the roof or jacking and putting in cables to keep the old barn in shape.  What a massive structure it was.  When my brothers and I were younger, we used to have no fear and would walk some of the beams.  I shutter to think NOW!