Farm Barns

My grandfather, born in 1920, turned 91 years of age this summer. Farming his entire life to support a wife and six children, he is a true testament of what it means to be a family man. Always in the barn before sunrise, ensuring he was washed up each evening for dinner, and in the church pew on Sunday. I claim this to be the reason I appreciate hard work and entrepreneurship. To build a business and create something truly great with your bare hands, love, and dedication is the American dream.

Northern Maine holds many similar stories and relics, standing tall, as testament to by-gone times. Tall barns and old farmhouses, constructed by early settlers, dot the landscape. Each sight has a story more interesting than the previous. If walls could talk I’d love to sit and listen. See if you can tell what the below have to say. If you have any insight – leave a comment.

Doors open, John Deere backed evenly down the center.

Perhaps someone just walked inside, but I doubt it.

I think I would have a hard time determining which side of this long and winding country driveway I would pull into and out of. The mailbox provides an interesting divide.

Trusty boots have seen better days and are perfectly worn in. Comfort.

Standing strong on a slanted hill.

Brightly colored rail car.

The transportation to Northern Maine.

Big brother, Little brother.

Architecture on a cloudy day.

Bricks and wood.

Shingles and windows.

Big Red.