Graf 12

When I was young, I used to ride with my parents up Route 15, travelling from Dover to Bangor. On the way was an old potato barn, sitting back from the road in an old, abandoned potato field. She stood like an austere matron; imposing and ominous. She was proud and haughty, looking out over the field that was once her domain. She was especially imposing at night, looming high above the landscape, silhouetted against the clouds and the glowing moon. The gray, weathered clapboards framed two windows that sat above the large barn door, like two eyes gazing at the road.

As time went by, the barn aged as an old woman would. The barn began to fall back onto itself, looking much like a woman having her hair pulled from behind, eyes wide and mouth agape. I could imagine a silent scream emanating from her throat, eyes full of terror as her body began to fail. But inspite of the old doyenne's gradual decline, she still managed to stand above the countryside, desperately clinging to life.

One day, as I drove to work, I saw that the old barn was demolished. Did some thief come in the night and carry the old woman away? I don't know. But she would no more loom above the field, no eyes looking out over the road. There was no more need for the grand dame and she was torn down to makemore room for the tractor business next door. Oh, well that's progress.