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Well-worn, but taken care of. Used weekly to keep paths through the woods cleared and to mow under the numerous shade trees on the Minnesota farmstead.
I grew up on a small-ish farm. We raised Nubian goats for milk and I was the freak who would bring goat milk to show-n-tell. We also had a horse (who finally died at age 35!) and chickens.
Our farm's centerpiece was the late 1800's log barn which was home to the animals and equipment. Far from suburbia of other kids my age (siblings in my family have nothing to do with one another for some reason..), most of my childhood was spent in solitary play in the barn.
On the very day I was first learning how to drive, a tornado swept through New Palestine, Indiana and damaged our barn to an extent that we had to have it torn down.
The logs were put in a huge pile... and there they rot. Great oak logs, preserved for a century - reduced to nothing in under a year. I often feel that my childhood died with them.