Every Sunday, I climb the wooden ladder attached to the barn wall, through a small hole in the ceiling and go up into the second floor of the barn. I throw six bales of hay down a larger hole in the floor, into the stables that used to house a cow, Florence’s Tennessee Walkers, and later Rocky. This is enough to feed the donkeys and sheep for a week.
I love being in this part of the barn. The floor is covered with old hay and there are a bunch of old broken chairs, sitting around as if they know each other so well, they’re having a conversation. The pressed back Victorian has long grown tired with the rocker and has turn it’s back on the whole thing. The broken legged chairs lay on their backs in the middle of it all. I’ve always seen chairs as stand in’s for people. Like the Dickens story, The Queer Chair, where the chair comes to life. And every Sunday, I look at these chairs expecting to see something new or different. That they’ve moved or have a seat or leg that wasn’t there the week before. I like knowing the chairs are hidden away in the barn and like to believe they’ll still be even when I’m gone.