Time moves forward...it never stands still. I get that. That doesn't make it any easier to watch the gradual erasure of multiple generations and albeit small by world standards, the legacy left behind as a testament to "This is what we accomplished". All gone now...nothing but a shell of a barn.
Ironic...with the rebirth of Spring comes the death of a home that has stood for the better part of a century...death came with just a few blows of the dozer a fire to get rid of the remains. For those of you who have followed my blog since 2008, you will recall that often times I have posted pictures of an old farm that has always grabbed my attention. The character of the old house, the outbuildings and old trees that held so many secrets of past generations drew me back at least once each season to photograph it in snow, in bloom, in drought and in the colors of Autumn. I have often envisioned a family of multiple generations living in the house and out on the front porch on a hot Summer evening after chores, relaxing and cooling off as dusk provided an excuse to rest and catch up with the news of the area. This is the old house that was featured in the movie "League of their own". Used for their purposes and discarded afterwards.
This past Winter, I visited with hopes of catching it's mood as a quiet snow fell without a sound. As I set up the camera inside and looked through the viewfinder...a bulldozer and tractor with a front end loader starred back at me through the window. Outside was a hole in the ground where last season still stood a summer kitchen. The only sound was coming from the crackling and popping of century old charred 2x6's glowing red and smoking as the snow attempted to ease their pain. Looking around, there were no longer any trees, any shrubs or outbuildings. Everything but the house and old barn was gone...only the skeletons of framework remained.
As I left, I stopped one more time to write the old farm's obituary in images. The storm clouds had become more than a gentle snow transforming the remains into a graveyard.
Yet as I visited the farm last week, I was bludgeoned with the final insult. It was not a graveyard. At least with a graveyard, there would be a remembrance of what was. The final insult was nothing...nothing remained but the old shell of the barn.
The second and last image were made from the same vantage point.