I grew up on a farm in Eastern Washington and there grew my love for barns. The barn on our farm was/is a landmark in the area, and a beautiful tribute built by our ancestors. I've always loved old barns and their symbolism of America and hard work. They stand proudly, beckoning others to pass through their doors and sit on a bale of hay for a spell. Oh the stories those old barns could tell! Their musty smell of dirt, grease, leather, and barn cats don't make me turn away; I could spend a day inside, imagining people and animals before me using the barn, working, and enjoying its strong, encompassing beams. Of course, some barns are not so lucky. Time and weather have torn some barns apart, leaving just fragile pieces of boards and rusty nails behind.