These are my grandsons, Grey and Rhys, 10 and 8, playing together in the barn over this past weekend  when they were visiting here at the farm. The weather was iffy, boating excursions were curtailed, the beach wasn't an option. But a barn? Yes! A barn is always intriguing.  And there is STUFF in a barn.  (Actually, to the left, you can see a corner of a hammock; to the right, an end of a canoe).

And here, come to think of it, from several years ago, is another grandchild---with her best friend--also in the barn: the other end, where a stall was turned into a special theater where a lot of puppet shows have taken place.

All of this makes me remember summers of my small-town childhood, where when school ended, I kicked off my shoes and entered summer barefoot and carefree. Out the door in the morning, sometimes back home for lunch---other times ignoring lunch altogether---off on (bare) feet or bike, and knowing all the favorite familiar places: a stream to be waded; an abandoned building to be explored; a wall to be walked on; an overgrown vacant lot to be explored---even the college football field, which was unused in summer, and we could actually climb into the scoreboard and hang out there, peering out of the window where, during the season, score numbers appeared.

I can understand why such excursions are forbidden to today's children. But oh, what a loss of such freedom, roaming, and exploration...

The mysteries and secret and history of an old barn are a safe alternative. I think my grandchildren will remember it happily all their lives.