I was ten years old when we moved to the farm. We drove a mile down the dead end gravel driveway through a willow and cedar swamp that flooded the road every spring. At the end of the drive was our new place. The house had a big brown oil heater in the dining room and plaster was falling off part of the living room ceiling, there was no tub or shower, the basement was damp most of the time, and the roof needed repair, but that was all easily ignored or fixed, cause the place had possibilities.

The pump house was perfect for a workshop for dad and the chicken coop was in good repair just waiting for a flock of hens. The garage and machine shed needed a little work, but were serviceable.

But best of all was the barn. It was just a plain rectangular barn and it was small as barns go, but it had a milking room with stanchions, and a haymow filled with old hay. There was no paint. Everything was weathered a silver gray and the concrete silo had seen better days. But, we all knew that with a barn you could raise things. The possibilities seemed endless.

So we did. First, 40-pound feeder pigs. Piglets squeal like crazy, but they were so cute we wanted to hold them all the time. In no time at all, big hogs could turn a whole field and remove all the quack grass, perfect for a garden site, not to mention the fertilizer. But then the market for hogs fell out. And pigs were a lot of trouble.

With that big beautiful barn just sitting there, it seemed a shame not to raise our own meat. So, one calf named T-bone moved into the barn. We knew he was for the table, but that didn't stop three kids from making a pet. That was hard beef to eat, but we ate it. Though, after T-bone, we never raised a steer again.

Then there were the rabbits. Dad built a pen in the barn and we had a whole rabbit factory with new babies all the time. Rabbits were fun to raise and not too much trouble until we arrived home one evening and found a weasel had gotten in the barn. The massacre was horrible, with dead rabbits everywhere. The rabbit project came to a sad halt.

And a horse named Chester. Every 10-year-old girl wants a horse. When dad talked to a guy who was going to put down a lame horse, we just had to try to bring him back to health. After a week he was worse than ever. He couldn't even put his rear hoof on the ground. Dad said it was cruel to keep him alive, he was just suffering and would never get better. I begged and pleaded and Chester was given one more night to show some improvement. It seems a little girl's tears have some amazing restorative powers. Chester was a bit better the next day, and soon he was back to normal. Or as normal as a stubborn, swaybacked, fat old horse can get. Whenever he got too far from the barn he took the bit in his teeth and ran back home, taking care to run under low tree branches in the hopes of knocking his riders to the ground. His manners got worse everyday, until dad finally traded him for a pair of goats.

That barn also housed dogs with puppies and loads of cats with kittens and a small flock of muscovey ducks plus the uninvited bats and raccoons, possum and ground hogs, a few snakes, an owl and pigeons galore.

And kids. When we had wagons of hay bales delivered, we found that kids can wiggle into the tightest spots and, with luck, there are spaces between the bales that can be widened into the best secret forts in the world. Scratched and sneezing, covered with chafe, we would return to the house every night after a day spent dreaming in the barn. Rope swings, kittens born just out of reach in the loose hay at the top of the mow, and dust motes in the shafts of light between the barn boards.

That old barn is still standing, it needs a new roof now and hasn't housed much but bats and birds in the last 15 years, but when you're 10 years old and have a barn you learn a lot about life and death and many of the important things about living and caring for animals and people. About the possibilities of a barn.