Over the weekend, my Golds celebrated 8 weeks with our family, DH split the coop so we could move the Reds out of the brooder box at long last, and the milk house on the barn collapsed.
The milk house was built the year my parents bought the farm. It stood for thirty-eight years through all kinds of weather, wind and disasters.
My older sister nearly collapsed it once by running into it with the forked bucket of the tractor.
It’s been painted blue, green, orange, lavender and white. And possibly other colors.
I’m a little sad because it’s gone now, because it marks an end to something special from my childhood: our farm will never be a dairy farm again.
Not that I wasn’t prepared for that. We’re buying chickens this year, beef cattle in a year or two. But I will always miss my dairy cows and their big eyes and sandpaper tongues.
The milk house collapsing means we will have to rebuild it entirely in order to go back to dairy.
If we wanted to.