As dawn breaks the rays of the sun envelop the worn boards and the weathered roof of the old crusty building. In year’s gone horses or cows or sheep settled safely, snuggly in stalls chomping away on metered gobs of alfalfa or Wyoming grass as the winds and rains and sleet ferociously assaulted the aged wooden planks.

At times like this, undoubtedly the farmer or rancher gently tended to the needs of his livestock — seeing that they were quieted, calmed, and well fed. He too found safe haven from the pelting particles of moisture hammering the sides of the old edifice.

Barns are places to stay dry, places where cows are milked, tack is stored, animals are feed, hay is stashed, and tractors parked.

I have memories of grandpa milking, of cats begging for the predictable squirt of milk, of mucking stalls, forking hay, and feeling content, happy, and fulfilled.

I remember the musky fetid smells radiating from the mishmash of earth, manure, urine, and fallen flecks of hay. And the human scent, the crusty salted odor produced from pitching hay, sweeping floors, or tending to the needs of the animals.

I see now why I gravitate to shooting of old buildings, barns in particular. It’s because of the allure of the past and the pleasant recollections of times long gone.