Nothing brings back memories like old family photos. Generally these photos include people, but not always – one of my favorites is an aerial shot of the farm where I grew up.

There is no date on the photo, but I can tell when it was taken by looking at the buildings. There are no silos in the picture, for example; those were built in the late 1950s and early ‘60s. And the outhouse is still there, as is the meat house – where our cured hams would hang for months. I’m still amazed we could do that without the meat spoiling.

I can identify the milk house, the hen house and the brooder house. There’s the shop and the garage, the machinery shed, corn crib, the big barn and the hog barn.

All of these buildings hold memories of basketball games, sparrow hunts and experiments gone awry. There were seven kids in my family, and anything one of us didn’t think up, someone else did.
The meat house is where I painted my first car. I was about four at the time and thought my little pedal car needed some sprucing up. I found a paintbrush and some used motor oil and gave the car a good coating. That vehicle was really shiny for awhile, but it collected dust pretty badly, and my career as a touch-up artist was soon abandoned.

Next to the meat house was the shop, and behind that was the yard with the clothesline. The clothesline was a favorite target for our pony, Bill.

Bill didn’t like kids very much and would try to wipe us off on the clothesline every time he had a chance. He was a big pony but not quite a horse, and Bill could run. Once he got rolling, Bill would grip the bit in his mouth and defy you to stop him. Pulling back on both reins was futile.

The only recourse was to pull one rein and try to turn him. I swear a rider could turn that pony’s head around backwards with very little effect on his speed or direction.

We would be staring Bill right in the face, and he would just bite down on the bit and grin.

Bill might not unseat us right away, but a couple of trips under the clothesline was enough to discourage most would-be equestrians.
The aerial photo shows a small opening in the outside wall of the haymow. Dad cut that hole and put a door in it when I was about 10. The opening allowed us to throw hay into an outdoor manger in the barnlot below.

That wasn’t its only use, however. The hole in the mow also served as a launching pad for my basketball opponent, one wet winter day.
The hole was directly under our basketball goal, and the door was held shut with a hook. Our neighbor boy, Jerry, got a little too fancy with his footwork one day and slipped on the wet floor under the basket.

Jerry was running full speed and going in for a layup when he hit the slick spot on the floor. His feet went out from under him, sending him crashing through the door – and sailing out over the barnlot.

Luckily the hay manger had been moved, and the cows cleared out when they saw the shadow overhead. There were several inches of mud and manure in the barnlot, making for a fairly soft landing.
I had forgotten all about that opening in the haymow wall until I saw this photo. I’ll bet you anything Jerry still remembers it, though.

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.