Memories Etched in Iron and Wood
Recently, I found myself walking through the old barns on the farm with my brother Jeff. The air carried that familiar scent of weathered wood, rust, and hay soaked into the walls over decades of storms, laughter, and long summer days. Jeff is preparing for a sale, letting go of some items the farm no longer needs, tools and treasures that have held their place for over a hundred years.
As we moved slowly down the rows of objects, each one seemed to hold a story, tales of hands that had worked, children that had played, and animals that had been cared for. Two pieces in particular tugged at my heart.
The first was a solid cast-iron cow trough. By design, it was nothing more than a daily necessity, a sturdy vessel used to water the cattle. I can still picture the animals lowering their heads and drinking deeply. But on the hottest summer days, that trough took on a different purpose, one that transformed our world. Dad would let us drain the water, scrub the rough and rusty sidewalls, and refill it with icy water pumped straight from the well. The metal sides turned cool and before long, it became our swimming pool. We’d climb in, splash around, and laugh until our sides ached, our squeals of delight echoing across the fields. We didn’t need anything fancy, just that old trough, our imagination, and the kind of joy that bubbles up when life is simple.
The second was a wagon wheel, weathered by time and carrying a patina that seemed almost sacred. Its spokes stretched out like arms of history, reaching toward stories I’ll never fully know. I ran my hand across its surface and thought about my relatives that once guided this wheel across the land. What burdens did it carry? What dreams did it help deliver? The not-knowing stirred something deep in me, a reminder of the lives and labors that came before, and how much of who we are is shaped by the invisible hands of those who walked this land first.
Growing up on a farm was more than just a childhood backdrop; it was a classroom without walls. It taught lessons that have stayed with me far longer than any textbook. I learned the rhythm of seasons, that there is a time to plant, a time to tend, and a time to harvest. I learned resilience when crops failed, and celebration when the fields turned gold. I learned responsibility when chores couldn’t be put off, no matter the weather. Most importantly, I learned that life is cyclical, and endings always give way to beginnings, just as winter always yields to spring.
Standing in the barn that day, I realized how those same lessons shape my life now. The cast-iron trough reminds me that joy doesn’t come from perfection, it comes from presence. The wagon wheel whispers that I am part of a bigger story, one that stretches beyond me, and it’s my responsibility to add my own chapter with care. The farm itself reminds me that letting go, just like Jeff is doing, is part of growth. We can honor the past while making room for what’s next.
As I left the barn, I carried with me a gentle gratitude for the farm, for the memories, and for the way its teachings continue to guide me. Life is not always about holding on tightly; sometimes it’s about knowing when to release, when to remember, and when to step forward with both feet planted in hope.
Today, I ask you: What are the troughs and wagon wheels in your own life and the simple joys and the mysterious artifacts that remind you of where you’ve come from? What do they whisper to you about who you are becoming?
Take a quiet moment this week to reflect. Let the memories rise. Touch the patina of your own story, and let it guide you toward the growth waiting on the other side. These memories etched in iron and wood are a beautiful part of my soul.
xo, Sheryl
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