Driving to Clarkston

From my home in north Idaho to my mother's house is Clarkston , Washington is a two hour drive. It's a long stretch of the highway cutting through rolling wheat fields and cattle grazing land. Other than Moscow, a college city where the University of Idaho is , the few little towns along the way are 'drive by' towns with no place to stop and shop. Their main purpose seems to be putting the brakes on drivers , posting signs stating the speed limit has been reduced from 60 miles per hour to 35 miles per hour.

During summer days a stream of out of state motor homes, campers and cars pulling trailers share the road with us Idaho folk; Sometimes a pack of Harley riders wearing black leather vests with bandanna's tied around their head zoom pass the slow moving rigs. And it's not unusual to see a cyclist or two keeping pace to their own inner rhythm as they feverishly pedal up a hill.

What always grabs my attention is the many barns dotting the roadside. Each one so unique and different. Some are red, some grey, some blue. Some are very old and look like they could fall over any minute; Some brand new. I think about all the hard work they represent - a place where a cow is milked, hay is stacked, tools are repaired. I wonder what pleasures and happy memory the barn brings to its owner - perhaps the scene of a welcome home party or harvest dance.

Although the architecture of a barn isn't considered to be great and grand like a big city skyscraper - the kind Ayn Rand writes about in her acclaimed novel, "The Fountainhead", it does have its own special beauty and grandeur, bringing to mind the often overlooked and forgotten farmers of America . What my husband likes to call "Salt of the earth" people.