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37 His Barn Askew, timbers skewer gray sky. Silent maples hold back lake winds. Long-dead men carved their names into rafters. Something here hushes us, our whispers, raccoons scrambling. Through broken boards, we glimpse father, waiting to tell this story again, his hands ropy with veins and tendons, his history, ours. This place, hay lift and pulleys dangle. The rock foundation crumbled, kicked away. This page intentionally left blank. ...

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