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And found myself staring at this barn.
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The wood's chipping away and the paint's flaking off there.
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Probably from all the salt water in the air.
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But it reminded me of my grandfather's barn.
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That barn was the bane of my existence.
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It was immaculate. We painted it every other summer.
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Just him and me.
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I'd ask him, "Why? Why do we have to do this?"
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And he'd look at me and say,
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"This is our barn. Who else is going to do it?"
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I used to think the guy was crazy.
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And stubborn. Proud.