Rusted Tin and Weathered Boards

Posted by Tim Blackwell on May 15, 2014 in Blog, Portfolio | 2 comments

Rusted tin and weathered boards, simple scenes of barns and sheds, winding roads and fresh plowed fields all trigger pleasant thoughts of years gone by. My enjoyment of these unassuming rural surroundings stems from growing up in Willamina, Oregon, a small town nestled near the forest covered coast hills lining the Willamette Valley. My childhood memories bring back thoughts of a community of hard working people…loggers, farmers, mill workers and families bound together by an appreciation for simple pleasures…Friday night football games in the brisk chill of autumn, family reunions and potluck dinners, 4th of July fireworks at the high school field with carefully placed blankets staking claim on favorite vantage points as sparklers dance and darkness falls. Family drives on the rural roads in and around my hometown during my childhood led to my love of many of the local barns and homesteads. The familiar route to my grandparent’s house up Willamina Creek was filled with anticipation, rounding the sharp curve near the old Fendall School building, then passing grandma Dent’s farm with the big barn where memories of exploring the fields with my cousins still live, catching a quick view of Mendenhall’s barn and property across the creek where I first learned to ride on a long wooden sled while stacking hay bales emerging from the dusty, groaning innards of the baling machine towed by a tractor operated by my good friend, classmate, and hay boss…an employee/employer relationship that was the source of some of my favorite escapades as a teenager. Fate smiled on my friend at that young age, placing him in the seat of that tractor instead of perilously bouncing on the slats of the wooden sled eating dust and wrestling hay bales…it only seems predictable that some mischief would ensue.  Fast approaching my grandma and grandpa Blackwell’s farm, I can remember glancing out the side window’s of my parent’s station wagon looking at the bridge that led to the Fendall place. A couple of more bends and there it was…my grandparents home up on the hill near the huge black walnut tree. Memories of riding inner tubes down the steep hill next to their house comes to mind, a fire burning in a 55 gallon drum at the top of the hill to warm your hands before the next trip down…grandma’s homemade chili, laughter and good times shared with family and friends waiting for us at the house. Simple pleasures, simpler times, rusted tin and weathered wood…childhood dreams still live within…just close your eyes…remember when…