Photography and text by Corey Amaro
My dad's shop use to be the milking barn but when I was fourteen he stopped dairy farming converting his barn into a motorcycler's haven. He kept farming rice, riding and racing on the weekends.
My dad had many different motorcycles, his Harley was his favorite.
Later the shop became a hang out for those who loved to eat, breath and sleep motorcycles. My brothers, cousins and friends still gather there to shoot the bull, drink beer and occasionally work on their bikes. My dad's spirit is alive and kicking, as his heaven might be here as well.
In the barn, or some call it the shop, the walls are covered with memorabilia... race tickets, photos, news articles, tags, motorcycles stickers... it is like a gigantic scrapbook dating back to the late sixties.
The photos are fading on the walls. Though if you ask anyone gathered there on a Friday night they will relive the moment as if it were yesterday.
Nothing is forgotten.
Nothing is worth nothing.
Every moment lives.
The barn is where I feel my dad.
The peg board holds some of his tools. There is something to be said for things that remain the same, used, borrowed, shared, but remain the same.
It makes me want to keep things the same at my home so when my children come back it will be familiar, consistent, memorable... but our home changes every weekend with my buying and selling so I guess keeping anything the same would defeat the memory of how it is....
Inside my dad's Harley's side packs were his jacket, vest, chaps.... I took them out admired them for awhile, remembered a story or two, shed a tear... then put them back where they belong.
Treasure chest of memories.
Open any drawer,
Each are stacked,
Haphazardly...
Organized...
Purposeful.
Glorious old tools,
to grab and use,
or just hold like a magic wand to take you back.
Those stools.... if they could talk.
If only they could talk.
I remember when they use to be in the house, by the bar that my cousin Doug made.
Later my mom changed the look of the living room and the bar-stools went to the barn.
When years of use rendered holes in the fabric my dad tape them with duck tape.
1972 and still standing strong.
Every Friday night the guys still gather in the barn.
My dad would say it wasn't a place for ladies. Too much B.S.ing, drinking and hot air.
Sacred cement dirt stomping ground.
The walls are lined with trophies, literally to the rafters.
Motorcycle trophies of my dad's and brother's.
I don't know who has the most, they do, but they don't care about that.
Photos of my brothers... first on bikes, then on motorcycles.
We all started riding young. My brothers would say I didn't ride... I guess the scars I have just mean I fell.
And I am here to tell you I don't remember the pain of falling, but the fun of riding.
Stacks of bikes where the cows use to gather in the stalls.
They don't give milk.
Heck no, they just gather dust and sometimes are salvaged for old parts.
As I took photos my littlest nephew tagged along. He found a broken trophy top on the ground. He asked me if he could play with it, "It fell off from up there Aunt Coco. Can I play with it?"
I told him he could have it.
I like to think my dad's spirit knocked it off just for him.
He pretended to be racing while he layed on the dirty barn floor.
Happily.
The memories of the barn don't die, they are simply passed on, race out of the barn, around the bend, down the lane and take off.