Permission

This barn sits south of Meridian on a road that was out in the country for more than a century.

Not anymore. New, boxy subdivisions are closing in on three sides.

I’d driven past it for years. In 2025, I finally pulled over.

I don’t shoot on private land without permission. A farmhouse sat right next to the barn, so I parked in the gravel drive and knocked on the screen door.

A man answered. His name was Richard. He was chewing on a greasy chicken leg.

“Sure, go ahead,” he said, pointing toward the barn with the drumstick.

So I did.

I worked for half an hour, lugging the tripod around all four sides. Then an older man on an ATV came barreling across the field, a sour look on his face, and killed the engine beside me.

“Who gave you permission to take pictures of that barn?”

“Richard said I could,” I said, pointing toward the house.

He squinted at me. “That’s not Richard’s barn. It’s mine.”

I looked back at the farmhouse.

Then at the barn.

Then at the man on the ATV.

“Well, would you mind if I took photographs of it?”

He grumbled. “I guess.”