Little by little, Dad had peeled away our condominium haystack on the corner of Machine Shed Ave. and Cow Barn Street. It was devastating, to say the least, as that year’s hay crop had produced prime building material with the tightest hay bales ever. Standing upright, our strong refrigerator bales held an assortment of imaginary cuisine and beverages that renowned dignitaries would have envied.

An excellent furniture year, our sectional couches held tight without fraying or twine slipping, as they were centered around tea parties and ballroom dances.

Horrified as a group of calves tore open big sis’s king-size bed and then had the audacity to poop on it, we didn’t think she would make it through the day.

As old Boss and the rest of the cattle nibbled away on our last end tables and side chairs, us girls were truly “out on the road and homeless”!

Dad called him Trader Joe on a good day, but most of the time us kids were forbidden to repeat his nicknames after Joe would pull out of the yard with a trailer full of farm machinery. Dad usually stood and scratched his head at what he had “traded for,” while mumbling ineligibles.

It had only been a couple of days since the last of our “summer home” had been eaten up, and we were still wandering around the farm in full grieving mode, but Joe had changed everything in one handshake with Dad. Parked between Grain Silo Road and Hog Barn Boulevard was the most beautiful palace that three princesses could ever have wished for!

The John Deere combine wasn’t our typical playhouse, but it sure beat the heck out of wandering the fence lines with no place to call home.

Boxing up our tea sets, wall hangings and comforters, us girls more or less “pushed Dad out of the way” as we immediately set up house.

Little sis had to take the ground floor “header” apartment after she slipped on the ladder and ended up head first in the engine compartment. Mom wondered for a long time why she took to the new style of wearing a bandana on her head, but it was the only way we could hide her baseball-sized lump.

Big sis and I shared the high-rise hopper apartment with built-in balcony over the rear engine.

Painting the reels in wild pink, blue and purple, we didn’t think Dad or the wheat would care. I take that back – Dad didn’t see us do it.

Organizing our new condo, we all settled on the name of Green Goddess Inn and painted her sign in bright orange (on both sides).

Leftover field dust and dirt along an outside edge was christened Central Park, with the appropriate sign painted above in green tones and outlined in neon red.

Mom had the shotgun loaded and in reach by the front door for a month, daring the rabbits or deer to come back and pluck out more of her flowers from the garden out front. It’s a good thing our Inn was parked way out of sight behind the machine shed, as her flowers were thriving and in full bloom, re-planted in Central Park.

The Green Goddess hosted several prominent events that summer for a multitude of make-believe diplomats, but the extravaganza was a barn dance that we were forced to invite our brothers to, as we needed their help with the barn floor.

The hay trailer was parked halfway across the farm and sported four wheels, but there was no-way-no-how three young girls could get it to budge. Little brother suggested we draw a square in the dirt for a barn that would match our dumb hotel, and it was really, really tough not to toss him in the manure pile but we needed all available hands. Making a “trade,” the boys were offered the chance to sit on their rumps for a week and us girls would do their chores, and the heave-ho commenced. Still not shifting an inch, I got the bright idea to hitch up my pony to the front for some extra “horse-power.”

With five kids at the rear ready to push at the “giddy-up” and me leading, or rather pulling, the pony, we got everything moved in one giant leap – except the back axel and tires. How do you hide half of a hay trailer? Easy, send out imaginary invitations to a bon fire!

They still talk at “elevator coffee” once in a while about how picky Dad was with his machinery and about how he kept a tarp on his combine to keep it clean, even when harvesting…