(Silo)

Silos are weird buildings. As a kid, I never knew what was inside. Come to think of it, I still don’t. They were some tall rounded towers of useless concrete for imaginary Rapunzels to let down their hair from. Either that or some guy decided to make a statue of the famous 22 caliber bullet my father used to shoot that prairie digger’s holes that could break a horse’s leg. I never understood why he explained his target practice that way – we didn’t have any horses. I grew sympathetic for gophers.
On the road to town to buy 22 bullets, we drove by a silo and I imagined living in one. I don’t recall Father being much of a conversationalist. First you’d attach a lush green winding staircase to the outside. Doors would be about every ten feet of elevation, regardless of where they were on the colorful staircase. By my little eye’s estimation, you could have about ten round rooms this way. To be sure, it was entirely feasible. Each story, a single room, was used for a solitary purpose. The bottom room would be the front porch: a place to hang your work clothes, a basin for cleaning, and an industrial strength shower. After all, a silo had to be on a dairy farm, and dairy farms stunk. Not as bad as pig farms.
Everything was uphill from there. The kitchen, the hub, was on floor five, where people met. Bedrooms were nearer the top. The den, dining room, and TV room were levels 2 to 4. But the best room was the top one. Not the very top. That was where we suntanned, Rapunzel and I. Room 9 was surrounded by tiny holes that aimed an assortment of water guns filled with scientifically developed non-killing human repellent. The stuff warded off all those dastardly demons who came by even to catch a glimpse of Rapunzel.