As we walked the farm that would eventually incur our debt, Cody and I both found things we loved about it, and things that we could do without. In true BowSankey fashion, the things I had to keep were the things Cody wanted gone - and vice versa.
We passed through every gate, every room and every pasture. On the multiple visits that followed, our list of prospective changes grew - but unfortunately our budget didn't.
Still, we dreamt on.
One of the first sincere disagreements we've had while working to make this place our own was over the old corn crib.
Cody looked at it and saw an eye sore that wasn't going to hold corn anytime soon; we're turning our tillable acres into pasture.
In the middle of corn country.
And black soil.
Yes, we're crazy.
I looked at the old crib and saw a story - a history - of this old farmstead and the days that have passed by.
I appreciated the rays of light that passed through the structure and wondered how many hot days and cold winter nights this wood had seen.
It certainly served it's purpose.
I wondered who had built it.
It was weathered.
It was worn.
It was perfect.
I believe we had four discussions regarding the future of this old crib.
Real, serious discussions.
So serious that when I was away for 1-2 days I had sincere concerns that I would come home to a pile of ashes and and shoddy explanation from Cody about "lightening."
Like any gal who wants something really badly, I racked my brain for creative ways to use that crib.
It's like justifying that pair of shoes that you adore, but you'll likely never wear.
They encompass everything you'd like your wardrobe to be.
10% of you knows they're probably not worth the internal fight.
Still 90% of you wants them really badly.
So, you charge on.
The poor floor and warped south side presented its challenges.
My strategy became not mentioning the crib if it didn't come up in conversation.
Out of site and out of mind?
It's right in our way and the first thing you see as you pull into the farm.
Out of conversation and out of mind?
Yeah, I was going for that.
Sunrises passed quickly and the moon made his appearance earlier every single day as this fall (and winter) we spent our hours at the new Sankey homestead. I think it was right around the time that our entire upstairs looked like this that the idea came to me.
What if we moved the crib into the house?
No longer an eye sore, but part of our story?
I presented the idea to Cody and as well as pictures of what it may look like.
Thank you Pinterest, you precious little ally.
Slowly, my patient husband began to ask questions.
If you know Cody at all, you know that when the wheels are turning, he asks questions.
Like, a lot of them.
And most importantly: Why would this make sense?
I'm fairly certain I prepared myself more for this opportunity than I did for any final at Purdue.
I was prepared to answer everything.
And I didn't know it yet, but Cody was already prepared to make my vision come true.
He had done his research.
In a weekend Cody and I carefully removed every vertical board off of that ancient corn crib frame, careful to not splinter the wood or shatter the boards.
That was far more difficult than either of us anticipated when we started the project.
That old corn crib was fragile.
I told myself that it was proof that it needed us.
Yep, if you rearrange the letters in "Lindsay Jean" it spells "Justification" --
I cannot believe you just tried that.
We stacked the old frail crib into a pile and continued on with our lives. Work travel, the North American and other obligations left that stack of wood in our barnyard for a few weeks. Then we moved it into the house to dry out, per direction of our incredible contractor.
You see, while Cody and I are fantastic at burning things to the ground, we're not so well versed on building them back up. Our contractor, John Dickenson, shared our vision as soon as we opened our home to him and tried to paint our picture in his mind.
He didn't laugh at the idea of moving the the corn crib into our house.
At least, not in front of me?
His craftsmanship partnered well with our vision of making a new home for us that tells a fantastic story.
Every board was cut and fit into the best possible place as part of this Indiana farmstead.
No longer weathering the rain and wind, the Compromising Corn Crib now adorns our home.
While the landscape of this old farm has changed with the removal of the corn crib, it's not been ridded of the history that we appreciate so much.
This entire experience of moving the dear old corn crib that I fell in love with into our home has taught me much as we navigate this stage in our marriage.
It's all about perspective - and compromise.
We both lived independently long enough to create our own styles and preferences. But happiness lies in learning to appreciate another person's perspective, which could be quite different from yours. The things I love are the same things Cody would like to use as fire starter. The things Cody loves are the things I'd like to see in our next garage sale.
Communication and compromise are both pertinent.
Shared vision is important.
It pays to have a contractor who shares the vision you have for your own home. We shared our idea with others who didn't think it was feasible. John has not only traveled this winding remodeling road with us, he has made every unique request we've asked of him, happen. We highly recommend Dickenson Construction.
Just because something has age on it doesn't necessarily mean it's life is over. Who doesn't like a story? Who doesn't like to reuse or incorporate something that has stood the test of time?
No one proudly starts their home tour by saying, "And this has a special story. We bought it at Lowe's right after we ate at Bob Evan's two Februaries ago..."
We still aren't done in the remodeling process, which is why the photos reveal very little past the Compromising Corn Crib woodwork.
And we haven't moved in yet.
The cows have officially made the place their home, but not us.
Not. Quite. Yet...
I just can't pull the trigger on packing my hairspray and toothbrush until we have an operational sink.
Every night, we move a little more into this house.
At this point, I just hope Santa knows where to find us come Christmas.