Home Renovation: Time Capsule

I always wanted a black front door. 
And wouldn't you know? I came home one day 
and Uncle Rex had finally made that dream come true. 

My parents did a complete remodel of the house I grew up in during the late 80s, early 90s. Some of my best childhood memories smell like saw dust and stain. Within the walls torn down, they found a lace-up buckskin child’s boot, a calendar from 1919 and a bottle of homemade wine. They still have these three artifacts today.

You can imagine my delight when our contractor began finding things in the walls during our total home renovation in 2021-2022. Weekly he’d set aside treasures that had fallen between the cracks of a floor or along walls: Ornate glass bottles, hair barrettes, playing cards, and handwritten recipes for Washington Pie and Orange Cake. 

He even found a multipage booklet from the Eighth Annual Wayne, Henry and Randolph Counties Agriculture Association event, held in Dalton Township, Wayne County, Indiana on September 6 – 9, 1887. And we were told our house was built in 1920!

I value history, stories, and junk, so naturally, when it was our turn to replace walls I was ready to create our own time capsule of sorts. The way this house was reconstructed, I expect it to stand at least another 150 years, but when someone finally decides this space isn’t suitable for their family, there are a few things we strategically placed for the next occupants to find.

When the internal walls were not yet drywalled we wrote many scriptures along the studs. Just think: if someone does tear down these walls in 150 years, the message within the scriptures we left will not have changed; they’re everlasting. In the dining room I wrote out the words to Surely Goodness And Mercy, a hymn sung before every meal when our large Bowman family gathers.

The contractor's notes at the top of this photo reveal 

where this reminder in scripture was written. 

In a small Rubbermaid tote we collected small pieces that tell the story of our family and the renovation: A current family picture where Caroline was pretty as a doll and Cyrus was scowling at the camera. A 2022 Bell Contracting wall calendar to identify our builder and the current year. I placed copies of Western Wayne News in the box, and these particular issues had my writing in them. We included a sale catalog that provided insight into the breed and type of cattle we raise. I wrote a 3-page letter describing the modifications made to the home, our family, our farm, the current state of the world and the price of gas, groceries and oddities.

I asked each child to put a tiny toy in the box and you would have thought I asked them to donate an arm. It took 6 days for each to decide on what they could part with, which is disturbing considering the number of toys they have. Cyrus committed a tiny tractor with no rear tire and Caroline gave up a tiny foal that was the victim of the lawn mower in 2021. I’m sure the kids who find such “gifts” will be startled by such generosity.

We sealed the tote and the contractor placed it under the landing of the stairway before enclosing it.

Of course, my hope is that this house never comes down and it remains well-loved forever, as it is today. I hope the walls remain strong and white (Who am I kidding? There are already handprints on the door frames as the kids use them to stabilize themselves during high-speed chases), displaying family photos and children’s artwork.

But if they do come down and another family with big dreams decides to renovate this home, at least they’ll have a broken tractor and a three-legged foal to get them through the chaos.

A Girl and Her Llorse

As I pen this, the chilling October wind howls through the hundred-year-old pine outside our kitchen window, the clouds float across a moon-lit sky and I’m getting chills just thinking of Halloween. Not because the holiday creeps me out, but because my back is against the wall regarding the event.  

Two months ago, Caroline made mention that she wanted to be a horse for Halloween. We had barely made it through August, so Halloween wasn’t even on my radar. A month later I asked her what she’d like to dress up as. Same answer: A horse. 

Since then, I’ve tried convincing her to be a cowgirl, a farmer, a jockey, or even a princess (her resistance to this idea is genetic). I’ve had no success. She doesn’t want to be a person, she wants to be an animal, and a horse to be exact. She wants it to have a mane and a tail she can braid. She wants it to be brown. She’s not particular for a three-year-old, at all. My search for a horse costume began in late September and continues to this day, October 30.

I asked friends, visited stores and searched Amazon. The online site was the only place I could find one, and even then they were $40 and didn’t even have a braidable mane. Yes, I took her desires to heart.

One day at the co-op a coworker heard me discuss my dilemma and offered the use of a llama costume she had. Initially, I thought there was no way that would work, then I remembered that I only had brown yarn and a pair of Carhartts waiting for my creativity and (lack of) skill to kick in. I accepted the llama offer. 

I have hidden the costume in the spare bedroom for five days, peeking at it every so often to determine how I can transform the darn thing. It has a long neck, short tail, no mane, and tassels. Lots and lots of tassels. 

I went to Wal-Mart and found yarn which matched the multi-colored llama perfectly. I created a long tail and fastened on during the late hours of Saturday night. On Sunday I created a mane with the same yarn and I’m having a hard time figuring out how to secure it without damaging the co-worker’s costume. 

On Sunday afternoon I gave myself the, “Now or never” pep talk and decided to show the Llorse - you read that right - to Caroline. I brought it out of the spare bedroom, presented it to her and she studied it. I felt like I was waiting on the judge to examine my open show project at the county fair. I fully recognize how ridiculous that is. 

Then, with one squeal and a big squeeze, she hugged that llorse so tightly. She loved it. She loved it so much, that she has groomed the llorse extensively. I’ve reattached the tail once and the mane three times. Before tomorrow I must find a better way to keep the disguise up before my daughter figures it out. I’m telling you: as soon as the mane and the tail fall off at the same time, this charade is over.  

I’m only putting this in print because our daughter is three and is not an avid blog reader. I fully understand that as she grows she will be more difficult to fool and I’ll need to take her August warnings more seriously. 

Until then, if you see a young brunette running around town in a shoddy horse costume with a tail dragging across Mainstreet and strange tassels all over the ribbon halter, please just give her extra candy. She has a rough home life. 

Irregulars

I miss Elder-Beerman, as I knew I would. My bank account, however, is much better because of the closure. 

One thing I always bought there were jeans. Elder-Beerman didn’t put Calvin Klein jeans on sale often, but when they did, I usually bought a few pair. There was something special – magical, even – about the Calvin Klein jeans sold at Elder-Beerman. Though I was nowhere near the size in real life, I could somehow always fit into size 6 Calvin Klein jeans from the downtown department store. I know well that there was something mismarked about this dreamy denim, but it was the only place in town where size 6 actually suited me. 

This is also likely why they were the ones on super sale: they were flawed.  

Faulty. 

Defective. 

Irregulars. 

Last week I had to work with a tent rental company to set up for an approaching field day. I had both children with me, and together we walked the field test plot with map in hand and marked the areas where certain size tents should go, what grass walkways should be left free, and how many tables and chairs to set up at each location. I thought this would be a fun day for the kids to join me, out in the middle of a corn/soybean maze on a beautiful July day. They were certain to burn some energy. 

I waved the three large trucks into the test plot field and parked them. Three men unloaded out of each one. I imagine the rental company has a high turnover rate, as I never work with the same group annually. The men that unloaded from the trucks were as different as they come: one was clean-cut, shirt tucked in and a belt, while the vast majority of the others looked as though they just rolled out of bed. Dreadlocks, tattoos, ripped jean shorts, cut off shirts, piercings, this small group had it all. Because I’ve been in this situation before (standing in the middle of a field, with no one around but truckloads of strange men I’ve never seen before), I thought nothing of it. 

But then there was Caroline.

“Mommy. What wrong wit dat guy?” she asked me in her outside voice while she pointed very directly. I wanted to cover her mouth and stick her back in the car, but instead, I squatted down beside her, getting on her level. Quietly, but firmly I responded, “Honey these are mommy’s friends. They are here to help me set up all these tents and all these tables and all these chairs. There is nothing wrong with him. He just doesn’t look like you.” 

She studied the group intensely as they began unloading supplies. I’m certain she was thinking, “Mommy sure has some shady friends,” but she never said another word about it. 

That afternoon lasted longer than it should have. My map was off by about ten feet so we had to change tent size for one location. They brought the wrong tent for one stop, so their manager had to drive another down from an hour away. But the team I worked with was very kind. They were precise and calculated, measuring everything twice before setting a single stake. They were efficient, like worker bees zipping around and wasting no time to raise the big white tops. They were respectful to myself and my kids as we walked every bit of that field with them as I described my needs for the event. 

I drove home that evening thinking about Caroline’s comment and her concern. The man didn’t look like anyone she’d been around before, with gauged ears, dirty clothes, few teeth and covered in tattoos. His lifestyle was obviously different from ours. However, his specific and special talents lie in working quickly and doing all the heavy lifting to help other people. That is not something I do on a daily basis. This man does. 

Then Sunday rolled around and things seemed much clearer. 

Sunday’s sermon was about how God has irregulars that play a special part in meaningful moments. In fact, God often chooses insignificant people to teach us some tremendous lessons. 

A quote from the sermon, by David Jackman, 

“The apparent unsuitability of the great men of God in Scripture is a recurrent theme which finds its peak in the selection of the twelve by Jesus...They had none of the pedigree or accomplishments which today would be considered absolute necessities.”

I believe that the blonde man that helped us set up for our event last Monday was one of those irregulars. He didn’t say much, he simply took instruction and got to work. I don’t know how long he’d been setting tents, what the row of bullets tattooed on his calf means about his life experiences or if he has any little ones at home, keeping him on his toes. 

I do know that he served as a wonderful vessel to have a brief, but meaningful conversation with our 3-year-old about not judging others who look different than us. 

Especially if they have a bleeding skull and inmate number tattooed on their forearm and they're holding a 12-inch steel stake. 

Find Your Canna Lily

Caroline and I had a girls’ day on Saturday. We traded in our farm clothes for dressier attire and spent the day at the Indiana Angus Auxiliary annual meeting. It was a such a special day, just she and I, and other gals who are passionate about the Angus breed. The roll call question was simple: What is your favorite thing about spring?

Bright colors, fresh flowers, sweatshirts rather and bulky coats, new baby calves running around…these were all answers ladies and girls responded with. My answer: getting the kids outside without a 45-minute bundling process and also airing out the house. 

Spring is such a time for new beginnings, fresh starts, and new life. It’s no wonder so many call it their favorite season. Spring also offers boundless opportunities to learn from even the smallest teachers. 

A friend of mine gave me a box of canna lily bulbs a few weeks ago. On a warm day recently Caroline (the talker), Cyrus (the observer) and I (the worker) dug up an area around our beloved supper bell to finally plant the bulbs. I used a shovel and Caroline used her bare hands to dig the space. Would you care to guess which method was most productive? Nonetheless, we got all the bulbs in the ground and Caroline was ready for her first bath of the day by 9:30 AM. 

Since that day, we’ve worn a path to the dinner bell. Not to ring it, but rather to check on the flowers. Every day, we walk out and inspect the soil. It is still dark as night; no green to be seen. If you think a watched pot never boils, let me tell you about flower bulbs that never break through the soil and a curious 2 ½-year-old. Caroline insists they’re hungry or thirsty, so we fertilized with cow manure and I’ve convinced her we’ve gotten enough rain that I don’t need to carry a watering can to the bell. 

Still, we wait. 

It’s been a teaching process, for both of us. I’d like to think the whole process is teaching her patience as we wait, responsibility as she cares for something she started and persistence as we continue to monitor the progress with no signs of change. 

But it is teaching me a whole lot more. 

From Caroline and the canna lilies, I’m learning about being intentional with time and care. 

Her daily to-do list isn’t long. In fact, in a day she is only expected to brush her teeth, clean her plate and check on her little brother 659 times. But now that she planted something in the warm soil, she is quite committed to its care. And she makes a point to go out of her way to check on their progress, without fail. She has added this chore to her to-do list and has marked it off daily.

These are not our canna lilies, 

but I do hope they turn out this beautiful. 

Considering we planted ten bulbs, 

my expectations may be a bit out of whack. 

Story of my life. 

What if I, too, was that intentional with my time and care of something? What if I carved out mere minutes from every single day to check on a friend, send someone a kind note or offer encouragement? What if I cared enough about something's – or someone’s – success that I made it a priority in my daily routine? 

Sadly, I find my housekeeping falls to the wayside often because I don’t make it a priority. I sweep the kitchen floor daily but don’t ask the last time I dusted the mantle. 

I can get lost in marking off the next event, meeting or to-do in my work with Sankey Creative that I often lose sight of my objectives for the business I began. 

Finally, Cody and I pray together daily, but I don’t know the last time I asked my husband if there is something he’d like for me to pray about on his behalf. How sad that I don’t even know what that might be? 

What could be your canna lily? The one thing that you care so much about, that one thing that you want to see succeed, that you’re willing to check on it daily?

Growing your faith? Sustaining a marriage? Creating a space you enjoy coming home to? Your career aspirations? Your five-year plan? Your land? Your garden? Your store? What about your spirit?

I encourage you to find your canna lily. Plant it. Nurture it. Wait. Then watch it grow in great love and care. 

Sometimes children slow us down, make us late or complicate a simple task. 

But more often, children show us a better way to live. 

Raising Them Rich

During Sunday’s sermon, our minister invited us to get out our devices and visit the website www.globalrichlist.com. This site allows you to type in your annual income and it then calculates where you rank in terms of wealth in comparison to the rest of the world.

I encourage you to visit the site and see for yourself. It is quite eye-opening; I noticed many folks shifting in their seat (or, pew) as they typed in their income and saw the result. I’ll admit, I did the same. 

I left the sermon with this thought: Regardless of my global rank in terms of wealth, I think it’s important to raise our children with the understanding that they’re rich.

I hope Caroline will look back and remember she grew up rich because one of her doll babies got a new bracelet each time mom took the rubber band off a new head of broccoli. 

Just this week Caroline wanted more plastic hay bales for her farm set. I let her know that’s all we had (or rather, all I’d buy). That night I was pulling the living room together and saw that she had improvised: She had taken the orange peels from snack time and disposed of them in all of her feed bunks. Her cows may not have all the hay they want, but they had a citrus by-product that should get them by. 

 How many kids these days can say their parents fill their dressers with a new set of clothes every six months or so? Our “rich” children can. Only because we have cousins and neighbors who are kind enough to deliver bags and boxes of hand-me-downs at the conclusion of every growth spurt. Caroline proudly marched up to a daycare instructor the other morning and told her, while twirling, “Mommy got me a new coat.” She didn’t know it still has her cousin, Georgia’s, name in Sharpie on the inside tag. 

I hope they’ll both look back and remember they grew up rich because we had a garden where you could pick the best tomato in the world, pluck a pepper and prepare it for dinner or watch a zucchini double in size overnight. 

We live in a natural watershed area, making us mud rich. And when you’re 2 ½ and not afraid of a little dirt, mud rich is the best rich of all. We can be in the middle of an August drought and Caroline can find a standing body of water to roll in. I can only assume her little brother will emulate her example once he gets mobile. 

I hope they’ll both look back and remember they grew up rich because we could take hour-long (that’s about as long as ol’ mom lasts) wagon rides and never walk in the same place twice. We always had fresh air to breathe to make us sleep better and never once had to come home and worry about finding a place to park. 

I hope they’ll both look back and remember they grew up rich because they had a castle right in their own back yard. It has a front entry and a back entry, but the middle gets a bit tough to navigate. In the spring it blooms the most fragrant lilacs. Earlier this winter Caroline got hung up in her lilac-bush-castle and I had to set Cyrus down in the yard to untangle her. While waiting on me to get her bibs off a branch, she did find a bone from a pot roast I disposed of six months ago. It is a very fancy castle, one which the barn cats apparently also enjoy. 

This is when she tripped coming in the back entrance of

the castle and got stuck. 

I hope they’ll both look back and remember they grew up rich because we never took a vacation without bringing along friends and paying all of their expenses. Each time we vacation west, we load the stock trailer with cattle that we know by name or number. We take our friends – Naughty 702, Big Blackie or even Sterling the Bull – on vacation so they can reside at their new home, Grammie and Grampie Sankey’s ranch in Kansas. Lucky for us, these friends never ask for snacks when we stop to fill up on diesel. 

I guess I don’t care if our children move off to college and wish they had a newer car, better wardrobe or faster computer. I hope they move off college and realize they grew up rich in ways that have absolutely nothing to money, income or social status.

I guess, if we’re being honest with one another today, I also hope that by the time they get to college this old farm will be paid off, I can loosen the straps on this budget and they won’t have to go to their first day of collegiate class wearing a coat with their cousin’s name on the tag. 

But if they do, it builds character. 

Evolution of Thankfulness

Age changes things. 

I remember being very small and being thankful for Popples, the Young Authors program at school, older siblings and days when the metal slide attached to the swing set wouldn't burn my bottom. 

I remember becoming less thankful for older siblings, but rather thankful for older siblings who were active in school activities and forgot I was around most days. 

I remember being thankful for a down-hill bike ride on my way home from my first job, a front seat view to watch a tree grow and cows. 

Time moved quickly and I remember being thankful for a few good friends, small engines class in the back hall and making the cheerleading squad again, despite not being able to do a back handspring. 

I remember being thankful for a brother with a parking spot at Purdue, a whole new set of sisters which arrived with endless wardrobes and being able to fit back into my jeans after my sophomore year. 

I remember being thankful for the 4th of July in Washington, DC, co-workers that would become family, the adventure that age 23 brought and a direct flight home for Thanksgiving. 

I remember being thankful for my amazing little home, a kinda-good dog, cows and a strange yet satisfying unrest in the idea that I still hadn't found what I was looking for. 

Age changes things. 

Today my thankfulness comes from a life less grandiose.

Less travel but more miles of adventure with a carseat full of Cheerios in the backseat. 

Fewer business dinners but more time spent cutting ribeye into tiny pieces and filling sip cups with milk. 

No days of being unnoticed at home, and many more days of going to the bathroom in pairs. 
Caroline and I. Not Cody and I. 

Today I'm thankful for a good nights rest, comfortable shoes and finding Kleenex in my purse that doesn't have a peppermint stuck inside. 

I'm thankful for a child that eats anything - including 4-day-old-peas-from-the-couch, a barn cat that cleans up scraps so I don't feel so guilty about trimming the fat and a good hay supply. 

I'm thankful for parents aging gracefully, Saturday afternoon visits with the Original Jean and friends from coast to coast who care. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. 
What is typically my favorite holiday, I wake this morning and wonder what I'll make, when I'll go to the grocery and if I have any blue cheese hiding out in the back of the refrigerator. What is the true shelf life of blue cheese? 

Age changes things.

But it doesn't change the fact that with age comes true thankfulness for a warm home because I know folks who don't have one, thankfulness for a full refrigerator because I've seen people go without, and great thankfulness for family because I know the lonely. 

When you look back on your life 

- whether twenty-one or eighty-one years - 

how has your thankfulness evolved?

I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving from the Sankey family. Thank you for spending a little part of your day with me. 


Now - who wants to send me a salad recipe that will impress my mother? 
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.