Coop Clean Out

“I looked at the forecast. The next couple days will be the nicest we may have the rest of the year,” he said while making coffee.

 

When my husband begins speaking this way, I know he’s not about to offer to drive us to Brown County to see the leaves. Rather, he is about to suggest we get something dreadful accomplished outside. 

 

Wrangle and bring cows home from summer grass?

Pull up all the temporary fence?

Vaccinate and tattoo calves?

 

Worse:

 

“It would be a great time for you to work on your part of the chicken coop. Mine is pretty much done,” he finished. 

 

When we wed and bought this farm seven years ago, Cody was in his early thirties and I in my late twenties. We both had established careers, lifestyles, and homes. I remember the first time I visited him at Michigan State University, where he taught. Walking through the farmhouse that sat on the university farm was like visiting an Angus museum. Archived photos framed on the walls, old leathercraft passed down from generations, buckles and bronzes. My walls back home in Greens Fork also told stories of a farm family rich history, Clay township pride and Shorthorn cattle memorabilia. 

Combining homesteads proved to be a monumental task. We didn’t have nearly the space needed to decorate with our favorite pieces of history. Some (actually, a lot) things had to be moved out to the old chicken coop turned storage shed. 

 

And there everything sat for seven years. 

Until COVID hit, and Cody got a wild hair (he was climbing the walls to board a plane and get back to work but the CDC advised against it) to clean out his portion of the tiny outbuilding that stored our things. 

 

I’m not a hoarder but I’m certainly not a tosser. In fact, I don’t get wild hairs to throw things away, ever. I’m a keeper, cataloger, storyteller, chronicler. Life has been good up to this point; I want to remember it when I’m old and senile. 

 

So, I’ve kept old purses with sticky lifesavers and concert ticket stubs inside. 

Senior pictures with “Stay cool, Bowman” scribbled on the back (oh, if they could see me now!).

Approximately 100 CDs and mixed tapes of which I have no way of playing.

Newspaper clippings about the 2000-2001 Hagerstown football team (that Ben Warner was one heck of a kicker).

My deceased aunt’s personalized stationery (boy, wouldn’t that confuse people if I began sending letters on that). 

Books I’ll never read. 

A 1998 wall calendar of beach scenes (I’m afraid of water). 

Empty apothecary jars found in a house my parents tore down 20 years ago. 

A box of jeans I hope to never fit into again (ever heard of the Freshman 15?). 

Bent whisks. 

Chipped pie plates. 

A cake stand with no top. 

A spring wreath that is now a gorgeous home to a mouse family. 

 

And that was just within the first five steps of walking in the chicken coop.

 

I looked to Cody’s half of the shed: Sorted. Stacked. Labeled. What a showoff. 

 

That day I cleaned out nine Rubbermaid tubs of stuff. Much went into the trash, but things worthy of use were donated to non-profits. I still have embarrassing amounts of things to sort through. 

 

But as I sit at the dining room table and pen this, a cold front is moving through Indiana. It’s raining now, 46 degrees and harvest has halted. We probably won’t have another nice warm, sunny day until March 2021.

 

Looks like the wild turkey feathers I found in the ditch while on a walk a decade ago will be pardoned for another season. 

Ten Years Later

“It’s amazing what a man 

thought was important enough 

to keep ten years ago.”

Cody made this statement last Saturday as he threw a toolbox down in the yard in an effort to clean out his office. You would think – after moving from Kansas to Oklahoma to Michigan to Indiana – he would have sorted through the contents in his office over the last ten years, several times. 

I guess sometimes, amidst the spirit of a move, emotion allows us to easily overlook the tossing, and encourages us transport everything to the next “home”.

Beautiful Economy, Indiana is the last place the pieces of CS' life stopped, and we aligned our calendars to find a day that we were both actually home - on the same day - and decided to sort. 
Oh boy, did we sort.

Kansas City Chiefs art from the early 1990’s

A Viking helment

Puppy collars for dogs no longer around
Bovine lubricant by the gallon

File after file of things studied at Oklahoma State University

Angus Journals from 1999

A party cone hat - identical to the one below

First pay stubs

Registration papers from cows that first calved in 1994

Letters from gals I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting…

All things important enough to keep ten years ago.

The next day, during the Super Bowl I mentioned to Momma how we had spent our Saturday.

“Oh, was it tough?” she asked, thinking of all the memories being tossed.

By the way:

(I know with confidence (I texted her yesterday to confirm details) that Momma still has Laura’s baby teeth wrapped in tissue paper inside a ceramic jar , a splinter that was plucked from Luke’s little body after a furniture incident and my baby book. Granted, my book is still wrapped in plastic and hasn't been tainted with a dot of ink in thirty years, but she kept it, nonetheless. Tossing doesn't come easy for Momma.)

I responded:

“No, it was mostly Cody’s stuff so I had no problem tossing it,” said the helpful wife. “I did find a box of my birthday cards in the file cabinet I had forgotten about. I put them in plastic and moved them to the storage barn. I have no idea where they’ll go when we decide to clean out the storage barn….” 
My focus drifted to guacamole.

Some things are pertinent to have around in order to get through particular stages in our life. I'm certain Cody couldn't have made it though undergrad or graduate school without a viking hat. But just as time changes paths, it changes priorities,  too. 

Ten years later, I’m not just speaking of “stuff” that may be kept around.

What about the other things we had ten years ago that we’re still in possession of?

Ease.

Devotion.

Scars.

Ideas.

Goals.

Fear.

Resentment.

Love.

Beliefs.

Jealousy.

Faith.

Worry.

Excitement.

Bitterness.

Remorse.

Confidence.

Ten years ago, which of these things 

were you desperately keeping within you? 

Which ones are you still carrying, today? 

Why?

Some things are important enough to keep.

To store.

To preserve.
To still find among – or within – us ten years later, soliciting a memory.

And others are better left in the past. 
Or the burn barrel. 
Sort wisely. 

Anyone have a burning desire to learn more about Prairie Chicken Management in Oklahoma?

No Other Shotgun Rider

"Did you shut off the water?"

- asked halfway through Missouri

Slowly I'm learning just how much I have to learn. 

I learned a long time ago (like, on our second date) that we'd likely take very few vacations that didn't include sorting, buying, selling or showing stock. I guess that was one of the first boxes checked during Cody and I's early extended conversations: we had the same background, same passion and in turn...same future. 

Sometime after we were blinded from being googly-eyed at each other, but before twelve hours ago when I washed a large load of dark jeans with 1/2 pound of wood shavings and five Kleenexes in the pockets, life happened. 

And that is where I begin. 
And so did "vacation". 

We had barely reached the first stop sign (1/8 mile from our driveway) in our journey of 1,350 miles before I asked Cody if he remembered to put the lock over the double latch on the back door of the stock trailer. We were hauling cattle to Council Grove, Kansas for the Sankey's 6N Ranch production sale. Cody told me he did remember the lock, but I conducted a Chinese fire drill of my own just to confirm. He was right. 

We made it seventeen miles on to I-70  before Cody suggested I "take a snooze" so I could drive when his eyes got tired. It was then that I knew: This is the first of many "vacations" where I wouldn't catch up on sleep. 


When we we began our journey west (side note - we have the Journey West blanket  in our downstairs spare bedroom to commemorate adventures such as this - the wool blanket keeps guests warm in the winter and the summer! Highly recommended (for winter)).

Where was I? Yes, when we began our Journey West, I had these admirable Phil Bowman-Intentions of eating well and smart and healthy and not buying anything from a convenience store. I sincerely ate celery and peanut butter and honey crisp apples for the first 2 hours of the trip. 

Yeah well, life happens. Cody woke me beneath the bright lights of a Pilot truckstop, threw the rig into park and told me it's "my turn".
My turn for what?
To win the lottery? To use the neck roller? To fuel up?
Nope.
My turn to eat Combos paired with Mt. Dew, pick the radio station, temperature control and seat adjustment preference. Twenty-seven minutes into my truck driving shift I hit a rumble strip, or series there of, just to prove to Cody that nothing ends well when I'm awakened from a nap.

Ninety-seven miles in and my big-rigging took an unplanned halt. We were just trucks away from a life-altering accident on I-70. We landed close enough behind the accident that we could watch the paramedics work. One minute you think you're in a hurry, the next minute you realize you have all the time in the world. I never felt tired after that deal. 

We reached the ranch safely at 4:00 AM; our niece Bayler was just waking up for a snack. That also put things into perspective for this kidless couple. Sleep is fantastic. 

I spent the next four days finding things around the ranch and surrounding shops/areas that I could stow away in the storage section of the stock trailer and tote back to Indiana without Cody noticing. A wide selection of pumpkins, a vintage mirror and an old mobile beverage cart, a fireplace, twelve servings of beef brisket.........really anything I could get my hands on and secured in tow before he caught on. Listen, if this was my vacation, I was packing souvenirs. 

The weekend went quickly. 
The truck made runs between the ranch and town and my celery was never touched again.
The trailer sat parked, though filled with various items periodically. 
The sale went well. 
Though sleep was limited, the views were not. 

Cody and I debated playing ROCK-PAPER-SCISSORS to determine who had to drive the first leg of the trip back to Indiana. Then I quickly agreed to handle that shift; I then proceeded to drive four miles into town to get diesel. First leg down! By the time Cody filled the tank, then returned from buying lame gas station coffee, I was a soundly sleeping shotgun rider. #WINNING. 

Before I knew it he was waking me again - no lesson learned, I guess - and asking me if I needed to use the restroom. Like a temperamental 13-year-old I shuffled into the truck stop. Ten minutes later I rubbed my eyes in the check out line and asked Cody how far until we hit Kansas City?
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
I looked around. All the folks looked like grumpy typical tourists, diesel price looked familiar, there were dream catchers on a rack beside me, so no...I didn't. 
As it turns out, I slept better as a shotgun rider than I anticipated. 

Cody paid for fuel and I checked the black-hided stock in back, those who had new owners awaiting them east of the Mississippi. I rummaged through the back seat and decided to throw the bad celery out of the tupperware and onto the parking lot concrete; it was simply a lost battle. Then I saw a woman fifteen yards away - approximately 108 years old - picking up trash, watching me toss my sour salad into her lot. I proceeded to pick up all celery sticks and toss them into the pet lot. Dogs like celery, right?

I checked my reflection in the mirror and redid my ponytail; I was looking more and more like a trucker's wife every day. Just. Get. Me. Home. 

In the hours that followed, the celery was replaced by the following items to keep me awake: Gobstoppers, Nerds, bottled water, chicken McNuggets and fries and Craisins. I'm basically the picture of health. 

By mile 329 east bound I was able to easily awake Cody with my rendition of Delta Dawn in which I sang mirroring the sounds of Tanya Tucker...all of them; then, and also now. Have you seen her lately? 

He begged to drive if I would just sleep and no longer sing. My plan worked exactly as imagined. I slept on and off for the next three hours. 

It was pouring rain when we got home, which was (not) appropriate since the pumpkins were packed in the trailer and our luggage in the bed of the truck; learn something new every day, I suppose. 

I also learned that long journeys west - and east, and all over this world - require a great partner and someone looking out for your best interests, always. For instance, Cody knew by the look on my face that the Pilot women's restroom was not going to cut it, so he drove me across the interstate to the Flying J and never asked a single question. That's a good man, right there. 

And frankly, I couldn't imagine any other shotgun rider. 

Shotgun Rider

Company Comes To Visit

Anytime there are more than two !!!!!!!!!!! or all CAPS on my calendar, I know it's serious. 

Last week it was house guests. 

Shorthorn friends. 

From Iowa. 

Who only visit if there is a production sale.

Or wedding. 

Or en route to the Ohio Beef Expo. 

But they aren't just Shorthorn friends. 

They are full-fledged-repurposing-upcycling-bargain hunting-crafty-as-all-get-out-friends.  

I felt a little bit of pressure. 

I went from zero to my mother in 17 seconds after hearing they'd like a tour of the new Sankey homestead. 

Really?

Because I want a farm hose that will drain and coil itself in -10º temperatures.

Doesn't mean it's going to happen. 

But, I prepared anyway, in the only way I know how: The Bowman Binge.

I swiftly walked through every room and into a pile too embarrassing to blog about, I threw anything that would not exist on a Country Living cover:

Living room:

• Mail
• Chargers/cords
• A box of band-aids
• Fireplace ashes
• Shoes
• Boots
• Heating pads
• Suitcases
• Sale catalogs
• Angus Journals
• Hereford Worlds
• Shorthorn Country issues

Kitchen:

• Cereal boxes
• Granola bars
• Cook books
• Wine aerators
• Travel coolers
• Socks
• Coozies
• Invoices
• Mail
• Sale catalogs
• Angus Journals
• Hereford Worlds
• Shorthorn Country issues

(Do you notice a trend?)

With no no artificial forces other than my arms, like horizontal windshield wipers anything that hit the ground automatically went into the Bowman Binge pile. 

Company was coming. 

Everything was to be out of sight. 

I did the dishes then wiped down the shower with same rag. 

I'm fairly certain Patrick wasn't going to check the shower, but just in case he did...

I got warm while dusting and went ahead and took off my sweater then sprayed Pledge on it to cut down on any visible signs of laundry. 

I put all sale catalogs into the oven and any mid-progress craft projects were stuffed under the spare bed. 

No shame: The Walls were coming. 

The house ended up looking great. I mean, Not even lived in, great. 

And all was well until four days later when Cody got home and began asking where certain things were...like his breakfast granola bars. 

Can I just say, it's a lot easier hiding something when company is on the way than it is finding it days later?

Our text conversation, 3/17, 8:45 AM:

CS: Where are my granola bars!!!

Me: Crap. Basement. Sorry. 

CS: What? Why are they in the basement?

Me: I did a Bowman Binge before Walls came to see the house. 

CS: So why is the food in the basement?

Me: I didn't want it on the counter. 

CS: You know it's a kitchen, right? Where food belongs?

(No response from me)

CS: I don't care who is coming to see the house, we don't need to hide food. 

Me (several minutes later): Ummm yeah. 

CS: Lindsay they are not in the basement. But all of my Angus journals are??? Why are they all down here? Where are the granola bars??

Me: QUIT ASKING ME QUESTIONS I DON'T KNOW THE ANSWERS TO!!

I didn't text that, but I sure said it aloud in my office. 

I knew I was busted. And I had every intention of replacing all of the binged items before he got home from his trip. Dang it. 

Let this be a lesson: If you want to see the place, just show up. This will give you a realistic view of how we live.

Food on the kitchen counter and Angus Journals archived on the end table right next to 3 remote controls and a stack of mail that may still have Christmas cards in it. And a shower that needs a scrub down. 

Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm going to continue my search for the half-dead house plant that I hid somewhere during The Bowman Binge. Because you know, fancy people don't have dead plants. 

I could have sworn put put it in the washing machine and put the lid down, but the only thing I found hid in there there was my iPad?

Holding On To Letting Go

Have you ever been to the point in your life when you say firmly and aloud, "It's time for me to let go."

I have.

But unfortunately that tiny, yet persuasive, voice inside me decides to run her mouth and the next thing I know I'm still holding on to letting go. 

And the letting go never happens. 

I once heard of a gal who others called a "minimalist" - I had to look up that term. Turns out they do exist. 

I'm not one of them. 

Anyhow, she kept only one of everything in her kitchen. 

One spatula. 

One dishrag. 

One skillet. 

One pie plate. 

One mixing bowl. 

I had to look her up on Facebook. 

She appeared happy and real. 

But Manti Teʻo's girlfriend apeared happy and real on the internet once too, so...

Her motto seemed to be, "Use what I have, find what I need"

Rather than "Overwhelm with excess and hope to survive"

A real photo from my kitchen. 

Monday it finally happened.

Cody and I had our first Come To Jesus meeting in our kitchen, and it was regarding plastic cups. 

I believe that the 41 plastic cups that we have left over from our reception are plenty to keep around. 

He, on the other hand, has collected a plastic cup from every livestock sale or show, trip to Eskimo Joe's, Alaskan fishing adventure, Michigan Sate, Detroit Pistons/Lions, Oklahoma State, or Lansing Lug Nuts game. And he passionately wants to keep them. All of them. 

This is only the stack he washed and put in the cupboard Monday night. 

I will admit, 

using all and any grace that I have left over from my mid-cold-kitchen-floor-rant,

I have learned so much from these darn plastic cups. 

We discussed the cups. 

The meaning behind each. 

The function behind few (there were just a lot of cracks). 

The memories tied to each. 

The tossing, possibly. 

And moving forward. 

We stood in the kitchen two nights ago and had a conversation that reached far beyond plastic cups with more stories dripping from the sides of them that I care to hear.
We even talked about several of my things that have stuck around - come hell or high snow - from one house to the next. 
I was far more guilty than he. 

The truth is, we each have a tendency to hold on to things that hold us back. 

Or snag our progress.

Or regress our time. 

Or move us flat backwards. 

Sometimes we hold on to things because they bring back a certain memory in our own timeline and we feel like clinching that physical thing ensures we'll never forget. 
Sometimes we hold on to things because we're not ready to let go. 
Sometimes we hold on to things because we shoved them under the bed five years prior and have no recollect of doing so. 

Sometimes - and all too often - the things we hold on to have greater significance - and take up greater space - than plastic cups. 

Moving forward I'll be evaluating things around me and the significance they hold. 

Not just the "stuff" that fills my kitchen

but also the "stuff" that fills my time

and also the "things" that occupy my mind. 

Consider those things in your life taking up "extra space" - there is a lot you can toss, huh?

And just so we're clear, I wasn't even mad when I decided to toss my Farm Credit insulated mug with a broken lid. I think eventually I'll earn another one?

It's amazing what a person can see by the light of a burning bridge.

The Compromising Crib

Perspective is everything. 

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. 

About cattle. 

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?

False. 

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. 

How?

Where?

When?

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. 

Priorities. 

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 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 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?

Smart man.

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. 

Perfectly.

New Windows!!

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. 

75% off. 

Communication and compromise are both pertinent. 

Creativity pays. 

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. 

And mirror?

And shower?

Every night, we move a little more into this house. 

At this point, I just hope Santa knows where to find us come Christmas.