This Old House

Have you ever had a dream that made more sense to you than anything else in your entire life, but everyone else thought it was nuts? Did you go for it anyway?

If you answered yes to that question, then pull up a seat and listen to my story. You, my friend, are one of my people.

 

Our homestead was built and developed in 1900–1901 and became established as one of the largest milking operations this area had ever seen.

This 2,800-square-foot Victorian behemoth, complete with a third floor, six bedrooms, dormer windows, fish-scale wood shingles, stained glass windows, an upstairs balcony, and detailed scrolled woodwork, was a sight to behold. It was built with such care and attention to detail that it was destined to hold a timeless beauty that would never go out of style.

The farm was handed down through a couple of generations until it landed in the hands of the most recent family member to hold the title. I do not wish to judge or speak ill of the deceased, but fast forward a few decades and we were standing in the foyer of the biggest, most run-down, eye-wateringly smelly house we had ever set foot in.

But it didn’t matter to us.

We knew the moment we laid eyes on her that she had to be ours.

There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I still can’t explain. It hit me the moment we drove our car over the hill and she came into view. It was like something out of a movie—maybe a horror movie—but a movie all the same.

I didn’t see the garbage, the junk piles, and the old vehicles scattered throughout the overgrown yard. I didn’t see the enormous dead maple tree in the front yard that completed the haunted-house effect perfectly. I didn’t even notice the front porch wrapped in poly sheeting, which I believe was holding back piles of garbage and beer cases stacked inside. I didn’t notice that the porch was sagging, that the dormer windows were broken, or that all the outbuildings had fallen into such disrepair that they had long ago collapsed.

I saw her for what was underneath all of that, for what she used to be, and for what she would be again.

“She has good bones.”

The poor agent trying to sell this house—his name was Ryan, and God bless him, he was patient and determined. I have no idea how many couples he toured through that house before we came along, or how many ran screaming from the property, but I think he was happy when we showed up.

I’m sure he thought we were out of our minds.

Maybe we were.

Maybe we still are.

But we put in our offer and bought the place.

There were people who disagreed with our decision to sell our perfectly nice home and move into a house we couldn’t even live in until we cleaned it out and gutted it.

My husband’s family, bless them all, were not among the naysayers.

Not only did they see our vision and support it, but they shared in our excitement. They were here every chance they got, helping us with the grueling, backbreaking, dirty work, and they did it enthusiastically.

For three hard months, we lived in campers with the children while we worked every single day—twelve to sixteen hours a day—just to bring the house to a point where we could move inside. It wasn't easy, but we made the best of it.

We removed all the carpets, tore out all the lath and plaster, and took Behemoth down to her bare bones. We have been building her back up ever since.

We have lived through every stage of the rebuilding, and it has been quite an experience.

Room by room, we insulated, drywalled, and spent every spare minute we had putting this house back together. Sometimes we enjoyed ourselves. Sometimes we were at each other’s throats.

They say one way to test a marriage is to survive a renovation together, and man oh man, have we been tested.

We aren’t finished with the house yet. We still have a long road ahead of us, but we are finally on the upswing.

To this day, there are two types of people who walk into our home.

The first type looks around wide-eyed and says, “Wow, what a beautiful home. The work you have put into this place is amazing.”

Those people get it.

They see the vision. They understand why we would put ourselves through this and how we can stand living with bare drywall and unfinished floors.

It’s simple.

We don’t mind putting in the time and work to reap the reward it will bring in the end.

The second type of person is less common, but they still exist.

When they walk through the door, you can see it in their eyes—that look of horror and confusion as they wonder why we would choose to live like this.

They just don’t understand.

In the beginning, those opinions used to bring me down and make me question our judgment.

Not anymore.

Now I just laugh to myself and let them have their opinions because, in the end, that’s all they are.

Opinions.

I hang on to the picture in my mind of how beautiful this house will be when she is restored to her former glory.

“Eyes on the prize, baby.”

That is the mantra Curt and I have repeated to each other since the beginning of this adventure.

I would be lying if I said I’ve never wondered whether we made the right choice because nothing about this leap has been easy.

We have worked our guts out to accomplish everything we have.

This house was the beginning of the rest of our lives together, even if that meant killing each other halfway through the renovation.

So far, so good.

Everyone is still standing.

I’ll keep you posted.

And if I don’t, you’ll know it was me who didn’t make it!

Whatever your big dream is—a house in the country, a career, a trip, or anything else—just go for it, my friend.

Don’t let anyone or anything hold you back.

And when you get there, when you finally cross that finish line, you’ll feel that overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment.

And it will all be worth it.

Until next time,

Brandi