- Jul 26
- 4 min read
Sometimes the stories worth telling aren't the ones that go according to plan.
There's something about an early morning at the homestead that makes the rest of the world disappear.
The air is still cool, the prairie is quiet, and for a little while it feels like time slows down.
As Joshua and I drove down the old dirt road that morning, a pair of Great Horned Owls silently crossed in front of the truck. We stopped to watch them disappear into the trees before continuing on.
Moments like that are one of the reasons we love going back.
Sometimes it's to work on the old tractor. Sometimes it's to fill the deer feeder with corn. Sometimes it's simply to get away for a little while and enjoy the peace and quiet that place still has to offer.
Lately, we've been talking about ways to incorporate pieces of the homestead itself into some of my paintings. If we can salvage an old board or another piece that still has life left in it, it becomes more than just a painting. It becomes a small piece of the homestead that gets to continue its story.
The house itself has become too unsafe to go inside, so we slowly walk around it, always looking for something that time is finally willing to let go.
The funny thing is, before we ever started walking around, we were convinced the biggest danger we'd face would be rattlesnakes.
We were prepared for rattlesnakes.
We watched every step through the tall grass.
Not once did either of us think about bees.
After walking around the house for a while, Joshua spotted an old board tucked underneath one side of it. It looked promising.
He gave it one pull.
Nothing.
He pulled again.
Still nothing.
On the third pull, the board finally broke free...
...and so did the bees.
They poured out from underneath the house.
One nailed Joshua right in the face before either of us had time to think.
"BEES!"
And about the time he yelled, I realized they weren't just around me—they were in my hair!
Somehow they'd made their way up underneath my braid at the nape of my neck.
I immediately turned my head upside down, pulled my braid out, started shaking my head as hard as I could, beating the back of my head with my hat, and yelling,
"They're in my hair!"
Joshua looked back just long enough to offer what may be the least helpful words a husband has ever spoken.
"Every man for himself!"
Then we both ran.
The truck wasn't far away, but those bees had no intention of letting us leave quietly.
By the time we finally climbed inside, I'd been stung six times across the back of my head. Joshua had three or four stings of his own.
We figured we'd drive down the road a little way.
Surely they'd give up.
Nope.
They followed us.
Once we were finally out of range, we just started laughing.
I guess sometimes that's all you can do.
The funny part is...
We actually accomplished what we'd come for.
The board came home with us.
Along with a few other pieces we'll use in future paintings.
The rest of the afternoon turned into one of those days we'll probably talk about for years.
We watched a family of roadrunners weaving through the brush.
Flushed a covey of quail.
It reminded me that while the old homestead may be weathered and slowly returning to the land, it's still full of life.
As we headed home, still laughing about the whole ordeal, I looked over at Joshua and said,
"That was our best date ever."
And honestly...
I meant it.
Because days like this remind me that we're building something together.
Not just paintings.
Not just jewelry.
But a life centered around creating meaningful work, preserving pieces of history, and chasing a dream we both believe in.
Like anything worth building, there will always be unexpected challenges along the way.
Sometimes those challenges just happen to come with wings and stingers.
But at the end of the day, we still brought home something that mattered.
That old board spent decades as part of the homestead. It stood through countless seasons, witnessed generations come and go, and quietly did its job long after anyone noticed it.
It would have been easy to leave it there and let time slowly reclaim it.
Instead...
it gets another purpose.
When I use one of those weathered boards as the foundation for a painting, I'm not just creating something new, I'm preserving a small piece of the homestead itself. The cracks, nail holes, worn edges, and years of weather become part of the artwork. Those aren't flaws to cover up.
They're part of its story.
One day the old house may finally give way to time.
But pieces of it won't.
Instead of slowly rotting back into the prairie, they'll hang in someone's home, admired and cared for once again.
To me, that's a meaningful way to honor the homestead.
Not by trying to rebuild it...
But by allowing small pieces of it to live on in a new form, carrying its history into another generation.
When people hear us say that blood, sweat, and tears go into every piece...
We really do mean it.
Although this trip...
It was mostly bee stings.
And yes...
We'll be back.
Next time, we're bringing bee suits.
