By Guest Blogger Kelley Eanes

When my husband and I first moved to Winston we lived on the outskirts of a neighborhood called Ardmore, which in my humble opinion, is the cutest little area you ever did see. Centered perfectly in the heart of town, the sidewalks and towering trees beckon young families to their quaint early 1900’s-built homes. Here you can escape in a magical land of pirates at the park and still be two minutes from the grocery store, because let’s be real… if you haven’t forgotten the ONE thing you need to make dinner, are you even really adulting?

It was idyllic… for a while.

One baby, two babies, three babies in and suddenly my “convenient” in the kitchen laundry closet was overflowing with matching dresses times three, creating the illusion I was running a small children’s boutique in my quaint little house. Only, I was actually not interested running a small children’s boutique in my house. If the risk of smothering by dresses wasn’t a turn off enough, the fact that our third bundle of joy came home to a mini crib set up in a sewing closet really sealed the deal. When our sweet baby girl turned two my husband suggested it was time to pack our bags and find that child a room before she became verbally capable of sharing her situation with the world.

A true story of opposites attract, my husband and I were every realtor’s dream. I liked charming, he liked new. I wanted to be close to town, he thought the burbs might be a good fit. I was convinced we could stay in Ardmore or a surrounding area and make it work, he was convinced we would need to sell… well, all of our things, in order to stay. Our realtor started popping antacids. One day after countless months of looking and approximately 9.78 million prayers from the realtor, we found a house with a laundry room. We bought the house with a laundry room and called it a day. You know what we did not buy?

A farmhouse.

Because, honestly y’all… I did not know.

I did not know that four years after moving into our red brick circa 1993 house, three of my light fixtures would call it caputs. I did not know that in 2021, finding a replacement light fixture for a “traditional” house would be so maddening. I certainly did not, nor currently know whose traditions include tall pillars and excessive crown molding but I am fairly confident it was not the farmers.

And that my friends, was the mistake we made… we didn’t buy a farmhouse.

I suppose my head was so buried into actually trying to find a home in 2016 that I didn’t realize we had made a collective decision as a society to move to farms. When horses came galloping through the streets of Winston pulling the wagon chock full of tobacco baskets, I must have been too busy inside enjoying the conveniences of my modern-day kitchen to notice. It was only later I realized I am embarrassingly short on blessed pillows and completely without an old window to refinish and display on my shiplap wall. The truth is, I don’t even have a shiplap wall at all. Am I really to hang a distressed barn door complete with a eucalyptus wreath above my thick wainscoting and below a chandelier with crystal pendants?

My brain cannot comprehend the intersection of styles.

When my FARM FRESH EGGS sign points to the right what is it actually saying? Am I communicating that people should walk to my neighbors and get their eggs out of her fridge? Sorry, Rhonda… don’t mind us, we are just here for some eggs. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like the farmhouse look. I like it, I am just not sure it meshes well with the bones of our house.

Circa 1993 red brick. Farm Fresh Eggs… that way?

But the internet? The internet does not care.

Red brick on the outside? Farmhouse. Second floor apartment? Farmhouse. Beach property with pink siding on the exterior? Farmhouse.

I have spent more hours than I ever plan on admitting to ANYONE trying to find these light fixtures. My google search traditional light fixtures, is magically transformed… traditional farmhouse light fixtures. Modern light fixtures quickly becomes modern farmhouse fixtures.

But I didn’t buy a farmhouse.


Look Barbara, we all know you live in a 1950’s ranch… just show us your light fixtures already.

As if the pure style difference wasn’t enough to confuse me, the fact that the farmhouses seem void of children really throws me for a loop. Let’s pretend for a moment I conceded and painted everything white, covered the pillars in shiplap and hung mason jars upside down from my ceiling as lights. Then what?

The Insta influencer’s farmhouses are all so crisp and fresh… ladders leaning against walls, white porcelain jugs filled with twigs, white couches covered in textured pillows and soft muted rugs with simplistic patterns.

Where exactly are the children?

Are they on the farm? Is the farmhouse not subjected to vandalism caused by a toddler left alone with the marker box? Are emotional preteen girls not scouring the kitchen for baking projects leaving no counter clean or cabinet closed? Perhaps the children have been ushered off to a class on hanging the perfect gallery wall?

Or, are we simply not having children now?

Sorry kids, it was you or the farmhouse, you have five minutes to get your things but please leave that quilt grandma made… I need it for a pic.

There is still so much I have to learn.

In the interim I’ll be over here in my not a farmhouse straining my eyes while searching for a light fixture that says more the 90’s were cool and less your dinner will be slaughtered shortly. If that doesn’t work out, we can always use flashlight, it’s a modern convivence we have here… since we didn’t buy a farmhouse.

  • Lead image is my friends actual farmhouse kitchen window, complete with livestock staring in.


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