Family Photos with Connection- Miller Manor Mt. Vernon, Ohio

This was my first experience shooting at Miller Manor in Mt Vernon, OH. It’s an 1800’s home that has been converted into a studio space photographers can rent- it’s gorgeous. I felt exceptionally at peace here because it so parallels my own home.

I’m currently operating my own studio space in what was once the loft area of a barn. Many of you, when you come to visit me, get the very abbreviated “don’t mind the chaos, we’re renovating, and have kids” (and of course, graciously everyone seems to appreciate this sentiment without much judgment), but that isn’t even the tip of the iceberg of the story of our home.

The prologue to the story- the one where we end up with a temporary studio space in the upstairs of my forever home-
this prologue is one that really deserves its own telling. It needs its own full story—turned movie, but it’s not really my story to tell. In the prologue I am a side piece, a cameo, in a huge spider web of interactions and everything falling into place to get me where I am today. It’s a story that involves a brilliant mind, unwavering love, murder, suicide, mental illness, friendship, and most of all, Hope.

Our home is one of the first built in the hollow. Built in 1840, it was originally a barn but later converted into a house. Before it was ours, it set vacant for a decade, with the exception of the occasional thief of squatter. On our first date my husband and I were driving backroads (as you know, we still do), and it was on our first date that he pointed it out to me, all sunken in and sad, nestled in a total mud pit, and he expressed “you and I are going to live here and raise a family some day.” to say the least I was unimpressed and skeptical. I had dreams of the concrete jungle, away from the poverty, away from the town I spent the past 18 years of my life.. and at that point I almost felt disgusted at the thought of living in the middle of nowhere, in an old ramshackle that looked hauntingly full of despair.

Fast forward a couple of months, in a strange turn of events, my then new boyfriend acquired the falling apart "shelter” (it was deemed unlivable by the insurance company and not even considered a house at this point). I remember walking inside for the first time and it was such a surreal experience. Everyone’s clothes, items, everything, just strung all over the place like in a whirlwind they up and left. Signs that people had come through and took anything they felt had value, all of the copper, the entire place had been ransacked. IT was spooky.. kinda gross.. I didn’t know what to think. Everyone would ask me my thoughts on “Nick’s project” and I’d just kinda shrug and say, “well, whatever he wants to do I’m along for the ride I guess.” and my 18 yr old brain just couldn’t process the depth of the entire situation. What was he really getting into? What was I committing to by tagging along? About a month after he bought the house, Nick proposed. I was 18 and a freshman in college and he had just graduated with his degree. A year later and we were married in the backyard. At that point we had the house presentable enough from the outside, but the inside of the home had to be completely gutted and rebuilt. At that point we had fresh paint (after hand scraping lead paint off the exterior), a new roof and windows, but that’s about it. My husband push mowed our 5 acres because we couldn’t afford a tractor. He built a deck down by the creek for our alter and we had a party in the field. And we’re still here, still going 11 years and 4 kids later.

I don’t think people could fathom the work it has taken to get to this point, and we’re still clearly not done. Our master bathroom still doesn’t have drywall on the walls. I was without a washer and dryer a week ago because we are currently building our laundry room and a downstairs powder room. There were winters where the warmest we could heat our house to was 50 degrees. We would walk up to the well with a bucket to fill the back of the toilet (when we finally got one hooked up.) I have Christmas photos of us standing in front of our tree and in the background there isn’t a wall, just housewrap and insulation. Recently I got to experience the joy of having trim around the windows. Living in this house has almost broken me. Many conversations were had about us just picking up and hauling ass out of here. But this house holds all of my stories and all of my deepest thoughts. It encompassed me. It keeps me safe. It holds all of the memories of my children, even bringing one of them into this world in the bathroom without walls. I feel a bit self-conscious still, when we get new company or I have clients come, because it’s still such a work in progress. It’s an extreme labor of love that we are doing ourselves, bit by bit and project by project, while still living life with our kids. I can be patient with my sweet little temporary studio-space-that-was-once-a-barn-loft until the time is right.

I think it’s so important to remember, that a lot of the pressure we put on ourselves is to keep up with the joneses. We want to be seen as put together, successful, maybe even “well off”, when what matters so much more than what the outside world sees is how we feel. With me, the outside world sees piles of construction materials, unfinished projects, scraps, and mess from the kids. The outside world isn’t thinking about how I got married in my backyard, how my kids laugh like banshees down in the creek, or the. conversations I have at the dinner table, and the weight those memories carry. The outside world doesn’t know (or care) about the stories or the history. It feels like everyone is living in these pinterest and instagram worthy, aesthetically pleasing, everything in place kind of homes. The DIY projects happen and in a weekend the space is transformed to some new beautiful space. But me and my family know what happens and what is important inside our home. And that is enough. What happens inside the walls of our home is so much more important than what is hanging on them or what color they are painted (Personally, I’ve become a fan of the cobwebs hanging from all the wood beams).

I often think about think about the stories that came before me here. I think of the people who up and left. I think of the woman who bought it and let it sit vacant. I think of the people who laid the stones on the fireplace. It’s full of stories. I can sense them and sometimes I think if I sit still long enough I’ll be able to actually sense them the same way I can sense the ones my family currently writing here. And I will continue to remind myself that the actual stories written with my family are so much important than what the cover of the book looks like.