Chapter 8
The space between the cabin and the woodshed was exactly right for the Airstream.
I had measured it twice yesterday, walking it off with careful steps, then measuring again with the tape measure from my toolbox.
The spot had a clear sightline to the southern sky for the satellite dish and sat close enough to the cabin that I could run power and water lines without much trouble.
I had been living in the trailer for two years. The Airstream was beautiful and functional and a great place to shelter in. It was going to be a critical part of my new homestead.
I pulled the truck around and lined up the trailer hitch with the gap between the cabin and the woodshed. The angle was tricky. I had to come in from the north side of the clearing, swing wide, and then back straight in without clipping either structure.
I had done this kind of maneuvering before. Backing a trailer is one of those skills that separates guys who use their trucks as trucks from guys who just own trucks for the image. You learn it or you don't.
Despite two decades in an office, I had learned to maneuver a trailer young, helping my uncle move equipment around job sites. I knew what I was doing.
I got this, no worries.
I checked my mirrors. Adjusted the angle. Started backing in slow.
The crunch was immediate and unmistakable.
I slammed on the brakes and sat there for a moment with my hands on the wheel and my eyes closed. The sound replayed in my head. Wood splintering. Something giving way that should not have given way.
"Damn it," I muttered.
I got out of the truck.
The corner of the trailer had caught the front pillar of the woodshed. Not a glancing blow, a solid hit that had cracked the pillar about two feet up from the base. The crack ran diagonally across the grain.
The pillar was still standing, but it was not going to stay standing. The whole front of the woodshed was leaning slightly now, maybe two inches off true, and the weight of the stacked firewood inside was pushing against the weakened structure.
I stood there looking at it.
"Fuck me. Shit!"
I walked around the woodshed, checking the other pillars, checking the roof, checking the stack of firewood visible through the open front. The shed was a simple construction. Eight posts, a sloped roof, three walls of rough planking, the front open for access.
Unfortunately, all the firewood was stacked against the damaged side of the shed. Maybe a cord of firewood, split and aged, probably sat there for years.
I kicked at the dirt. Looked at the sky. Looked at the trailer sitting there with its corner nudged against the damaged post.
Today was supposed to be the day I started repairing the roof of the cabin. I had watched three more videos last night, better ones this time, about roof inspection and repair. I had made a list of things to look for and the materials I needed to buy. I had been organized. I had been prepared.
Now I was going to spend the day fixing a woodshed that I had broken myself.
The frustration sat in my chest like a lead weight.
I could feel it there, familiar and sharp.
Twenty-two years of frustration at things going wrong, at plans falling apart, at careful preparation meeting careless reality.
Twenty-two years of watching other people make mistakes I had to clean up.
Twenty-two years of doing things the right way and watching it not matter.
I stood there in the clearing with my hands on my hips and let the frustration burn.
Then something changed. Inside me, something shifted.
Look, I was going to make mistakes. That was the truth of it. I was forty-five years old and starting over and I did not know what I was doing half the time and I was going to make mistakes. Lots of them. Probably bigger ones than backing a trailer into a woodshed.
But they would be my mistakes.
Not Sybil's mistakes that I had to accommodate.
Not her father's decisions that I had to implement.
Not the claims department's policies that I had to enforce, even when they made no sense.
Not the slow accumulation of other people's choices pressing down on my life until I could not remember what my own choices felt like.
My mistakes. On my land. With my own two hands to fix them. No excuses and absolutely no blaming others. It was all on me.
The frustration did not disappear, but it changed shape. It became something I could use.
I pulled the trailer back out of the space, careful this time, watching my mirrors like they owed me money. Parked it in the clearing where it would be out of the way. Then I went to the cabin and got my hammer and my box of nails and my handsaw.
The woodshed had a small storage area in the back corner.
I found a stack of two-by-fours leaning against the wall.
Five of them, old and slightly warped from years of humidity, but solid enough for temporary bracing.
I pulled out two that looked the straightest and carried them to the front of the shed.
The work was simple in concept. Brace the cracked pillar with a sister post. Run diagonal supports from the sister to the roof beam. Make it stable enough that the whole thing would not collapse while I figured out a permanent solution.
But simple in concept did not mean simple in execution. The firewood was stacked against the pillar I needed to brace, which meant I had to move most of it before I could work.
I started hauling wood.
The first hour was just moving and clearing. Grab an armload, carry it to the far side of the shed, dump it in a temporary pile, walk back, repeat. The wood was old and splintery and full of spiders. Squirrels had made a nest in it. The firewood had definitely been sat here for a long time.
My shoulders started complaining. My lower back joined the chorus. By the time I had cleared enough space to work, my shirt was soaked through with sweat.
I sat down on a stump and drank water from the bottle I had brought from the cabin. The morning was cool, but I was not. My body was remembering what real work felt like.
I had done construction for two years after high school. Framing mostly, some finish work when the crew was short. I had been good at it. The foreman said I had a feel for how things went together. And I wasn't stupid. That alone was a valuable skill.
I wasn't that kid anymore, but I still knew how to get things done. I picked up the saw and got back to work.
The sister post went up first. I cut a two-by-four to length, notched the top to fit against the roof beam, and nailed it in place six inches from the cracked pillar. The old wood split a little at the nail holes, but held.
I added a second two-by-four as a diagonal brace, running from the base of the sister post to a point halfway up the original pillar, creating a triangle that would distribute the load. A third piece went from the sister post to the roof beam at an angle, reinforcing the connection.
The work was not pretty. The warped lumber made for imperfect joints and the nail heads sat crooked in places. But it was solid. I pushed against the structure with my full weight and felt it push back, stable, refusing to give.
I stood back and looked at what I had built. It was ugly but functional.
By mid-afternoon the bracing was complete and I had re-stacked the firewood. My arms shook with fatigue. My back was a continuous low complaint. I was genuinely tired in a way that was totally different from the exhaustion of sitting at a desk reviewing claims.
It felt good. It felt honest.
I was gathering up my tools when I became aware that I was being watched.
A golden retriever sat at the edge of the clearing, maybe thirty feet away, watching me with calm interest. A blue collar was visible around his neck. His expression was patient and curious, the look of an animal that had decided I might be worth knowing but was not yet certain.
I set down the tools. I walked to the outdoor spigot on the side of the cabin and washed my hands. The water was cold and it felt good against my skin. I splashed some on my face, washing away the sawdust and sweat.
When I turned around, the dog was still sitting in the same spot, still watching.
I crouched down, facing the dog.
"Hey there."
The dog's ears perked forward.
"Come here, boy. Come on."
I patted my thighs. He came immediately. No hesitation, no suspicion. He crossed the clearing with the calm confidence of a dog that had never been given a reason to fear humans.
When he reached me, he pushed his nose into my hand and sniffed thoroughly, cataloging whatever information dogs find in the smell of sawdust and sweat.
I scratched behind his ears. He leaned into it, tail wagging slowly.
"Good boy. Who do you belong to?"
The collar was worn nylon, soft from years of use. The tag was brass, slightly tarnished, engraved with simple text.
Wendell. James Farm.
Below the name was a phone number with a local area code.
I looked at the dog. He looked back at me with the serene expression of an animal who knew exactly where he was and had no concerns about it.
"James Farm." I scratched under his chin and he closed his eyes in contentment. "I know who you belong to."
Wendell's tail swept the ground.
I stood up and the dog stood with me, looking up expectantly like he knew what came next even if I did not.
The property line between my land and the James farm ran through the woods to the east.
"All right. Let's get you home."
Wendell turned and started walking before I finished the sentence.
He knew the way. I figured this was a dog who wandered, a dog who had probably walked this path a hundred times.
He moved with the unhurried confidence of an animal retracing familiar ground, glancing back occasionally to make sure I was still following.