“I remember pacing the 20 feet, thinking about a small building, a warming shed for XC-skiers, while winter raged outside. That was February. Now, it’s July, and the truck has a crane & multiple sections of the timber frame on board, partially assembled, ready to drop. It’s so good to see Lance. “You really live out in the middle of nowhere!” he says, and then recounts his miles from the last gap, to get here. Partially true, part fiction, we all of us in Vermont, inhabit places that if you were not from around here, look pretty remote. It’s all relative. I know that I can order pizza from here, and pick it up in 15 minutes. Or, starting in my yard, head east along a burbling tributary, and after a not-so-easy climb, reach the Long Trail. You choose. Pizza, or wilderness. Each day, a new decision. But Lance knows, I’m not going to stay to see them raise the barn. I have to go to work. I guess I could have planned it better, but you know, sometimes men work best unseen. They don’t need me, really, at all. I’ll spend many hours in the future, admiring their work and discovering the nuances of it. While today, with the crew he’s brought, he’s surrounded by what he needs. His arm in a sling, reminiscent of Captain Hook’s shortfall, he’s none-the-less, in command. As I try to get out of their way, he presses in. “There is one thing I really need from you before you go,” he asserts, and the intensity of his request hits me in my gut, though I’m sure I don’t know what he wants. “I want you to cut a small soft wood tree,” he continues. And while he’s handing me his cordless pruning saw, I remember. The wood shed. The barn. And what I’ve gleaned online about how we nailed saplings, to their ridges. “The ritual serves two purposes. One pays homage to all the trees that went into the construction of the house, and to the many hands that built it. The other symbolizes the establishment of the house’s roots, which will nourish a long and prosperous life. The young tree is called a “wetting bush”, likely derived from the German tradition of watering it as a sign of the home’s first nourishment.” Relevant words, from timber framers in North Carolina. I stood in the drizzle, with Lance’s saw, pondering my acreage, & trying to see the conifers, rubber booted due to the moisture, scanning with a practiced eye, but also overwhelmed by the thick presence of men, in my space. I can say that their arrivals and departures thrilled me, and I would not be exaggerating. But I only wished to leave, to arrive at my own place, and so I trudged up the hill, behind the yurt, and up the stream. Flat-footed on a trail of utter & unstoppable moisture, I glanced right, and then left. The sacrificial tree didn’t call or make noise. It just stood, too close to it’s healthier neighbor. Spruce, most likely. Lance’s portable, battery powered saw, did it’s thing quickly. I grabbed the fallen tree, and still on my mission, headed down. Handing it to Lance, he replied “Perfect”. Their work was perfect, that day. As perfect as hewing logs and fitting them together, can be. I felt thankful, to be in cahoots, as motley as they felt perhaps, with them. I’m afraid music is the same way. The ones who’ve achieved fame, kind of shrink, wanting to be better known for their integrity, going forward. Songs are like buildings, dreamed of by good people. Whatever I set in motion that day, driving away from the construction sight, it felt like creature comfort. It led me later to an isolated, high altitude beaver pond, on the Appalachian Gap. I felt so welcome, after the initial confusion of shoulder high Soldago, and dead branches. Once in, the profusion of wild flowers and ducks, sent my world spinning. Into too many bull rushes, but enough gravel to find footing. I took so many pictures. And felt acknowledged for all my traveled trips, up and over the mountain, in treacherous conditions, carting children, dreams and my own incredible love for the unknowable. Which continues, to this day.”
