PART 1

The final coat of stain was still drying on the porch railing when I stepped back and looked at the cabin I had spent eight months rebuilding.

When I bought it at a county tax sale for $52,000, it was barely livable. The dock sagged, the floors were ruined, the kitchen smelled terrible, and the plumbing barely worked.

But I could see what it could become.

Every weekend from April through December, I drove forty-two minutes each way with tools, lumber, and sandwiches packed in my car.

I sanded floors by hand, installed clearance tile, rebuilt the dock, stained the porch, repaired windows, and paid professionals only for the electrical and plumbing work I couldn’t safely handle myself.

By the time I finished, I had spent another $18,000.

Almost every board, screw, and coat of stain had passed through my hands.

Behind my ear, I still carried the old carpenter’s pencil my Uncle Clyde had once given me.

He had taught me to build when I was a kid.

“Measure twice,” he always said. “Because once you cut, you can’t put the wood back.”