Money was tight, and it had to be good, so I knew right away it wasn't going to be fast. The job that is. It stood there: two stories of hulking rough-sawn studs with sixteen-inch centers, two-by-ten rafters, two-by-twelve floor joists between the two stories.
It wasn't going anywhere. That was for sure. It was built to withstand the hundred-mile-an-hour winds that blow here when weather comes. Two stories on an open plain between the mesas meant that the house would take hits. Lots of hits. I just hoped the windows would withstand the gusts. Yes, the work would have to be slow if it was going to be good, and it had to be good: hurricane strips on every roof beam, tight seals, good insulation, and all the finish work. Good also meant beautiful. That was a tough one, for me, the quality piece. My history was more about "git 'er done" than "do it right." I'd have to re-work an old story of mine that ran contrary to mindful labor. Housework sent me back to the days my father was in Viet Nam and I served as the first-line of house repair. I did not relish the prospect of years of working that one out. The weight of it settled onto my shoulders and back. We were in for the long haul on this project, about six years of summers and then some. If I knew how much work it was going to be I would have run, run for the hills and never looked back. But, being a bit on the dim side, I thought what the hey? Give it a go.
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