So, I’m a little embarrassed—now that I’ve gone on youtube and seen some real timber framer’s handiwork—saying that my sawmill shed is timber framed. Sure, I used timbers, but… No. Not even.
Anyway, I ordered a book. The next building will be the real deal. I figure by the time I get to the barn (which, if you can keep a secret, will probably be my new house and studio) I’ll be up to snuff… a bonifide professional.
But it’s raining today, so I get to clean house.
Cleaning house always seems like a waste of a whole day of life. Until you’re through of course. Then the house you could hardly stand to stay in one single minute longer, you just want to snuggle up inside of and marvel at all of your wondrous, clean stuff for the rest of forever and ever.
My eye is on the prize.
This too, was one of those weeks that it sucked to be a hermit. That is, it sucked to not have a real girlfriend. I go through phases. Like everyone I suppose.
But sometimes you just want to be a boy, (I do anyway) building a fort in the woods near the creek you’ve dammed with stones, and have the girl from two farms over—who you didn’t know lived only two farms over, but you will soon, because she is right there in front of you in a sun dress and an enormous straw hat and funny boots, and she didn’t snap a single twig or crunch a single leaf getting there—appear and say, ‘Cool. Can I help?’
But that’s silly.