End of a Beginning

I waited about two years to write this post. I am in the barn--the woodshop, boat shop, and home of Art & Rugby Endeavors. It sits with the Tomorrow River running through its backyard, the starting point for the odyssey I am chasing down in a boat I built within these walls. I retrofitted electric, windows, insulation, a wood stove, cabinets, and more to make this place the usable space that it is. And to subsidize

rent, I conducted woodworking programming and

rented out space. Here friends and strangers have come to work on

their projects, to teach and learn the use woodworking tools, to bring us closer as friends and community. But this place is still more. Now it is time to come up to speed on the rest of the story, as it has so far unfolded.

The pandemic had been upon us for awhile, and the construction of Endeavor was well on its way. Without dwelling upon the details, suffice to say that my marriage had been struggling for a few years. We tried counselling and backed away from the precipice of separation for a while, but times began to get strained again and old habits revisited. It hit a breaking point for me on March 17, 2021. It was not a fun St Patrick's Day. I bought a cot, some food, and a few mouse

proof totes and schlepped them to the barn. I set up a camp stove on a table under the pictures of loved ones who had provided some of the tools for the shop. I stoked the fire in the work room, but I wasn't working on Endeavor this night. I pitched my cot in front of the wood stove and began reading a book called Anger by Thich Nhat Hanh.

I had a lot of introspection to do and patterns to break. I also needed emotional space from the intensity back at the house. I began showering at work and settled into kind of a routine at the barn. My wife and I worked out a schedule for me to get some evenings with the kids, and I'd take them on visits somewheres for my weekends with them. I had free time in the other evenings, and a whole lot of emotional baggage to unload, one way or another. I was unsure how long I would be in this living situation. I checked in with Rubina and Isaiah and they agreed to pay for materials if I provided labor. So, I channeled my emotional stress into building a studio in the loft of the barn.

From the first time I saw the place, I recognized this loft as something special. I knew what lie

just outside its walls and the inspiration, beauty, and peace the view would hold. Whether I would remain in the barn long enough to make use of it or not, the southwest corner of this space just needed to be built into something beautiful.

And my emotional baggage and stress desperately needed a creative and productive outlet.

I repurposed two big direct set windows from homes where I had done window replacements. A few good friends helped with some of that demolition and installation. We cut holes in the old siding boards and squirrel proofed

the walls of the studio-to-be. I built new walls and put together jamb boxes for the windows. More interior walls went up and I ran electric, insulated, air sealed, and drywalled. I even hung cement board in an area to accommodate a small wood stove. My buddy Drew gave me some oak timbers for ceiling joists, and my kids helped nail pine boards on for the overhead finish, which then got air sealed and insulated.

Drew suggested I lay rubber mats on the floor for comfort in the winter time. The joist cavities below were somewhat insulated, but certainly not air sealed. The result were some pretty cold floors. I did consider a floor covering, but the romantically organic feel of the old barn boards beneath my feet was too much of a draw for me. Splinters be damned.

The building out of this space provided an emotional outlet. I devoted pretty much every waking moment that I wasn't with my kids or working toward this endeavor.

I wound up with 225 square feet of space that is more authentically me than any place I have ever lived before. I built the various shelves, the kitchen table, storage hooks, bed, wardrobe (named Hagrid because it's so big it seems to fill up the place and you wonder how the hell it ever fit in here in the first place), and wash stand. I eat, read, and write at my 5th iteration Bodhisattva Table*, beside the wood stove, in front of a big window that overlooks the river bottom.

*A word should be said about that table. My first one was built of concrete forms for my freshman dorm room in college. It was big enough to do homework and play drinking games on, yet small enough to reach across comfortably. The unorthodox height was tall enough for knees to slide under the extensive overhang, yet low enough to be humbly close to the earth and stable. The lower rack provided storage for all sorts of things, and served as a foot rest. It was rugged as hell, being made with concrete-caked 2x4's and an age-reddened plywood top. Its proportions were sturdy yet elegant. It was cool to behold and you could dance on it. The perfect blend of Art & Rugby, although I had not yet conceived of that duality at the time. That first one may have been abandoned and I built another for a coffee table in a college apartment, this time the top being upholstered with a green bed sheet. This second went with me to Ladysmith, the first place I realized that all I need in an abode is a bed, table, book shelf, and lamp. I built one in Ithaca, NY, adopted an existing one when I lived in Ecuador, purposed a desk for it for a number of years back stateside, and then built one with my son. Finally, the need for this latest version became apparent as my life in the barn grew imminent. The developing character of the studio influenced the make and proportions of this one. I had poured my pragmatism, character, and creativity into virtually every other component of this

room, and this table was going to be something of a center piece. I cleaned up some rough sawn oak practically given to me by a friend and spent a few evenings building this piece. The result, to me, is beautiful, functional, proportionate, and already bears stains and character that are signature to the stories lived out upon it. I have read, written, cooked, ate, fed my kids, and taken on culinary projects from sushi to pie to canning maple syrup with it. I have thrived, despaired, rested, and been inspired and nourished at it. It is part of the legacy of this chapter, and I am proud of it with all it's beauty, imperfections, and character that make it mine.

That sentiment of self expression and ownership can be applied to so many aspects of this place. The kitchen supplies hanging from their customized homes along the overhead beam, pantry shelves, bath area, wardrobe, my daughter's art gallery, and the very simplistic overall design of this place all speak to different aspects of who I am, my values, and the path of personal growth that I continue to experience here.

Then there are the neighbors. I cannot see any of my human ones unless they pass by the old mill that is just visible at a bit of a distance through the trees. But I get rabbits, wood chucks, and squirrels that pass by and through the premises. Sometimes they leave evidence of burrowing beneath the shop's floorboards or can be heard at night scurrying through the insulation atop the studio ceiling. I approached the back door to my shop one afternoon only to find a wood chuck peering out at me, from just inside the door!

In late winter, when more desirable food sources are depleted, deer come through every morning and rustle up seed pods from beneath the snow that were sown by the overshadowing black locust trees. And this past spring, a mama fox gave birth to six kits in a hollow tree stump about 70 feet outside my window. Watching these babes tumbling over one another and harassing their exhausted mother soon became part of my morning and evening routine. And I won't even get into all the birds--incredible.

In time, my separation evolved into a divorce, and my barn/shop into a studio/home. We have been able to maintain amicability, largely due to prioritizing our kids. They enjoy the

novelty of starting the fire, making dinner at one of the tables, and of course wrestling on the bed. I am still torn up inside for dividing their household and family (that grief is paralyzing at times), but I am thankful that I could stay close and be available to them during this monumental transition. My daughter has remarked more than once how she loves the space and that you can reach every part of the room from any other part of it. Watching the foxes held a bit of an allure for them too.

The place has worked really well for me, going beyond its intended purpose. I am two blocks from the traditional home of my kids and they stay over every other weekend, that is, when we're not off doing something. I had to walk no farther than downstairs to pursue the dream of building my kayak, Endeavor, and they were christened right outside my window. This place has been the launch pad for paddling trips, bike routes, writing enterprises, visions for the future, and the next chapter that I am about to begin with Bridget.

And it was always supposed to be temporary. That is part of what makes this place so precious and even a source of pride. There is something to appreciating the road you're on, since you never know when it will run out. That all has helped to make the austerity of the place not only bearable but poetically romantic. My kids see that without running water, the dishes are a bit more of a challenge. Heat is better appreciated when you build a fire to provide it (even if there are electric base boards to back it up), and you are held to the present when you have to negotiate a dark workshop and stairs that are less than ergonomic. The novelty of the life here was intentional, to prevent the conveniences elsewhere from being taken for granted--by me or the kids. I hope it worked.

But it is time for this chapter to close out, at least for now.

You may have read previously how Bridget accompanied Endeavor and

me on several paddling legs in Door County last summer. That relationship has blossomed (with Bridget in this case, but also with Endeavor), and we are now in the process of buying a house. It is a strategic move to get us living under the same roof and provide a place where my kids can have their own spaces. We shall see how permanent life will be over in the suburbs of Plover, WI, but it is where the next phase takes us. Hot showers and running water will be nice, but I will surely long for the icy baths in the stream that virtually never freezes. I'll miss seeing the trout rise and birds competing with them for insects and minnows.

There are a lot of things I am going to miss about this place, many that I already do. It may be my favorite space of the dozens that I have rested my head for any period of time. But it's part of the path, and Bridget and I are on a good trajectory for the future.

With that, I will be closing the door on this chapter. I look forward to seeing what aspects of my present situation I choose to nourish into the future. I get to choose deliberately, rather than being pushed along by circumstance. And in that there is power, perhaps even free will. I plan to keep on writing, and I intend that the shop tools remain free of dust. This story line is taking some interesting twists and turns, and it is far from complete. As always has been the case, it's about way more than just the boats.