Varied thrush make me smile, but cranes make me stop. I look up at the throaty call. It cannot be a coincidence that we “crane” our necks skyward. The long V’s circle past, wingtips kissing the treetops as they descend for the marshy flats two miles from my front door. They are spring. They are fall. They are the rhythms of the changing seasons personified. As steady as the sprouting fiddleheads and sweet-smelling cottonwoods. Hank Lentfer wrote about having the “faith of cranes,” the unshakeable belief that their long flight will be rewarded with soft landings.

I balance on the ladder and wrestle a two-by-four into place. It’s amazing. I lived in The Shabin (a part shack and part cabin that was on the property when we purchased it) for almost four years but have done more work in the last week on the structure’s bones than I ever did. For those four years, we huddled around the little Toyo stove stubbornly set at 55 degrees as snow fell and wind blew. Squirrels invaded the rafters, and thin windows meant we heard wolves on quiet nights.

The floor tilts to the north – not much that can be done about that—but now I’m adding to the porch roof, replacing rotten trim, and installing metal flashing to make the stapled-on side room watertight—okay, semi-watertight.

It feels good to make this place livable again. I wasn’t looking for a renter, but when Breanna reached out in search of summer housing, I leapt at the idea.

“I warn you,” I wrote back. “The space is a mess. There’s no running water and an outhouse. Worst of all, you have to live next to me.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

Awesome.

I promised a habitable space by mid-April. I’m ahead of schedule, sweeping out the floor, scrubbing the walls, and the previously mentioned carpentry. No one makes their bones in Gustavus by themselves. After years of subsisting on other people’s time and knowledge, having something tangible to offer the next Gustavus generation feels good.

I look down at the sound of nails being pulled from wood. The poor idiot is yanking rusty fasteners from a stack of 12-foot 1x4s that are littered with 8D nails, staples, and tar paper. I know the sap. He doesn’t know the first thing about homesteading, much less how to build a home. But there’s a look of grim determination beneath that curly nest of blond hair. His 30-year-old face is set in a stubborn grimace. He doesn’t know why he’s pulling nails, much less what he’ll do with his salvaged 1-bys. It doesn’t matter.

“Dave.”

He looks up, caught by surprise. He peers at me as if through a foggy window. Recognizing but on guard.

“You’re…?” he gestures toward the (mostly) finished cabin beside the willow grove 100 yards away. The new spruce siding glows in the sun.

“Yeah, man. We pull it off.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

He beams and sets the hammer down, scarcely daring to believe it. I reluctantly descend the ladder. I’ve been waiting for this ghost. There’s too much to tell. Too much to recap. How to explain it? How to begin? It’s useless.

“But where’s…?”

My stomach clinches. Minerva pads over, gives the familiar stranger a look, coils around his legs, and darts for the woods. I look at the house, remembering how I walked inside last July and found it empty. Every shadow held a memory I’d rather forget. How can a months-old house already be haunted?

My neighbors, friends, and family kept me afloat. Zach, Tanner, and Hank listened deep into the night while the level in the whiskey bottle dropped. Amy told me to meditate, to control what I could control, and to let go of everything I couldn’t. Laura squeezed me tight and promised better days. So many others offered time, love, support, words, and ears. Very slowly, home became home.

I take a deep breath and look at the kid.

“You want the good part first?”

“Yes, please.”

“This is home. I’m done speaking in absolutes, but this sure feels like it’s going to be home forever.”

He looks through me and closes his eyes. The images flashing through his mind break my heart.

“What did it cost?” he asks.

For a minute, I want to be mellow-dramatic and say, “Everything.” Yet… that’s just not true. But it wasn’t cheap.

“What did it cost?” I repeat. “I hope it’s the hardest thing we ever have to do. You will feel like you’re drowning. People will throw you anything and everything that floats. You will grab every one of them and kick and scramble and paddle.”

Deep breath, let it out.

“And you will fail. You will make mistakes. You will screw up. You will do such a good job of convincing others that you’re ok that you’ll believe it yourself. You will hurt people and find yourself trying to atone for things you cannot atone for.”

“None of this sounds like good news.”

I shrug. This is one person whose feelings I don’t mind ruffling. “Sorry, kinda pivoted straight to the other part.”

He looks at the hammer hanging limply in his hands. I watch his mind race.

“Don’t do that,” I say.

“What?”

I smile. “I know how our brain works. You’re looking for every answer in real time. Give up. You can’t do it.”

I scuff the 2×6 porch with a toe, bend over, and pull a long curling hair from between the boards. Snow Patrol lyrics barrel through my subconscious.

“Two weeks later like a surplus reprieve. I found a hair the length of yours on my sleeve. I wound it round and round my finger so tight; it turned to purple, and a pulse formed inside.”

“Then tell me what we’re atoning for?” he asks.

“Not everything needs to be said in the light of day. We’ll do that down the road.” Another deep breath. “I know you think you’ve cracked some code to life and understanding. Don’t deny it. I remember that feeling—safe, secure, confident, arrogant, and wide-eyed. Scour that from your mind and outlook. We know nothing. And the further we travel both physically and emotionally, the more convinced I am of that.”

“And I knew the beat because it matched my own beat…”

The cranes are back, flying their big, slow circles overhead, the croaking calls of tribe and community.

 “If loons are the voice of loneliness,” wrote Kim Heacox, “then cranes have the cry of togetherness.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“No clue.”

The answer terrifies him.

“What,” I challenge. “Weren’t we so proud of our tumbleweed lifestyle? Weren’t we so eager to talk about embracing the unknown and or seasonal jobs? Benefits, health care, and 401ks be damned? You’d certainly tell anyone within earshot about it.”

I shake my head. “That’s nothing in comparison. It is what it is. Strap in. Quit planning for every possibility, open those eyes, hang on tight, and be where your feet are.”

He gives a little nod and watches cranes go swooping by.

“You’re gonna learn a lot in these five years, and I’m not talking about home building, hunting, gardening, or homesteading. The more you learn, the less you’ll know.”

I’ve bummed this poor kid into silence. The hair around my finger snaps and breaks the spell.

“In the books,” he says, “these sorts of conversations generally lead to some sort of closure.”

“This isn’t a book, dude. It’s life. It’s happening, and it can be beautiful. Don’t waste it because of who’s gone.”

I take the hammer from his hands, clap him on the shoulder, and gesture to the cabin. “Take a break. Go look at what you built with the help of your neighbors and friends. People call it cozy. We like that. Maybe cozy is just a polite word for, ‘small’ but it sure feels cozy to us.”

He wanders up the narrow path. I tug a few nails from the one-bys, recognize the futility, and toss the hammer aside. I step inside the Shabin. It still smells the same despite the cleaning, and memories come flooding back. I know the house I built isn’t much bigger, but the Shabin feels tiny by comparison.

I like that someone else gets to add their story to this space. I’m looking forward to having a neighbor who likes cats, venison burgers, quiet places, and open spaces. After months of clinging to floatation devices, it’s nice to give instead of take.

In a few days, we’ll cram a dozen people in the Shabin, strike a match in the fire pit, and have an old-fashioned Gustavus potluck. The thought fills my bucket. May the doors always be unlocked (I don’t know where the key is anyway), the root cellar full, and the vibes immaculate. I think about Hank, Kim, Melanie, Miller, Justin, Craig, Kathy, Elm, Patrick, Zach, Laura, Patrick, Jen, Brittney, and the legacy of all the other people who helped this home become a reality. I crack the Shabin door and let a fresh breeze waft the scent of disinfectant away.

I watch that 30-year-old kid turn slow circles around the house, marveling at everything he has to learn. I glance over my shoulder, bracing for the spectral ghost of 40-year-old me waiting to dispense more life lessons with the gift of hindsight, warning me of mistakes made and mountains climbed. This time I won’t be caught off guard, won’t expect every answer to the test or a false sense of clairvoyant accomplishment.

I weave up the trail toward the willows, and more of Kim Heacox’s words wash over me like a warm summer day.

“I live in the shadows of glaciers and in the sunlight of friends.”

Ice may advance, it may recede, but it is never done changing, evolving, and sculpting. There is beauty in a charging glacier and infinite possibility in recently scoured earth. 36 inches of glacial clay rests beneath my feet, my world a product of dancing ice. It could have been anything, but it became this, a miracle in process.

Minerva returns from the woods, bounds up a shore pine, and pauses at eye level. I scoop her up and squeeze her close.

“What do you think?” I ask, gesturing at the house. Her purrs vibrate in my chest. “Yeah, I dig it too.”