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Building memories

I don’t recall many specific memories from my childhood. In comparison, my wife can recount the entirety of her day’s activities from a third grade field trip. Did I take my medication this afternoon? Better take more, just in case.

I do, however, remember my dad being borderline obsessed with alternative building styles for houses in the mid-‘80s. He came this close to building an in-ground dwelling, but instead chose to channel his inner Paul Bunyan to build a log home. No, not a log cabin. That makes it sound like a neat little one-room retreat by a lake up north. This was a H-O-U-S-E, 4,000 square feet of country living awesomeness.

Mom and dad did their due diligence. Mom drew up the floor plans and had an architect certify them. They secured 7 acres less than a mile from where we lived at the time.

Dad sharpened up his drawknives, axes, and chainsaw blades and went to war with half the trees in Michigan. He actually asked for, and received, permission to chop down trees on government property in northern Michigan.

My grandpa had a truck and a flatbed, and also a tractor trailer at the time (because why wouldn’t he), so we caravanned up, felled some trees, and came back south with all the logs dad would need for the massive undertaking.

There were parties where my parents’ friends from church helped de-bark the logs. It was done old-school, with drawknives. That is a memory I have: setting the knife blade parallel to the log, then letting the edge dig just past the bark, onto the wood’s surface.

If the tree had dried long enough, it was an easy demarcation. Couldn’t push the steel too deep or I would gouge the wood. Too shallow, and I’d leave a crusty residue. Hit the sweet spot and pull towards myself, a crisp, satisfying crackle, and the husk easily separated and fell to the ground.

I had to dig deep for that memory. It’s not like I buried them, I just don’t recall. I was too young to do much in the way of construction; mostly I just ran around the property with my hatchet, slicing off any branches I could reach.

Oooh, one quick story. I don’t remember being there, specifically, it’s more like a legend, but absolutely true. There’s a large tree that became the main beam above the first floor supporting the second floor. Dad had to flatten one side, but it was too freaking big to sand down by hand. So Tim (that’s my dad, Tim) rigged it to my grandpa’s truck, securing it so it wouldn’t roll, took it up to the paved Irving Road, and dragged it on the asphalt until the one side was flat. He used the road as sandpaper!

A couple years ago I made it a point to scan all the photos my parents took of the build. They’re really something to look through, from scouting the woods with the old Jeep to pouring the foundation to laying the logs. Hand-cut tongue and grooves, 9-inch nails, blood, sweat, and tears.

All images courtesy of Brown Dog Welding. View the slideshow. Additional images can be seen here.