d foothills of the Cascade Mountains. The paint was peeling, the porch was sagging, and the barn where my fath

d away from odd jobs over the years, to buy a used, beat-up Ford Ranger

he leaky roof. Every swing of the hammer, every splinter in my hands, felt like an act of

icity of my marriage, came around on weekends. They brought beer and to

ave, a burly carpenter, as we hoisted a new beam in

ugh. "Rebuilding a life, and a future microbrewery." I documented everything: the painstaking work of restoring the old farmhous

y, of the simple, honest craft of it all. I didn't try to be a person

People were drawn to the authenticity of it. They left comments about the satisfacti

laxing than any

tle of that stout y

Tube channel th

e money than I'd ever seen in my life. I quit my part-time job at the local hardware store and focused entirely on the reb

. It was an unknown number

th

e was strained, unfamil

you want,

g a horrible noise. And Molly won't eat the mac and cheese I made her

ven years, I was at her beck and call. For seven yea

" I said, m

n't be an asshol

help you, Nicole. You hav

r. I stared out at the dark silhouette of the mountain