TransformationJourney

I spent the weekend planting trees, nine of them and shaping a vegetable patch. Hard work, sometimes made harder by rocky soil and roots, but deeply satisfying in the silence of the morning, hearing the blade cut into the earth. My wife can name each tree; I mostly plant and hope. The real reward is knowing time will take over now – growth, seasons, patience. A poorly designed tool gave me blisters, but that’s a side note. What stays are the trees.

I’ve begun stopping my car at the same place before crossing the causeway, snapping a quick photo of the view ahead. In just six months, the photos already show what I’m most looking forward to: the slow transformation of seasons. Snow, rain, light, and leaves change not only the road but also my sense of home. With it will come challenges, snow to clear, windows to replace, but also the joy of watching the world at work, reminding me of my part in it.

This house is mine, but it’s also not mine, it’s my son’s home. I bought it, planned it, even assembled the IKEA furniture, but it’s his smells, gadgets, books, and rituals that define it. My room exists there, but out of bounds. It feels both mine and not mine at the same time. Thinking of this house brings me back to all the homes I’ve had – temporary, inherited, or fleeting – each carrying a momentary sense of belonging. Home is always more than walls.

I miss home, the corners, the records, the sky at dusk. Yet here I am at my other home, the beach where my grandmother came, where my children learned the waves, where I chose to celebrate sixty. A modest fisherman’s house, twenty years of memories, freshly painted each summer, always the same. Nights are filled with crashing waves, days with shifting moods of fog, rain, or blinding sun. This place is not perfect, not easy, but it is mine.

More than 25 years ago I bought a TUMI suitcase with a lifetime warranty, one of the few times I’ve seen such a promise hold up. Two decades later, as we face decisions about the windows in our house, I see how warranties have shifted. “Lifetime” used to mean trust and durability, now it’s exclusions, fine print, and limited coverage. Companies lean on repair and sustainability instead of forever.

We almost timed our vacation so the GC could finish the job while we were gone. But delegation only works when trust, clarity, authority, and accountability are in place, and we’ve learned the hard way how shaky that can be. So, we’re pausing. No work while we’re away. We’ll return with fresh eyes, tanned skin, and hopefully, enough perspective to guide the rest without losing our minds. Because this house is teaching us more than just how to renovate.

We’ve built a service economy that wants to please, ping after ping. This week I ordered a cheap wood delivery for a trash bin project. One flatbed truck, 12 text messages, and a forklift later, I got what I needed, plus a lot more to think about. Behind every easy order is a maze of assumptions, protocols, and costs we don’t see. I’m a satisfied customer. Sort of. But I wonder: who pays for all of this, and how?

There’s a man who rides past our house, a stranger who somehow feels familiar. I haven’t met him, yet I’ve made up a whole story about him. The way he rides, dresses, swerves. The kind of quiet presence that makes you reflect on your own. Maybe I admire him, maybe I envy him. I’m not sure yet. But this much I know: neighbors shape how we feel about a place, and maybe, in time, we’ll trade stories and become part of each other’s.

I’ve been thinking a lot about quality control, not the kind that checks things after the fact, but the one that prevents issues before they happen. That rare, often thankless mindset. We just built a deck at home, fast, improvised, not perfect. Still, I’m proud of it. There are always things we could’ve done better. But I wonder, are we losing the people who see those things? And what happens when no one really owns quality anymore?