The log keeper’s copy
The book itself lives on the bench by the stove, under whatever mug got set on it last. This page is the copy we keep for people who ask.
Late September. First rain that meant it. We brought the last two racing hulls up from the beach and turned them over on the long rack. A canoe stored right looks like it is sleeping, not stopped. Somebody’s kid asked why we put them bow-out. Because a boat should always be looking at the door, same as you would want to.
October. Root day. The barrel by the door got its new soak, cedar roots pulled this spring and dried all summer, going soft again now until they remember how to bend. E. says a root holds a grudge if you rush it. Nobody argues with E. about roots.
November. The loom at the north window got warped for the first blanket of the winter. Watching a warp go on is watching somebody make a promise in public. Twenty minutes in, the whole shed had gone quiet without deciding to. We put another log in the stove and found things to do with our hands nearby.
January. A man from up the highway brought in his grandfather’s paddle, split along the grain, and asked if it could be saved. Short answer yes. Long answer took three visits, and on the third one he stayed all afternoon and told us where his grandfather used to fish. The paddle left better than it came. So did the story.
February. Deep winter. Some of the families are busy in the evenings this time of year, and the boathouse keeps different hours without anyone posting a notice. If you know, you know. If you do not, the shed is warm on Saturdays and the sandpaper is where it always is. That is all the log has to say about winter, and it is enough.
April. Steaming day for the new hull. Water in, rocks in, and the cedar opened up like it had been waiting all winter to be asked. Six of us on the thwart spreaders and one on the kettle, and for about an hour nobody was any particular age. The old books say hulls were spread exactly this way a thousand years back. The old books are correct.
May. Racing season is coming and the eleven-man crews have started evening practice. You can hear them from the shed, the count coming across the water. The young ones think they invented it. Every generation does, and the water lets them.
June. The crews are away at the races this weekend, and the shed feels like a school in summer. We swept, oiled the tools, and started a list of everything that has to happen before journey season. The list is long. The list is always long. That is what it means to be a living building.
[CO-AUTHOR: entries may be added, cut, or rewritten entirely. The winter entry especially awaits your judgment.]