I hired a contractor named Frank Miller, a local man with hands like baseball mitts and a voice like gravel in a bucket. Frank knew how to build houses that looked like they belonged where they stood. He wore the same faded cap every weekend, drank his coffee black, and did not waste words.
“You sure you want the porch this big?” he asked when we walked the lot.
“Yes.”
“Screened section off the kitchen too?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the plans. “You got grandkids?”
“Five.”
“Then make the porch bigger.”
That was how I knew we would get along.
Frank built the frame. I chose the rest.
Wide-plank pine floors. Stone for the fireplace. Brushed brass fixtures. Black hooks in the mudroom. A deep green front door because Henry always said green was the color of home. A farmhouse sink big enough to wash peaches in. A porch swing angled three inches farther west so whoever sat there could see the sky turn copper before dark.
It took eleven months.