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The plot of land is only a few miles from her cabin and in close proximity to Weston’s riverfront business property, The Man Caves. The old shack is simple, and I can imagine her grandfather spending many a summer day tooling around the old place.
“This is nice,” I say as we unload the truck.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s a dilapidated mess.”
“Nah, it just needs some elbow grease. It’s got good bones,” I assure her.
“I don’t know how they spent entire summers out here. There’s no electricity and no running water. I can’t imagine a family enjoying this.”
“I can. Think of it as camping. You have the river for water, bathing, and swimming. You can build a campfire for cooking your daily haul of trout. Coolers to keep drinks and other things cool. The shanty is like a wooden tent. Just throw some sleeping bags on the floor and maybe a hammock or two in the trees. That’s what I call a fun summer camp,” I say.
She looks around the place, imagining what it could be.
“We didn’t camp when I was a kid,” she says.
“We did all the time. Being out in nature with my parents and grandparents are some of my fondest memories. Plus, if there’s ever an apocalyptic event, I know how to live off the land.”
“Impressive, Tuttle. If there’s ever a crisis, I’m coming your way,” she muses.
I crank the generator and plug in the sander.
“You think that’s impressive? Wait till you see what I can do with these power tools.”
“Lay it on me, cowboy.”
“Wow, I can’t believe the difference it made,” Maxi exclaims as she steps back and inspects our work.
We sanded the decks with the power sander and used the ladder and fine-grade steel wool to clean up the surface of the shanty by hand. Afterward, we replaced a few rotted planks and stained the deck a dark walnut.
“We’ll let this dry overnight and come back tomorrow and paint the exterior of the shack and weather-seal the deck,” I tell her.
“Will you go with me to pick the paint out?” she asks.
“Sure. Do you know what color you want?”
“I was thinking something fun, like a burgundy red with gray trim, and then I could have the roof done in silver tin,” she says.
I nod. “That would look good.”
“I can take all these buoys, sand them, and give them a fresh coat of paint and some new rope.”
I help her gather all the old buoys and place them in my truck. Then, I load the equipment that we won’t need tomorrow.
“Corbin, do you know what this thing is for?” she calls from the other side of the shack.
I find her standing in front of a breast-high wooden table with a stainless steel basin, drain, a ten-gallon bucket, and an old, rusted pressure tank with a hose.
“That is a fish cleaning station,” I inform her.
“How does it work?”
“You throw your catch of the day up on the table and use your scaling knife to skin it. Then, you gut it and discard everything into the bucket. The water from that pump tank is used to clean up all the blood.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”
“Dinner doesn’t clean itself, sweetheart,” I say.
She swipes at the sweat rolling down her forehead.
