Last year, I lost my high school friend Tim McGuire. His passing brought back a flood of memories from our youth—memories of two kids with more ambition than sense, scheming up adventures that now seem both reckless and wonderful. Like the nights we'd sneak out his family's VW wagon and drive those country roads before either of us had a license. Or the countless projects we tackled together, learning as we went.
But there's one memory that stands out more than the rest.
It was the summer of 1975. A local man had purchased a kit to build his own house—essentially all the lumber needed to frame a home. He hired Tim and me to help him get started during his two-week vacation. When those two weeks ended, instead of finding more experienced help, he looked at what we'd accomplished and made a decision that, looking back, seems almost unbelievable.
He hired us—a high school junior and sophomore—to finish framing the entire house by ourselves.
And we did it. Two teenagers, with nothing but basic tools and determination, framed an entire two-story house, including the roof. We taught ourselves everything as we went along. This was before YouTube tutorials, before cell phones, even before cable TV made its way to our town. It was before nail guns and battery-operated skill saws. When we hit a problem, we figured it out through trial and error or by asking around.
Every morning that summer, we'd show up early. I drove in so many 16-penny nails that summer that later in my life, playing a round of Hammerschlagen, my colleagues marveled at my ability to drive in a nail with a single swing. We made mistakes—plenty of them—but we learned from each one. There's something profound about seeing a structure rise from nothing, knowing your own hands put it there.
I remember standing on that roof one evening, looking out over our small town, not really believing we were building someone's future home. We were kids building something permanent in a world that seemed so temporary. Something that would outlast our youth, our friendship, and eventually, one of us.
Over the years, I drove by that house many times. I'm not sure it's still there, but the memories are. Two teenagers who didn't know enough to understand what they couldn't do.
Tim and I went on to do many things in our lives after that summer. Careers, families, memories. As we got older, we didn't get together enough—I had left Iowa years before. I didn't get back to my hometown as much as I should have and lost track of most people as the town changed and I changed.
Now that Tim's gone, I find myself thinking about that house more often. Not just the structure itself, but what it represents—the foundation of confidence to try anything, even if you don't know how it's going to work out. Taking a step, not knowing where your foot will land. The understanding that most barriers are only as solid as your belief in them.
We built a house, Tim and I. By ourselves, as teenagers. In 1975.