The mid-morning sun hung high over the valley, casting broad, crisp shadows across the granite flagstones of the central yard. A warm, lazy breeze drifted down from the upper pine ridges, stirring the high leaves of the wild cherry trees that lined the northern meadow. The sharp bite of early spring thaw had completely dissolved into the soft, humid richness of approaching summer, turning the soil dark, damp, and fragrant underfoot.
I stood beside the long timber workbench under the roof overhang, holding an iron drawknife and a curved wooden spokeshave. My task for the morning was shaping the cedar roof shingles intended for the timber storage shed near the eastern fence. Each stroke of the drawknife peeled away a paper-thin curl of red cedar, filling the air with a rich, aromatic perfum
