August Is Awkward

The little self-identifying phrase that follows feels like a fortune cookie no matter how I try to write it, so here it goes: Friends seek me out to… know where to buy certain things. More often than not I do seem to know the answer.

You may have thought we’re all Marxist chair-building, cement pigment, and lumber yards around here—but no! We have a softer side at Treehouse as well. To wit: we can be quite fanatical and opinionated about towels, and more specifically, the beach variety.

It’s an important day here at Treehouse. It’s the day we get to talk about pegboards. Really, I can’t believe I was able to hold out for so long. And here we finally are.

Really now, there seems to be no end to the little corners and minutiae that we can customize, put our fingerprints on, make our own by some lil’ scooch of measurability. And, as you can probably guess, I really thrive on, exalt in these details. Especially when it comes to hardware.

Esteemed hand-wringers: Have you ever found yourself knee deep in a situation, a decision, say, wherein, about halfway through, you reflect, ‘Perhaps I am overthinking this?’ I have been in just this position for, even I am embarrassed to say, something like four months now. In November, at the beginning of this winter’s burning season, I began panickin…

In a recent newsletter I referred to Lloyd Kahn, octogenarian former shelter editor of Whole Earth Catalog (and subsidiaries) and founder of Shelter Publications, as something like a patron saint to this newsletter. I’ve also made many references to people like Helen and Scott Nearing and Enzo Mari. And yet, people—and so, their newsletters, too—aren’t …

In 1972, Architect Michael Reynolds built a house using old beer cans as bricks, preaching, as he continues to do today, “radical sustainability.” He went on to codify his idea as something called Earthship Biotecture, which is also the name of his building school

Here’s a little snapshot of how this brain works: Back in 2019, I—like a certain flavor/tambour of people—not only watched, but ingested, Greta Gerwig’s retelling of Little Women. My heart will always belong to the 1994/Winona edition, but Gerwig’s production is so rife with period details,

About a month ago, I dragged my family about two (plus) hours from our house, deep into Western Maine, to buy and haul back a nine foot long, pine Shaker bench. Once we got home, the finish, which looked so perfect and lived-in on Facebook Marketplace, now appeared to be just grime after all and well, you know,

A friend who lives on one of the San Juan Islands in Washington recently posted a photo of her ferry ride to the mainland with the text, “If it was easy, everyone would do it.” I’ve come to believe that in this world, there are things that are easy, and things that look easy, and there are much, much more of the latter than the former.

This week marks the middle of a month, which is apparently referred to as its “ides.” But the middle of March isn’t like other ides—no, it’s packed with lore and myth and connotations.

I’ve always admired the putterer. As a list-maker, I approach the act of Doing Things with a rigidity that the putterer shirks. The putterer’s approach is freeform, meandering. True puttering is wild, improvised jazz to the list-makers’ uniform, marching drum line.

I usually try to avoid topics involving children and the parenting of them because there are many, many people who cover this topic with aplomb and are, generally speaking, more thoughtful and interesting about it than me. However, sometimes reality hits and these topics—kids, what to do with them, how to feed them (no actually: how?), how to keep one’s…

We needed a table, but it seemed silly to order one online and like it could be a long-term needle/haystack scenario if we attempted to mine one in the right dimensions from an antique store. So, I asked a friend, who introduced me to Tristan, who made a really special table that I love and that is all joinery, no glue, no screws (all scary when a child…

At my aunt and uncle’s house, casually and languidly spinning in the draft of an open window, there is a driftwood mobile made by a cousin. I’ve always thought it was just great. It’s clever, it’s pretty, and it strikes the right, and often elusive, aesthetic note for a beach cottage—