Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
Edwin smiled slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he chewed on the toothpick. He reached into the truck bed for the last of the split pine.
“The wood is dry enough for the stove now, Arthur,” Edwin said.
We finished the stack by eleven, lining up the top row so it sloped slightly to shed the rain. Edwin refused my offer of coffee, saying he had to check on a stock tank down the road, but he stood by his truck door for a minute before he got in. He looked at the cabin, his eyes tracing the line of the green metal roof and the sturdy cedar logs.
“It looks like it belongs here,” Edwin said.
“It does,” I said.
I watched him drive away, the blue truck disappearing behind the rise of the hill. I walked back inside and washed my hands at the kitchen sink, using the yellow bar of soap that smelled of lemon. The house was warm now, the sun hitting the south-facing windows and heating the pine floors. I felt a quiet satisfaction in the work we had done, the kind of feeling that only comes after a long day of physical labor on your own land.
