One year ago this week, Honeydew and I moved into the Warehome that we’d spent the summer, and to our surprise, fall and early winter, building.  It wasn’t finished, by any means.  Sunlight streamed through the gaps around the windows and doors, and we quickly ran out of caulk.  The propane radiant floor heat we’d been so excited about proved no match for -40, and a quick trip to Great Falls, two and a half hours south, had to be made for an enormous wood stove.  The cell phone booster didn’t work, so we had no way to take orders, via phone or via internet.  It was the start of the Christmas rush, I was about four months pregnant, Honeydew was preparing to leave for the California almond pollination season, and we were, despite the 45 degree temperatures each morning in our family room, incredibly happy.

Posing in front of our Warehome, November 2010.

And we still are.

Honeydew returned home just as the calendar switched over to May.  I waited for Maggie Rose’s arrival at my parents’ home in Whitefish, just minutes away from medical care, and Honeydew waited in the Warehome, caulking and patching and planning the next round of improvements.

And then it was summer, and the mad rush to get the supers on the hives, and then off, and extracted, was on, and there was no time to finish doorstoops or outdoor lights or the porch that I longed for.

And now it’s once again early Winter, and Honeydew and I are amazed by all that we haven’t yet accomplished.  And by how much we have.

The Warehome is grand in some ways, humble in others, but most importantly, she’s Home.

I wrote last year that I am glad that the Warehome kept Honeydew and I from being able to build our Dream Home right off the bat.  And I still am.  Each time I snap a picture of Maggie Rose rolling across our concrete floors in her walker, or bouncing in her jumper in the beeswax room, as I pour honey and candles, I look down the road and hope that one day she’ll be compelled by the story of how her Daddy and I got started in this industry.  I hope she’ll understand that Home isn’t created by wainscoting or oil rubbed bronze fixtures, but by the pile of Carhartt jackets at the door, the hand me down couch just right for napping, and a grandmother’s wedding china housed in any sort of cabinet, whether plywood or mahogany.

2010 Christmas Card.

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