I admit the nest I pictured in my mind is far prettier than the one I have been slowly building over these past days. I have always had high expectations of myself in life. Papa says I get that from Mama, but I know he can be most picky about a task. However, this shelter, nest, or whatever I dare call it—anything but home, for I swear I will not be here long enough to make it thus—is far removed from my mind’s first vision.
I spent much of one day digging holes to set the butt ends of logs in, only to find that I had been far too ambitious in my thinking. At that rate, the size of the structure would be as long as the wagon and twice as wide. I do not have the ability to chop down that many trees for the shelter alone. I will need my strength and I will need the trees for firewood. So I changed my plans and in so doing had to yank ten poles out and dig new holes for them, not so far apart this time. I am lucky, I suppose, that I did not realize my mistake days later than I did. That will teach me to be so full of myself.
But this thing I am building is not pretty. I tell myself it doesn’t have to be, but I hoped it would have turned out more handsome. Here is what it looks like: Roughly half again as long as I am tall, the same in the other direction, but that does not mean it is square. I meant it to be, of course, but it came out with no regular shape at all.
Little matter, for now that it is well on its way, and I know there is no turning back, I am pleased. I angled the poles inward with their butt ends planted in holes all less than a foot deep. They leaned every which way, but I packed as much sod around them as I was able.
I am thankful that the earth hereabouts is wet through but not yet frozen. It has made for a decent building material and I fancy I have become quite good at cutting sizable clods that mostly hold together and stack well. I devised a method of mounding them up between the poles so they don’t fall over until I have them all stuck in the ground and secured at the top.
A goodly supply of rope would be more than I could wish for. Of course, if I am wishing, I’d want to be elsewhere and surrounded by my family.
I hesitate to use much of my rope for I feel it will be useful in other ways that have yet to reveal themselves. For now, I lop green whips, branches and spry saplings, and bend them in a weave to help bind the poles and crosspieces in place. Most of them split, but still manage to hold together. I stagger the snapped bits and in the end fancy I will have something that is functional.
It is resembling a square-shaped woven beehive, though not so pretty as any I have seen. It also lacks much in the way of a roof. I angled the poles in enough that it won’t require many crosspieces at the top for the roof. And though I say top, really it’s not much taller than Papa. Inside I fear it will be like a dark cave, but I daren’t make space for windows. My biggest concern, really more of a fear, is that I won’t make this stout enough to keep marauding animals away. But all my dirt digging has given me an idea.