Dispatch from Boonslick Trail Farm
Have you ever wanted to do something you’ve never done before? I have.
When we moved to Boonslick Trail Farm in 1995, the house on the property was a shotgun bungalow. The rooms lined up front to back so that, as the saying goes, you could fire a shotgun through the front door and the shot would go straight out the back door.
I tried to design an addition, but nothing made sense. So we lived in the old house—with three kids sharing one bedroom—while we built a new one.
Now, had I ever built a house before? Nope. My resume included a walnut coffee table, cherry stereo cabinet, and solar kiln. I’d worked for a barn builder in college and later wrote for WOOD magazine in Iowa. I owned a table saw, a router, and a healthy amount of confidence.
Why did I think I could build a house? I figured once you knew how to frame a floor, wall, corner, and doorway, you just repeat the process.
The house I was to build, by the way, wasn’t small. It had 22 windows, 10-foot ceilings, two stories, and a walk out basement—about 1,500 square feet per floor, plus another 2,000 in porches.
I bought a book outlining every step of construction and a VHS video set on framing. Every night after working on the house all day, I’d watch those tapes.
I knew I’d need contractors for the foundation, plumbing, electrical, and HVAC work, but I wanted to do as much as I could myself. My dad often came by to help. After one long hot day, he asked, “Have you had enough yet?” I wasn’t ready to quit.
My first rookie mistake came when I forgot to allow for a brick ledge on the south side. That wall ended up nine inches thick instead of the standard six. Still, the structure rose, one floor at a time.
When I finished the second-story floor, the true test came.
I was supposed to measure from the northeast corner to the southwest corner and from the southeast corner to the northwest corner, and the measurements were supposed to be the same. I held my breath as I measured that diagonal X pattern. The two measurements were within a quarter of an inch of each other. Close enough!
Then came the second-story walls. Standing 30 feet above the ground on the second-story floor with nothing but air below me, I realized how risky pushing those second-story walls up was going to be. Fatigue set in, and one day, I drove a nail through my thumb with the nail gun. Sitting on a stack of studs, I finally admitted I was ready for some help.
I called in local builders Leon Dobson and his son Kevin to help me finish the job, and Leon quietly became captain of the ship. When Leon first inspected my work, he flicked his cigarette to the floor, looked me over, and said, “It took a lot of courage to do what you’ve done.”
Still, there was some suspicion about my work. On their first day, Kevin came to the barn to tell me, “The south wall you built is way off!” My stomach sank. But when I climbed up to check, Leon said, “Never mind. I was mistaken.” Whew.
They say the mark of a good carpenter is the size of the scrap pile left behind, and theirs was almost nothing.
The final test came when we installed the windows I had framed. All 22 slid perfectly into place. Leon grinned. “You know,” he said, “we might have to hire you for our next job.”
“Oh no,” I told him. “I’ve pounded enough nails for a while.”
In midwinter 1996, we moved into the house. It wasn’t quite finished, but we were thrilled to be in a warm home.
If you’ve got a dream, get after it. You’ll never know what you can do until you try, and don’t be afraid to ask for help.
This column was originally published in the January 2026 issue of Missouri Life.
