AUGUST 3, 2025 – Yesterday, our nearest neighbor, “Rustic John,” and his next door neighbor on the other side, “Arbor Steve,” paid me a visit. They arrived on one of John’s dozen (it seems, but who’s counting?) workhorse vehicles; in this case, his EV “Club Car” with a “workbox” behind the two open seats. The three of us happen to be lawyers in various states of recovery. We’re also DIYers in various states of proficiency. Most important, we three are dedicated conservationists, which gives us plenty to talk about.
After the requisite medical talk—John recently underwent successful cancer surgery; Steve is general counsel for a Twin Cities hospital; I’m on the mend from an encounter with Ehrlichosis—John asked casually if I’d like his help transporting all the parts to my Pergola-on-a-Platform to the assembly site at the top of the Björnholm tree garden. I had no idea just how that was supposed to happen, but I accepted his offer.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to do some reconnaissance, and then at noon we can load everything up and haul it up there. Of John’s miraculous inventory of work-toys, I still couldn’t be sure what was suitable for the task for which he’d volunteered.
Steve, meanwhile, described the wood slab step that he has in mind for the sauna he’s building, and asked if he might extract a section from a fallen giant that is lying near our drive. “Isn’t it great to have John as a neighbor?” was my answer, acknowledging that John with his inventory of logging equipment would doubtless be involved in Steve’s project and my contribution to it.
“What he really wants is oak,” said John. (The “fallen giant” is a white pine leviathan.) Steve affirmed. I told him he was free to look for a downed oak on our property and that I’d keep my eyes open as well.
John and Steve then departed with the same EV-stealth that had marked their appearance.
This morning just after I’d finished my oatmeal and coffee, I looked through the back door window and saw John standing next to the 20 pieces that I’d laid out at the end of our drive late yesterday. His “Club Car,” the workbox full of stuff, was parked just behind him. I watched as he started taking measurements of the longer pieces. In a flash, I joined him.
He greeted me and said he’d explored a potential path up to the powerline easement. “I think I can get my John Deere tractor all the way up there, but I need to do more reconnaissance. Hop in, let’s go.”
I took the Club Car seat that had been Steve’s yesterday. We proceeded north on our drive a few hundred feet, then went off road up and into the woods. I grabbed the handle on the rollbar as the vehicle assumed a series of unnatural angles. The rollbar gave me absolutely no confidence whatsoever. It took zero imagination to see that we’d be in a world of hurt if the machine rolled. I thought back in time less than 15 minutes when I was savoring a bowl of oatmeal and enjoying my book club book, Cuba: An American History: in that moment I could not have anticipated landing in the hospital—once someone discovered our fate—because of a “Club Car” rollover a mere quarter of an hour later.
Fortunately, my fear outpaced risk, though in the interest of self-preservation, when John concluded that it was too dangerous to continue, I told him I’d follow him on foot back down to the driveway.
Back at base, I thanked John for his valiant attempt and told him I’d just go back to my original plan and walk all the parts to the site. But he’d have none of it. The master of the “can-do,” John waved off my surrender by simply adjusting his route. “I’ll go back and get the tractor,” he said. “We’ll load up the trailer; pack things in really well with packing blankets so nothing gets scratched or banged-up. Then I’ll put a slow-moving vehicle sign on the back and go all the way around to the other end of the property.”
“You mean out Yopps Road, Williams Road, County Road E, Coppersmith Road and down the drive to Björnholm?”
“Exactly,” said John. “Why not? Once I get on the powerline easement off the driveway, the tractor will be just fine. I won’t be able to get into [the tree garden] with the tractor, but I can get you close.”
I was stunned. I’d budgeted no fewer than 30 trips on foot from the project work area in front of the Red Cabin, up a series of trails a quarter of a mile and 100 vertical feet to the site. With John’s bold plan, I’d be within 150 paces and about 30 vertical feet of the objective.
Apart from his reliance on an array of work-toys large and small, not to mention his ownership of every power tool known to man, John is a guy after my own heart: when it comes to thinking things through, he’s as methodical as anyone I know. After accepting John’s initial offer to haul stuff to or close to my construction site, I’d been concerned that all my freshly painted wood would have the “torn jean” look that some fashion designers assign to brand new trousers. I imagined it all hopping up and down and wondered what tarps and so forth I could pull from storage to wrap and stuff around all the wood.
Together, we spent more than a half hour removing 36 lag screws from the wood and carefully wrapping and packing every member of the Pergola-on-a-Platform into John’s trailer. He also brought to the party umpteen pieces of Styrofoam to pack between the pieces to which I’d attached joist holders. Then, with cleverly installed pressure clamps, John ensured that absolutely nothing in that trailer would move. Finally, he clipped on the “slow-moving vehicle” sign, turned on his big orange flashers and pulled away.
I cleared materials from the staging area, grabbed some tools, and took “Björn’s Walk” to “Ray-Way” and up to “Nor-Way past the pergola site to where “Nor-Way” meets the powerline easement. Within a few short minutes, John’s tractor appeared at the top of the hill to the east. I waved jubilantly.
“Traffic was light,” said John after he’d pulled up, turned off the engine and set the brake. “One car passed me on Williams, and two approached me on E. That was all.”
As we carefully unloaded everything, John said jokingly, “All that packing paid off. This wood is in better shape than it was when we loaded it.” Methodically, John unwrapped each piece and handed it to me to lay by the entrance to the tree garden. He whistled while he worked, which further signaled the patient generosity that accompanies his willingness and ability to help his neighbors. I’m sure he was an excellent lawyer before he retired many years ago, but what I will remember him for will be his excellence as a neighbor. And by gosh, for all that I devoted to the practice of law, being a good neighbor is how I too would want to be remembered.
Soon John was back on the tractor for the return trip. I told him how much I appreciated his efforts. “You saved me gobs of time and work,” I said. He acknowledged my expression of gratitude by clicking his tongue and allowing a tight-lipped smile as is his understated style.
The sun was getting warm, especially given how I was dressed—impervious to insects. Motivated by John’s work ethic and persistence, however, I decided to cart all 20 pieces the rest of the way to the building site. I paced myself, and six trips did the trick—a fraction of the original effort I’d budgeted for the task. After the last trip, I descended back down to the lake. My reward was a fresh breeze off the water—and the contentment derived from . . . major project progress.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
