I thought my arrival in Newtown would be all sunsets and salt air. Turns out, the town had other plans for me. Before the kettle even had a chance to boil, I found myself staring up at the house, right to the eaves, and realizing—we’ve got work to do.

Now, I wasn’t dressed for roofing, or eaves, or any kind of construction for that matter. My hands were ready for a cup of tea, not a hammer. But the house had its own way of asking for attention. Boards weathered thin, nails a little loose, and that familiar look of, “Well, are you going to fix me or just keep staring?”

So, we set to it. Ladders dragged out, toolboxes opened, and the first careful measurements taken. I mostly hovered—managing, as I like to call it—making sure nothing slipped, no one leaned too far, and that the ladder looked “sturdy enough” (which is really just code for, “I’m not the one climbing it”).

The air was still warm from the day, but the shadows were getting longer, and there was that feeling of racing the light. Boards were lined up, hammers poised, and I could feel the start of something—one of those jobs that takes more than an hour, more than a day even. One of those jobs you tell stories about later, when the tea is poured and the muscles are sore.

The eaves weren’t going to fix themselves, and Newtown wasn’t about to let me sit around idle. So here we are, just beginning the work, with the Atlantic breeze in our hair and the smell of sawdust mixing with the salt air.

The sunset had welcomed me the night before. Tonight, it was just the glow of work lights and the sound of tools tapping against old wood. And I had the sneaking suspicion this was only the beginning.