text: I lived in a tent in some woods on land that wasn't mine. No one knew that I was there save for the birds and squirrels and deer and one hunter who passed through but thought I was just camping. Self-reliance had been my modus operandi ever since high school failed me for skipping a year and my parents disowned me for stealing their savings. It'd been a rough decade full of long winters and longer treks to the grocery store at the precise time of the week they set out stale bread and soured milk and barely-past-expiration can goods. My clothes were custom repaired name brands that people threw away because of the never-ending onslaught of fashion trends. In fact, my tent was the last thing I ever bought. It was the peak of summer's wet heat when an idea struck me. Specifically, it was a large enough branch that had been dead for several seasons but held on by the still living, still healthy, still well-maintained wood of the trunk. My head was sore for days but with the pain came the realization that timber lay all around me for the greatest expression of self-reliance mankind had ever devised. I decided to build a house. It was so obvious and easy and in accordance with my modus operandi that I felt silly for wasting ten years in a tent that bore the stench of exchange. All through July I gathered branches and limbs and uprooted some saplings and collected vines. My vision called for an ultra-spiritual, all-natural hut that would be the envy of hermits everywhere. It was going to be a squat dome nestled against a cluster of trees to minimize rain damage and soil erosion. I had envisioned a marvel of underbrush engineering that would baffle future archeologists. "How did he align them just so," they'd say, "and make the whole thing watertight?" But when the pieces came together and the vines were tied the whole thing looked . . . shabby. I don't think even the most inept hermit was going to be envious. July became August and the latter brought the heaviest rains I'd ever seen outside of my first year of self-reliance when I almost drowned in the dried creek bed I had chosen to camp in. Thumb-sized holes littered my roof and turned the dirt floor abode into a literal mud room. Luckily, I hadn't transferred many things from the tent yet so the damage was nothing to call the insurers about. So there I was, facing another winter with an untrusty tent and an opinion of anything less than a house soured. How could I possibly keep my thoughts from turning toward another attempt? But I had learned my lesson and would go contemporary this time. At first this meant using my hacksaw and knife to provide some homogeny to the otherwise unscrupulous boughs and build a thin-walled box. That fell through mid-September with only four limbs being anywhere near the quality of cut lumber. The design I'd drawn up on the back of a pastry wrapper started to feel like a pipe dream. With an exhausted body and a depressed mind I made my weekly run into town. Here there was a bit of relief as I walked away with unusual spoils. My coat pocket held greedily to the special treat of discolored chocolate I had found among the throwaway, while my fingers clutched two jugs of soured summertime lemonade unsuited for the changing weather. On my way back a little stack of recently stripped wooden siding caught my eye. The wrapper blueprint filled my vision and my mind slapped the new exterior over it. Vanity overrode sense and I dropped the jugs to pick up the stack. My arms went numb from carrying that much, but the blood rush afterwards brought forth a wonderful idea: What if I built my home from the salvage yard that was society? After all, nothing exemplified self-reliance more than creating treasures from the trash of one's surroundings. Fall began prematurely and my wanderings were filled with the crunch of leaves underfoot. Every house in town was either ancient and leaning or ancient and fallen. From the occupied abodes I gained siding, roofing tiles, and nails. From the abandoned ones I tore whole pieces of thigh-thick black lumber. After a few discouraging looks from passers-by I decided that night would be the best time to operate my recycling program. This became easier as winter approached and the sun relinquished more and more of its territory. I was puffing like a steam engine all Halloween night, dragging a crossbeam whose weight was at least the equal of my body. When I stopped to gasp, a gang of masked adolescents jumped me with rocks almost as sharp as their cruel remarks. Fortunately, they scattered once my sobs became loud enough to attract attention. I wanted to chase them down and give them the sternest explanation of my modus operandi I'd ever conceived. But the spirit of the holiday and presence of my heavy prize kept my head cool and my legs moving inexorably toward the wilderness. The blueprint hung nailed to a nearby tree as I erected its chocolate-smeared vision. My wood pile was stretched to the limit but my determination knew no bounds. Speaking of bounds, the creek that made two out of the wood's four borders turned out to be full of the most useful refuse. Bungee straps, nylon rope, and one very handy ball bearing that I used to check if things were level. The cold had already started to set in but I stayed warm working nonstop to make my dream home. By the first frost its walls were up. By the first snow I was layering a mix of shingles and wet prairie grass on the few overhead beams my scavenging had secured. Mud is a great insulator so I didn't hesitate to stuff it into every nook and cranny where I felt even the gentlest breeze. To complete the creature comforts I installed an old Franklin stove I'd found in a collapsed farmhouse and ran a pipe through the roof to vent it. Don't ask how I got the stove out into the woods, just follow the long trail of sled marks. With that installed, I had built everything to the blueprint's specifications and then some before Santa arrived. It was such a change from my previous winters. I cooked my can goods without fear of the wind blowing my little stick fire out, slept without fear of an animal outside my tent, and had room to stretch out after my weekly commute. I even started to consider inviting a guest over to admire my work and socialize. The grocery trek of New Year's Eve contained this last hope. I knew of only one other person who lived the life of a true frontiersman, though his frontier was the train yard on the opposite side of town. I would have to entice him with food, so I headed for the back of the grocery store. My journey there was slowed by the sight of fluorescent curiosities sticking out of all my former salvage sites. In the yards of occupied homes stood signs that said "No Trespassing" or "Neighborhood Watch." The abandoned ones had yellow tape strung all over their ruins: "Police Line - Do Not Cross." I wondered what kind of awful crimes had been committed in my former stomping grounds, but the chill in the air hurried me to complete my task and return to my forest manor. What surprise I felt when the train yard frontiersman was waiting at the back of the grocery store. He came up to me with the most congenial toothless smile and told how my exploits had reached his ears some weeks ago. Elated at my own notoriety, I invited him over at once and at once he accepted. Carrying our spoils in a shopping cart he'd acquired, we chatted and slapped each other's back all the way to the woods. In a last-second spark of vanity, I made him close his eyes as he passed through my home's threshold. Only when he was surrounded by the warmly lit cabin did I allow him to open them. I saw the emotion I desired: envy. We sat across from each other in twin folding chairs I had dredged from the creek and launched into philosophical discussion while the stew came to a boil. That's when a knock at the door interrupted us. I opened it to find a police officer standing there in an oversized winter coat, with his hand on an oversized pistol. Behind him stood three more men, all civilians, but armed nonetheless. Behind these men were dozens more people of every sex and age. It seemed like the whole town had come out to marvel at my work. The train yard frontiersman pushed me aside and squeezed past the officer without the latter moving a muscle. He ran up to one of the three men who then placed a wad of money in the frontiersman's hand. The police officer refocused my attention by inviting himself inside. Envy filled him so that he immediately kicked over the stew into the fire below. The cabin descended into darkness and winter's chill soon followed. I was thrust out into the arms of the three men, who then threw me onto the ground. The crowd beyond moved upon my home with tools in their hands. Hammers of every size, crowbars of every color, and expletives of every flavor tore at my work. I pleaded until I was hoarse, yet they continued unabated. What took me months to build took them an hour to destroy. A pickup was brought in to haul the pieces they found valuable. As quickly as they had arrived, so too did they depart. Cars and trucks started in the distance and carried the mob away. I was left on the hard earth, crawling around to pick up the splinters. My original blueprint stuck out of the ground like a fallen banner. I pocketed it and journeyed into the wreckage. The stove was gone. The food was gone. The roof was gone. The walls were gone. The floor was gone. They had even punctured my tent. Nothing, I was left with nothing. A pickup returned at dusk. I had settled on curling up to die from frostbite and was very upset by the interruption. I leaped to my feet, really and truly angry for the first time. With pocket knife in hand I ventured out to meet the returning intruder before I realized that she hadn't been with the last group. I put away my knife and approached her with as many salutations and verbal niceties as I could think of under pressure. She said that word had gotten to her concerning a cabin of the most ingenious design. I replied that such an assessment was correct, an understatement even, but that the lauded structure was no more. She let out an expletive and confessed that she had really hoped to see inside. I felt that I had offended a fellow architectural connoisseur. Without stopping to breathe I recounted the pillaging of my home by the barbarian townspeople. She shook her head and told me they were just envious of my self-reliance, adding that an assault against a man's modus operandi should be against the law. Tears stung my eyes in the bitter cold as thanks poured out of my hoarse throat. Then something passed her lips that sounded quite foreign to me. I must have stood there looking dumbfounded because she said it again and again and again. She got back in her truck and opened the passenger door. When she spoke again the words finally became real: "Last chance, the spare room is yours if you want it.