Our Team

Terry and I used to be a team.

Not the matching T-shirt kind. More the quiet, competent, pass-the-pencil, hand-me-the-wrench kind. We took on projects the way some couples take on puzzles or Sunday crosswords. Side by side. Focused. Slightly stubborn. Completely committed.

There was always a plan. That part was mine.

I liked lists, measurements, sequences. I liked knowing what came first, what came next, and where the extra screws would inevitably hide. Terry brought the vision. As a builder and electrician, his mind worked like a well-lit workshop. Ideas connected quickly. Solutions appeared mid-sentence. He could see a finished thing long before the box was opened.

Naturally, Terry became the lead.

This was never discussed. It simply happened. He stood closer to the instructions. He held the power tools. I hovered nearby, scanning diagrams, reading ahead, offering quiet updates like a human GPS. We fit. Easily. Like two pieces that had already decided where they belonged.

Patience was one of Terry’s finer qualities. He truly had it. He just sometimes misplaced it when faced with unclear instructions or parts that refused to behave. He knew this about himself. Which is why, after our very first project, he introduced a tradition.

Before starting anything new, he would pause, look at me with complete sincerity, and say, “Honey, I apologize in advance for any yelling and cursing in the next few hours.”

Every single time.

Furniture. Shed. Exercise equipment that promised joy and delivered confusion. The speech never changed. The timing was always perfect. And I laughed every time. Not politely. Not quietly. The kind of laughter that bends you in half and resets your nervous system.

It became part of the ritual.

Open the box. Lay out the pieces. The apology. My laughter. Then we began.

There was something generous in that moment. A small clearing of the air. An acknowledgment that projects are messy, people are human, and grace works best when offered early. Shall we begin, knowing who we are?

We built a lot of things together. Shelves that held more weight than expected. Furniture that survived multiple moves. A rhythm. A language. A way of working that spilled into the rest of life.

Looking back, I realize we were building more than objects.

We were practicing patience. Making room for humor. Choosing kindness before frustration arrived.

And somehow, with a screwdriver in one hand and laughter in the other, we made it all work.