Over the last few years, I have been spending my time building a timber-frame workshop. That ambition grew out of a decision I made long ago to pursue a career in biology rather than architecture. Call it a bucket-list item if you will.

Before I could begin, I needed to learn how to do this properly, so I signed up for a waiting list for a timber-framing course on Gabriola Island through the Island School of Building Arts. In February of that year, they called and offered me a space. Yes came easily, and in April I drove down to the island to spend a month earning certification as a timber framer.

Once home, I jumped straight into the water. No easy first project for me—I decided to build a two-story, 20 × 20 workshop. As with all endeavors, the project began with the foundation. Piers came first, followed by a foundation sill made of 10 × 10 Douglas fir. That decision set everything in motion, and the full story of my timber-framing journey belongs to another day.

For now, I want to skip ahead to the present. Just last week, we finished this year’s project goals. Each year brings its own deadlines and objectives. The first focused on joinery and the foundation. The second centered on erecting the timber frame, getting the roof on, and framing the first floor. This year brought completion of the framing, installation of the siding, lock-up with windows and doors, finished interior walls, and finally electricity and heat.

There is still a bit more to do, but a new building now stands.

At this point, however, the story is no longer about the workshop. Instead, it turns to something I uncovered while reorganizing and cleaning up old things. Around the same time, I had been looking for a Christmas gift for my son-in-law, and the search led me into storage boxes. One container opened like a time capsule. Among old ski passes and keys to places I no longer remember sat an old silver half-dollar—a Benjamin Franklin half-dollar from 1963.

I remember the day that coin came into my possession. At the time, I was ten years old.

It was summertime. Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and that meant steel. In those years, the city still produced it in volume, and the environment bore the cost. Mills belched smoke—sometimes an intense shade of orange—into the air, and rivers received their effluent. In winter, crews spread acidic cinders from coal slag on the roads; in summer, black grains and dust lingered everywhere.

Back then, people had barely begun to object to littering and smoking. Toughness defined the culture—loyalty to friends, family, and origin. We identified ourselves largely by our parents’ countries, since many families had immigrated during the 1930s to supply the mills with workers. In the midst of that acrid life, bullying and fighting flourished.

Much of it felt good, too. During those summers, the sun broke through the polluted sky often enough that I have since decided my life at ten ranked among the best years I have ever known. As baby boomers, we ran free through the neighborhood most of the time. Red-brick houses formed suburbs built using GI Bill benefits. Left largely to our own devices, our adventures unfolded without adult supervision—and often turned harrowing.

The bullying followed from the circumstances.

At that age, a nemesis emerged—a boy named Jackie. Living next door and several years older, he held the advantage. Looking back now, I think he probably suffered from some disorder—perhaps fetal alcohol exposure, or perhaps cruelty from his drunken father. At any rate, he took delight in harassing me. Friendly approaches gave way to sudden assertions of control: a strike, a theft, a sprint away on longer legs.

This continued for some time. Eventually, my parents tried to intervene. They went to Jackie’s mother and asked her to step in. Dismissal came quickly. She told them I would have to look after myself and shut the door on any civilized resolution. Behind her hand, she laughed as she closed the door on my mother, enjoying our trouble and no doubt feeling exalted by her son. Pittsburgh could be a hard place to grow up.

Before long, my stomach knotted and my days tightened around avoiding Jackie. Chasing him proved useless—I could never catch him—and that only reinforced his advantage. One afternoon, my father called me down to his workshop in the basement. We talked briefly, perhaps about a project he was working on. Then he turned to me.

“Michael, you see this?” Holding up the coin, he added, “This is a Benjamin Franklin half-dollar.”

To me, it represented real money. At that age, pennies and nickels bought our treats at the local convenience store. My eyes widened as I stared at the coin.

“I want you to end this,” he said. “You have to learn how to stand up for yourself. Punch that kid right in the nose. If you do, I’ll give you this coin.”

The room seemed to shrink around me. Up until then, my father had not encouraged fighting. But Pittsburgh had shaped him too. His own father had been tough and cruel, and early on my dad had learned to fend for himself and protect his younger brothers. Service as an MP in the Navy had only reinforced those lessons.

The rest of that conversation became instruction. It wasn’t sophisticated. “Punch him right on the end of the nose,” he said. “His eyes will water, maybe his nose will bleed, and that’s what you want. It’ll probably make him cry. Then he’ll leave you alone.”

Just thinking about facing Jackie made my chest tighten.

The following week, while I was playing in the yard, Jackie came over to apologize. This was his pattern—after tormenting me, he would return, claim friendship, and attempt to reset the balance in his favor. This time, something had shifted. I had a mission.

“No,” I said. “In fact, I want to fight. Fight me right now. I’m sick of you picking on me.”

My legs felt unsteady, but forward motion mattered more. Jackie, surprisingly, backed down and started toward his house, trying to disengage. I followed, calling him out and demanding a fight. The noise drew the other neighborhood kids, who gathered and formed a loose circle around us.

Jackie retreated to his back door and sat down on a milk crate, avoiding my eyes, while I yelled, “Come on! Fight!” He stayed put. Finally, in exasperation, I closed the distance and hit him. The aim was his nose, but the angle was wrong, and my fist struck the side of his head. His head snapped off my fist and into the brick wall.

Crying came immediately. Jackie stood up, grabbed a rhubarb leaf from a bucket at his feet, and struck me soundly across the face.

At that moment, heat rushed to my eyes as the back door opened. Jackie’s mother appeared, shook her finger at me, and announced loudly, “There will be no more fighting,” asserting adult authority as she ushered Jackie inside.

Afterward, I turned to the other kids. Denny Beck—the biggest among us, and therefore an authority in our world—declared that I had won because Jackie had cried first. The kids accepted his judgment, cheered, and dispersed. From that day on, no one in my neighborhood bullied me again.

That coin changed my life.

My father’s permission to defend myself shaped how I fought and stood my ground—in schoolyards, classrooms, and later in workplaces. My own worth became clear, along with the necessity of being forthright. Permission to defend transformed into the capacity to fight.

In the years that followed, as I grew up and encountered other bullies and challenges, I learned to face them directly rather than avoid them. An intense reputation followed—one that discouraged casual disrespect.

Later still, in college and beyond, I continued to confront situations that felt unfair or disrespectful with the same fierceness and willingness to fight, often before fully considering the consequences.

Not coincidentally, this incident—and further lessons from my father, who taught me some basic judo throws—sparked my interest in martial arts, where confrontation came with structure and limits.

Over time, I protected myself—but I also came to see the cost of doing so without restraint. Friends fell away after overreactions, and job opportunities closed as well.

Much later in life, I revisited that backstory and reassured the wolf—through experience rather than argument—that I could protect myself without its constant vigilance.

The wolf still lives within me.
But now it sleeps beneath my feet as I write this.