Construction began on the milking barn in Oneida. Shawn designed

and welded the main frame—the massive beams that formed the
skeleton of the building. They were too heavy for the loader; only a
crane could lift them. It was a delicate procedure, requiring the
welders to balance on opposite ends of a beam while it was lowered
onto columns, then welded in place. Shawn surprised everyone when
he announced that he wanted me to operate the crane.

“Tara can’t drive the crane,” Dad said. “It’ll take half the morning to
teach her the controls, and she still won’t know what the hell she’s
doing.”

“But she’ll be careful,” Shawn said, “and I’m done falling off shit.”
An hour later I was in the man box, and Shawn and Luke were
standing on either end of a beam, twenty feet in the air. I brushed the
lever lightly, listening as the hydraulic cylinders hissed softly to
protract. “Hold!” Shawn shouted when the beam was in place, then
they nodded their helmets down and began to weld.

My operating the crane was one of a hundred disputes between Dad
and Shawn that Shawn won that summer. Most were not resolved so
peacefully. They argued nearly every day—about a flaw in the
schematics or a tool that had been left at home. Dad seemed eager to
fight, to prove who was in charge.

One afternoon Dad walked over and stood right next to Shawn,
watching him weld. A minute later, for no reason, he started shouting:
that Shawn had taken too long at lunch, that he wasn’t getting the crew
up early enough or working us hard enough. Dad yelled for several
minutes, then Shawn took off his welding helmet, looked at him calmly
and said, “You gonna shut up so I can work?”