The phone rang one Tuesday late in June. It was Alex, the owner of the hundred-yearold farmhouse that I soon would be expanding by 1,000 square feet. "We've run into a problem with the excavation," he said. "Think you could take a ride over here?" The job was 35 minutes away, and we had agreed that Alex and his wife, Andrea, would act as the general contractors. So I was surprised at the request, all the more so since I knew the solid reputations of the backhoe operator and the concrete crew. Driving there, I wondered what the problem might be. Water? Ledge? An archaeological find? If so, why call in the carpenter? I
