The morning sun hadn't even finished burning the dew off the lawn when Arthur decided he was done eating sandwiches on a folded tarp. "A man needs a table," he declared to his disinterested golden retriever, Barnaby. "A place for potato salad to sit with dignity."

"They aren't fancy," Silas said, slapping the top of a classic, sturdy six-footer. "But you can spill a gallon of punch on 'em, leave 'em in the snow for a decade, and they'll still be standing when your grandkids are grown."

In a dusty gravel lot, he met Silas, a man whose overalls held more sawdust than denim. Silas didn't have a showroom; he had a stack of thick, pressure-treated Southern Pine and a heavy-duty impact driver.