It started with a mess: rotting firewood, a broken cartwheel, and my husband muttering, “Maybe I’ll try to fix it.” At the time, it felt small and ordinary. Later, I thought of the saying that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can set off a tornado in Texas.

Frank’s offhand comment was the flap that set our storm in motion. Before long, he had turned 16 new spokes on his lathe, transforming the old wheel into a showpiece. A gentle breeze stirred.  Where should we put it?

We tested spots in the garden, propped it against the deck, and set it near the water garden. Nothing looked right. “We could display it on my new potting shed,” I teased.

That’s when the breeze shifted into a gust.

A few days later, while debating a computer password, Frank challenged me to a bet. “How much do you want to bet you’re right?” he asked.

“A potting shed,” I said, half-joking.

I turned out to be right—and suddenly the winds swirled. What had begun as a puff of air was now a storm front of discussions: dimensions, siding, shingles, and where we’d buy materials. I lobbied for looking for old barn wood or visiting Portage’s Restore; Frank leaned toward new, maintenance-free boards. My one request was simple: the shed had to be whimsical.

Frank frowned. “Whimsical?”

I reminded him of the Dr. Seuss-like shed I’d admired in Boulder Junction, with its round, troll-like door, off-kilter windows, and a roof that swooped like a floppy ski hat. Painted bright colors, it had made me clap my hands with delight. I wanted that same whimsy in our backyard.

Frank wasn’t about to build anything crooked, but we managed a compromise. He would handle the careful measuring, cutting, and hammering. I would supply the whimsy. Together, we plunged into the storm.

As the project grew, the breeze built into a steady swirl of activity. We special-ordered supplies, which meant there was no turning back. Bike riding and pickleball games gave way to sawdust, nail guns, and paintbrushes. My choice of sunshine-yellow for the door was blinding. I laughed and offered Frank sunglasses, but he waved me off, intent on his work.

We ran into some turbulence, too. A miscalculation of lumber resulted in a 25% restocking fee. It rattled us, but like most storms, the weather cleared, and we were adding the final touches.

I had the fun of hunting for whimsical accents. I scoured garage sales for metal art, picking up a sunflower here and a cute birdhouse there. A friend, knowing my new obsession, donated treasures from her own antique-hunting adventures.

Neighbors wandered over, curious. “What are you two building now?” they asked. Frank pointed out his craftsmanship; I pointed out my bright yellow door. We both smiled, proud that our little whirlwind had caught others’ attention.

Finally, on a calm afternoon, we screwed the last whimsical ornament into place. The air stilled. Ladders and saws were put away, the whirlwind quieted, and in its place stood something sturdy, cheerful, and undeniably ours.

What began as a butterfly’s wing—an offhand comment about a broken cartwheel—had gathered strength, spun us through laughter, debate, and teamwork, and finally set us down in the calm after the storm.

One small puff of air had swirled into a potting shed—something truly whimsical.