Dutch's Foundation

What a Wyoming carpenter taught me about building a business true to level

Photo by Carter Yocham on Unsplash

The shadow box had been leaning against my Oregon apartment wall for six months. My dad made it after I got out of the Air Force—pine frame, open-faced, medals and ribbons pressed tight against blue felt. His handprints were in the corners. My years of service in the center.

The frame cracked in the last move. I told myself I’d fix it. Then I told myself I’d get the right wood. Then I told myself I’d do it next week.

Six months later, I was in the lumber aisle at Home Depot, running my hand along stacks of pine boards, overthinking them like they were a moral decision.

That’s when I heard a gravelly voice behind me.

“Got any 2x6s that aren’t warped, damnit?”

I turned. Faded King Ropes cap. Hands like weathered leather. A mustache thick as a rope. A pencil behind his ear like a feather in a cowboy hat.

He glanced at the broken pieces in my hands. “Something important?”

“Shadow box my dad made. Trying to find the right board.”

“Ah.” He studied the wood grain. “Military precision meets dad’s craftsmanship.”

I laughed. “Air Force. Dad built it back home.”

He nodded, slow. “Dutch,” he said, sticking out his hand.

We shook hands. Traded the short version of our stories.

Dutch had been a third-generation rancher in Wyoming until 2010. Debt hit hard. The bank didn’t care how many winters his family had worked the same dirt. “Wyoming didn’t feel like home anymore,” he said. “Oregon was building. So I moved here and started over.”

He started a business—Dutch’s Wyoming Custom Homes. Thought about changing the name to fit in.

“Had a girlfriend back then,” he said. “Told me I was too Wyoming for Oregon.”

He grinned. “Turns out Oregon folks wanted Wyoming solid—they just didn’t know how to ask for it. I stopped trying to be what they wanted and stayed what Wyoming made me.”

Dutch builds homes that can handle Oregon rain and Wyoming wind. Wider foundations. Stronger beams. Framing that doesn’t flinch. He charges more because it lasts longer.

“I gotta admit, Dutch, I’m jealous,” I said. I’d been trying to name my business for months—buying domains like lottery tickets—yet I kept circling back to KevinWRaney.com.

“Your name ain’t your problem, son,” he said. “Your problem is you think you gotta be different things for different people. Folks can smell fake a mile away. They want the real thing, even if they can’t name it.”

I was torn between leaning on twenty years of project management or trusting the breath work that had changed my life.

He shook his head. “I don’t build Oregon houses. I don’t build Wyoming houses. I build Dutch houses. Only kind I know how to build right.”

We walked toward the registers, him with cement bags in his cart, me with a fresh pine board under my arm.

“Foundation’s everything,” Dutch said. “Pour it crooked to please everybody, the whole damn house shifts. Pour it true to level, everything else falls in place.”

Outside, he loaded his truck—Wyoming plates, mud on the fenders. The license plate read: BUILDER.

As he drove off, I thought about my shadow box. My dad’s hands in the corners. My years of service in the middle.

It didn’t need a new identity. Neither do I.

Just the right foundation. Built the way I was meant to be.