A Legacy Project

The first summer I worked on the construction crew, my foreman’s name was Fred. He was a big guy, a Ukrainian. Fred wore bib overalls and a billcap. He kept a pencil in one bib pocket, a pack of Kools in the other. In moments of stress he tweezed a cigarette out of the pack with thumb and forefinger, lit it, and complained about his ulcer. He never ate lunch. He was a Vietnam vet and bragged once in a while about shooting men over there. In another life, one in which there had been no war and no draft, he probably would have gone to college and become an engineer. 

We were a crew of six men. Each of us wore a toolbelt with a hammer holster. I felt like a present day cowboy. There was a foreman, a carpenter, a crane operator, and three laborers. Laborers were grunts–lifters, carriers, holders, schleppers. I was new to the crew and, as a college guy, as a guy who taught school during non-summer months, I was not expected to last. It was hard work

I did last. I had to last. I was getting married that fall and I needed to make money. 

We worked from seven in the morning until five or six in the afternoon. We worked in light rain. We worked in muddy holes. We worked in sweltering heat when the temperature in the holes would be five degrees higher than up on the road. Fred said, “When it gets so hot my knees start to shake, we quit for the day.  Otherwise we work.”

He was rough.

I had never been part of a crew. I had played no team sports in high school, I had not been in the military. These guys smoked and swore and spit. They were all married and all talked about their wives with respect, but otherwise ogled women and bragged about their sexual prowess. They had a definite manly swagger, proud of their muscles and strength and power. Some hot days, late in the afternoon when we were finishing work, Fred would send Biff the carpenter out for sixpacks of beer. We sat by the wall, tired and happy about a day of hard work, drank the beer and felt like men. 

If you didn’t quit, if you came to work every day and did the lifting, you were accepted.

Much to my surprise, I fit in. I swore, I spit, I took deep pleasure in working outdoors, in being under the hot sun, in feeling a cool breeze or the inviting shade when we stopped work for 30 minutes to eat lunch. I joined in the continuous banter and bull that went on while we worked. I felt like one of them.  When we moved equipment from one job site to another, it was a pleasure driving one of the trucks, being above other vehicles on the road, looking down at everyone in their cars. Sometimes we saw into those cars, saw a woman’s long bare legs. The guys would say, “Hey, baby.” Not loud enough to be heard. They said it for themselves. We felt like real men. 

One day Fred asked me to stop by his house to meet his wife. He said they had a pool out back. It was nice. 

We talked on the way there. He said he had liked math in school. He used the Pythagorean theorem to square the walls we poured. He wanted to be the best foreman, get the most yards of concrete poured every week. Maybe one day he would go back to school. 

We pulled in the driveway in his pickup. “Come on,” he said. Still in our dirty work clothes, we walked around the house to the backyard. “Hey, honey,” he said, “this is Rick.”

Her name was Katherine. She was lying on a pool lounge chair. Fred walked over, got down on one knee, and kissed one of her bare feet. It was such a tender gesture. 

“Hey, Freddie,” she said.