He spits a little gravel,
and revs
his over-worked half-ton up my drive.
Tools and today’s lumber
clacketing in the back, twelve foot two-by-sixes
lashed over the cab. He’s mine
for hire, as many days as I can pay
this octogenarian bantam-weight handyman,
still tough enough to drive sixteen penny sinkers in three blows.
I offer coffee. No thanks. He’s had his
hours ago, waves it away while beleaguering
the pouches of his nail apron with fistfuls
of spikes. You’d better get a move on,
he says . . . if you want your money’s worth.
He’s kneeling on fresh-laid decking, etching
calculations. Wags a finger at me
when the job hits a snag. Reads me new rafter specs.
Chides me like I’m a lazy school boy
who can’t hack basic math.
Measure twice, cut once, he barks
when I waste another sheet of siding I’m paying for.
We set a thirty foot wall with jerry-rigged
levers and blocks. Cobble a scaffold.
Balance like stuntmen, two stories up,
nailing soffit. Level the longest support beam
over and over till I get it right.
And the job rises plumb and square.
Return to Volume 7.3
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