It is construction season.
The building we live in is 40 years old, and it was recently discovered that water was finding its way behind the brick. This requires some very loud repairs that are not expected to be finished until fall.
Usually, I am just finding my way to the coffeepot around 8:30. But now there are men standing on scaffolds, jackhammering bricks at 8 a.m., right outside my window. If I open the drapes, I can see their boots.
There is no one to blame. The men doing the work (and they all seem to be men) are very considerate. They are just loud—very loud—and they work from Monday through Friday.
Probably because of this construction, I’m noticing it more in my neighborhood. There is a house nearby whose steps have looked terrible for a long time. The residents were using a side door to get in. But an energetic man with a cigarette permanently positioned on his lower lip is now fixing those steps in record time. Under the crumbling concrete, he told me, were bricks much older than the house itself.
“How old?” I asked.
He had no idea. But they had been scavenged from a building long gone before the house was built in 1850. I thought that was remarkable.
“I hope you find some gold coins buried in there!” I told him. He did not seem hopeful.
Another set of stairs was being fixed by the city crew and, while they were not working as quickly as the gentleman with the cigarette, they were doing a fine job.
“We’re keeping all the original stone,” a fellow, who was acting like the foreman, said. “So we have to replace the whole foundation beneath it.”
These steps were also well over 100 years old, and the original stone consisted of very large blocks of sandstone, which took at least two men to lift.
“That’s a complicated job!” I told them.
“It is. That’s why they don’t let Brad come out here and do it himself!” the foreman said. Brad (I have to assume it was Brad) ducked his head.
“Do you deserve this, Brad?” I asked.
“Oh, he does!” the foreman answered before Brad had a chance to. Brad looked as if he was used to this.
I walked down the same street yesterday. The steps in front of the 1850s house were almost finished. It was threatening rain, and the man with the cigarette was working to get the last of the cement work done.
“Great job!” I hollered.
He looked at the sky. “Gotta get it done quick!”
The city guys had also almost finished. “It looks terrific!” I said.
The foreman was nowhere to be seen. There was just Brad (I assume it was Brad), looking rather pleased to be getting the credit.
“You used all the old stone?” I asked Brad.
“Yes. It will make it more…” Brad searched for the word, “historical!”
“Can I take your picture?” Brad looked embarrassed and asked another man holding a shovel (who was also not the foreman) if this was OK.
“Sure!” said the man with the shovel.
So I took Brad’s picture with the nearly finished stairs.
“Thank you!”
It’s construction season. And, while it’s easy to get annoyed by the noise and the detours and the mess, it’s good for me to remember that all this work is being done by people who have jobs to do. And, by and large, I think they do a heck of a fine job. Especially Brad.
Till next time,
Carrie
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