Workin' Man

By TAD BARTIMUS

It starts with a vision, a scrap of paper, a crude sketch. Details are hazy but concepts are clear. I'm a little money ahead and I want to create something. "Come over for coffee," I say to my carpenter friend on the phone. He always does.

"What is it this time? The Taj Mahal? The Pyramids?" He grins. We both know our contractor-to-client relationship is always in negotiation, even after a kitchen and a back porch. Now it's a bathroom. We're embarking on another long, rocky road full of sawdust and compressor noise, hammering and banging, squared-off arms and locked jaws. The rock 'n roll will be too loud, my temper too short. Our yard will get chewed up by pickup trucks, the cats will run for cover. But experience has taught us the result will be worth the hassle, the stress, the adrenaline rushes. We are energized.

"I want it to be this big, this tall, about this wide," I say, spreading my arms apart, then waving them (as if that makes the totally obscure clearer). My collaborator's grin stretches a bit thin. 

"Uh-huh," he says. He plays for time. "Why don't we sit down together? You can talk while I draw." And so we begin. I am always optimistic, he is always wary. He knows I never have enough money to do what I see in my head; I know he always tries to build as close to my vision as my checkbook and physics will allow. We argue, disagree, have some fun. We know the creative process is messy. 

In my career I've written about all sorts of men: astronauts, migrant workers, trapeze artists, oil field drillers, sheep ranchers. But most of my male bosses had clean hands and shined shoes. They were careful to open their umbrellas in the rain and not get expense account spaghetti on their silk ties. Their jobs, though hard and long, were mostly mental.

I don't work for those men anymore. I'm more likely to hang out now with local farmers, fishermen, wall builders, backhoe drivers and carpenters, watching them earn a good living from just rocks and wood and water and dirt.

If a Martian fell to Earth and turned on American television he'd think most of the working men in America were either doctors, lawyers, politicians, cops, drug dealers or in the Mafia, and that they lived in Washington, D.C., Los Angeles or New York. But TV dramas and the nightly news aren't real life. 

My carpenter friend who cocks his head to one side, stares at a hole in the ceiling, then cuts a piece of paneling to fit it perfectly lives in real life. So does the guy on the road crew who fills my pothole, the courier driver who brings me my paycheck, the fishermen who puts dinner on my plate. 

My carpenter friend thinks I'm a conjurer because I pull stories out of air; I think he's a magician because he creates shelter out of sticks and bags of sand.

A believer in "measure twice, cut once," my carpenter friend also is a fastidious bookkeeper, supply officer, foreman and shrink. He keeps track in his head of all materials on-site and those still needed to finish the job. He motivates his crew and convinces independent contractors to show up on time, ready to work. Plumbers, electricians and even notoriously temperamental drywallers respect him.

But he's not a one-dimensional man; he courted his wife while teaching school in the African bush, ran an Arabic bistro in Paris and financed his wanderlust by his wits as well as his hands. His two children are college honor students on scholarships. He and his family built their own house while camping in a tent. I'm convinced if you give him enough time he can fix anything.

Watching him scamper up ceiling trusses and walk scaffolding like a Wallenda, he brings elegance to corners and sculpture to beams. Starting from a string in the dirt, my carpenter friend coaxes exotic-grained hardwood as well as untreated fir into beautiful environments we are blessed to live in. 

Many a cerebral office worker has earned my respect over the years. But watching my friends with dirty hands and sweating muscles wield nail guns and heft two-by-fours makes me grateful for their physical gifts to all of us who seek shelter and sustenance in this uncertain world.

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