Gimme that hammer, boy. You're wasting all my nails.

My hammer made a different sound from all the others. It went tap-tap-pow-KAZING. Tap-tap- pow-KACHANG. The others sounded more like ka-ka-KAPOW. Ka-ka-KAPOW. Ka-ka-KAPOW. Their nails also went straight into the wood. Mine either bent double or went sailing off into the woods behind the house we were framing.

The foreman, a man we called Uncle Jerry, stood over me sweating profusely. He reached out and grabbed my hammer. "Son, where'd you get this piece of crap?"

"Walgreen's," I replied, "a buck ninety-nine. Want me to get you one?"

Uncle Jerry shook his head. He threw my hammer as far back into the woods as he could. He looked back down at me. His hands were on his hips. "Son, you're wasting all my nails. If you want to work on my framing crew, you've got to have better tools. Now get your butt across the street and start cleaning out that house."

Cleaning out houses. That's where my career in home construction had begun four years earlier. Cleaning. Sweeping. Scraping. Tossing-out construction debris. First at a hilly subdivision called Tony Valley in east DeKalb County. It was almost built-out, but a friend of my Dad's still had five or six houses under construction. After the trim was in, before the carpet went down, I'd go in and clean. Sweep and clean and scrape. Afterwards, I'd tote any leftover materials to the next house on the list. You haven't lived until you've carried a bundle of 4 x 8' sheet rock up a steep hill on a windy day.

After that, my developing skills took me to an area called Creek Park Hills in the northeastern part of the county. Same-song, second verse. Cleaning houses. Sweeping floors. Scraping windows. Stacking, piling debris. Doing the work no one else wanted to do. This time, however, I wasn't a solo act. I worked alongside another college student called John. That made the work easier. More fun, too.

John and I would hit the ground running at 7:30 am. Around 9:30, one of those trucks with the diamond-patterned, silver foldout panels would show up around the corner. No one had to tell us he was there. The smell of hot coffee, sausage and egg biscuits drew us like ants to a picnic. A cup of coffee and a biscuit mid-morning would hold us until lunchtime. Then we'd take a perch on a stack of lumber and dig into the brown bags we'd brought from home.

The mornings weren't bad. The air was cool and fresh with summer smells. My energy level was high. However, 'long about 2:00 in the afternoon, the sun bore down. The air got thick and hazy. By quitting time, I was filthy. Soaked with sweat, and more than ready to head for home. Forget dating. Most nights I was in bed by 8:30!

One week, the work had been particularly hard. The house we were working on sat back in the woods. Wet weather had delayed grading and pouring a driveway. The house had a cinder block foundation, four or so feet high. No basement. Not even any crawl space. The plans called for construction on a raised slab.

All week long, John and I shoveled gravel from where the truck dumped it at the street into our wheelbarrows. We wheeled it through the woods to the house. Then up a 2 x 12 plank to where we'd dump it on top of the dirt inside the foundation. Our orders were to bring the gravel up to within four inches of the top of the block.

When quitting time came that Friday afternoon, we were finally finished. I was standing by my car, knocking the trash off my clothes with my cap. Wiping the sweat on my sleeve. John was already in his truck. From out of nowhere, the boss drove up and said, "Where you boys going?"

"Home," we said in unison, "see you Monday."

"Not so fast, guys. The concrete truck is on its way. We've got to get this foundation poured before you leave tonight. The finishers are staying to work behind you."

We pissed and moaned and begged for mercy. But there was no mercy. John put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Come on, Buddy. Let's go finish killing ourselves."

The boss said, "One other thing. You boys know that the air-conditioning and heating ducts are already in the foundation. When you start wheeling in the concrete, be sure you don't roll over any of the duct work. If you do, I'll have your hide."

We heard him loud and clear. But we were both too tired to answer.

For the next three hours, we hauled concrete from the street to the site. Up the plank, over the wall, across the gravel, then dump. Up the plank, over the wall, across the gravel, then dump. Then it happened. I ran over one of the main runs of duct work. It caved-in. It took all the strength I had left to pull the wheelbarrow's tire out of the depression.

Gravel poured inside the duct.

I looked around. No one had seen what happened. I reached down and retrieved as much gravel as I could from inside the duct. I did my best to restore its circular shape but it still had a gaping hole. I looked around again. Miraculously, no one was looking. I grabbed the wheelbarrow handle. With a heave-ho and a big grunt, I buried my mistake forever under four inches of wet concrete.

For the next forty-five years, every time I drove by that house, I wondered if that duct worked. If it did, what did it sound like when the furnace blower came on? Did the gravel move around inside? If it did, I'll bet the owners thought their house was haunted!

A year later, we were out of Creek Park Hills and in Briarcliff Woods. On Fisher Trail. With three summers of experience behind me, I was now a part of a framing crew. That is until Uncle Jerry spied my drugstore hammer and sent me back to clean houses.

On the way home that afternoon, I stopped by Sears and bought a real hammer. Cost me ten bucks. The next morning, I showed it to Uncle Jerry. He looked at it. Turned it around. He made sure it had a properly faced crown and a deep throat. He nodded and then handed it back to me. "Okay," he said, "get your butt up on that scaffolding and start nailing the fascia."

I made sure my carpenter's apron was tight and full of nails. I climbed the scaffolding and went to work. Around noon, I was at the left rear corner of the house in an area that was hard to reach. A piece of fascia needed one more nail. I stepped off the scaffold onto a cross brace. I reached to drive it home.

Creak-Squeak-Whammo-Thud. The cross brace gave way, sending me from the second floor to the basement. I landed on a pile of construction debris.

The crew came running. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so." I grabbed Uncle Jerry's hand. He pulled me to my feet.

He said, "Son, why don't you sit down for minute until you're sure you're okay."

I told him that except for the obvious bumps and bruises, I was okay. But I'd like to take the rest of the afternoon off. Uncle Jerry said, "That's fine" and walked me to my car.

Once back home, I showered and dressed. I drove to the employment office at Georgia State College where I would transfer in the fall. I wanted to look over their list of job openings. The administrator asked what kind of work I was seeking. I told her anything that didn't involve manual labor, someplace where it was air-conditioned. She laughed and handed me a stack of file cards.

Halfway through the stack, there was one that read, "Proofreader wanted. Must be an Arts or English Major. Permanent position at quality printing company. $63.50/week." I hurried to the Registrar's Office and changed my major accordingly.

The next day I had an interview with Frank Smith, general manager of Stein Printing Company. He seemed to like me. Before I left, I was his new proofreader.

That night I called Uncle Jerry. I told him I was out of the construction business for good. He didn't seem surprised or particularly distraught.

Amazingly, the work continued and all the houses on Fisher Trail were finished without me. They looked pretty darn good, too. Not as good as I would have made 'em, but pretty darn good!

tags: nostalgia  lifestyle  firstjobs  satire  

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