First Story

These chapters are best viewed in order:

Design

Foundation

First Story

Second Story

Second Story Addition

Roof


The first morning of summer vacation after 2nd grade began as sunny and bright, and as all vacations should, full of promise and excitement. Then a dump truck lumbered down our little lane, pulling a backhoe, and it got all the better. A truck I recognized followed. Overcome with curiosity, I raced after them and discovered an addition to my school was about to begin.

Every working day of that summer, I was there. Designed (as it turns out) by my father and contracted by the man who had already framed 2 additions to our own home in my short life, this was an adventure. The ease with which that machine broke ground and gobbled dirt into huge piles was marvelous, still a satisfying sight for me on a project today. I signed my name in the fresh concrete and made “mudballs” out of the spillage, piling up an arsenal that my friends dared me to use against other “friends”.

Ed Krutsky was a Pennsylvania traditional Quaker living in a cooperative community. A craftsman by trade, he knew his way around many subjects as revealed in countless coffee-break conversations with my mother over many years. He employed carpenters of similar diversities, likely setting the all-time record for a construction company with college degrees. His three teen sons were there, growing into the business, including Ned who was featured in the book "House" by Tracy Kidder, a great read for anyone involved in a building project.

Also on the crew was an old black man, Harold, who chewed and spat and smelled of liquor, though I didn’t really understand at the time. At minimum wage (then probably $1.25), he defined the expression “grunt labor”, but he was as sweet, gentle and encouraging to me as any man could be. He gave me a shovel and let me fill the trenches beside him, showing me that you stood behind and shoveled forward effortlessly into the hole instead of twisting, turning and dumping, so it could be done in a zenlike way all day long, day after day.

The rest of the crew began to trust me to fetch their tools. Soon, I was carrying the 2x4s and nailing off sheathing. The first fiberglass itch in my throat came that summer as they let me staple, then cut the insulation. By the end, I was painting, measuring and nailing baseboards in the rush to get finished before school reopened in September. It certainly wasn’t the most efficient use of man per hour, but I didn’t slow anyone down, and no one could be cheaper (they used to joke about my paycheck on Friday afternoons, but Ed never wrote me one).

Sometimes my friends came with me, but not joining in, they were soon bored and wanting to move on. They didn’t feel the sweet soul-satisfying whack of driving a nail home. They couldn’t see the progression as concrete led to wood, led to sheetrock, led to finish.

And they certainly could never know the silent fierce pride I felt years after looking from the baseball field at the building I’d helped create out of sticks and sweat.

Second Story

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