Digging In
It is easy to forget sometimes that there is actually hard work that needs doing. The last time I did any was the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, and the summer after I graduated. I worked construction. As a helper. I moved things. Piles of lumber. I cleaned. Swept up sheetrock debris. I left it behind for the comforts of the newsroom at the Houston Chronicle and then as a cable splicer for Ma Bell. I never looked back.
I was reminded of this work yesterday as I watched young men dig holes to level my daughter’s house. They were big holes, dug in gumbo, a dark, mucky clay that is heavy with water and sticks like glue. They talked as they worked, and they never stopped working as they talked. Patiently, methodically they dug and shoveled by hand. They used jack hammers to crack cement and shovels to remove it. But it was dirt they dug, and it was hard work.
On occasion I do work that makes me sweat, but I don’t do it for eight hours, and if the weather’s too hot. I don’t do it at all. But these boys don’t get those breaks. They dig, rain or shine, hot or cold. Slabs need to be leveled; holes need to be dug. I wondered about those boys. Who are they? Where did they come from? Why did they choose this work? But I’ll never get answers. They’ll be gone tomorrow. The job will be over, and we’ll be happy. I’ll wish them well though. My only regret being that I couldn’t say it in Spanish.