Learning to Use a Hammer

When I think about my past I see a kind of river of themes, most of which are about learning to do things. There is for example my effort to learn to read the Chinese characters. There is also my effort to learn how to use a carpenter's hammer. This story treats the latter theme. If now and then you think I'm wandering from the point, you're probably right because I write stories pretty much the way I tell them viva voce to friends and strangers. 

"Let the hammer do the work! You're killing that arm," said the foreman as he watched me nailing down the plywood on an apartment-building deck. He was Italian and spent a lot of money travelling to Florida from Maryland to feed his addiction to gambling at the dog races. His name was Charlie Cufaro. He was one of the most likeable foreman I've ever worked with.

I got this job because of Dorsey Hunterfoot. We had worked together on a remodeling job. Actually it was a reclamation job. A homeowner had allowed termites and dry rot to get so far into his garage that most of the siding and some of the framing had to be replaced. By the time we got there, the foreman and another crew had dealt with everything including removing the old roof. We were there to help the foreman build a new roof. The foreman's name was Heinz and he was maybe the best carpenter I'll ever work with. He'd learned the basics in a trade school in Germany, had worked many years in Germany building houses and then come to Maryland to work. He had recently been promoted by his company to foreman. We worked with him for the day building trusses and after quitting time discussed the experience in a nearby tap room. 

"Cripes!" said Dorsey, "I'm fixin' to quit. The guy's an asshole!"

"Clearly he's not been a foreman long," I answered. "But what an amazing craftsman! I've never seen anyone work with just a square to measure things."

"He's a good mechanic, that I'll grant but no way he should be a boss. Two others worked with him 'fore we got here. I know one of 'em. They walked after a week of it."

I had been doing construction for about a year, part time during the school year and now in summer fulltime. As a carpenter I was barely a neophyte. Dorsey on the other hand was 30 years my senior and had worked all his life at the trade. 

"Well, let's try it for one more day," I suggested with as humble a tone and mien as I could manage.

Dorsey ordered another round for us, looked at the ceiling a bit, then turned to me, "OK, but I doubt things'll work out." Dorsey was right. At about two the next day we walked off the job. I very much regretted leaving a man who had so much to teach me but the harshness of his manner made dealing with him impossible. "Let's go to my place for supper," he said as we walked to our cars. 

He lived in Chillum, Maryland, just over the DC line. The neighborhood was in kind of random shape. His house was pretty decent though, a two-story, with asbestos tile siding. His wife had the door open to welcome us as we walked up.

"Well, now, Dors', who's the fine looking gentlemun with ya?"

"Love, this is Tom. He's a college boy and on his way to bein' a good mechanic, I believe." 

"College! Well now that's grand. An education is something they can never take from ya," she replied with a sadness drifting into her voice which made me suspect that she and her husband had suffered much at the hands of those who rob people with fountain pens. 

Soon though she was feeding us some great pot roast with veggies and potatoes, followed with cherry pie and coffee. After a bit of chat later in the living room Dorsey suggested they were keeping me from my studies. As we walked out the door, Mrs. Hunterfoot handed me a whole pie in a baking dish wrapped in a towel. "Mind, hon', it's a bit hot," she cautioned. 

As we approached my car, Dorsey stopped and said, "Listen, I got a suggestion fer ya. Git a job nailin' plywood decks. That'll get ya used to hammers." 

I thanked him for his advice, regretting that he didn't suggest that we look for another job together. I told him too I'd be back soon to return the pie dish and towel. 

"It's been a great honor to have ya, really," he returned. "Yer the first college man we've ever had under our roof." I blushed, shook his hand and was off to my apartment near campus. 

Driving home, I thought about my prospects. My problem was inexperience and lack of basic skills. I didn't even use a hammer very well -- that was the idea behind Dorsey's suggestion, I was sure. Up to the day I had started working with Dorsey, I had worked as a construction laborer and then for a few months as a carpenter's helper. 

My work as a construction laborer started when I needed money to meet my part of the rent for the apartment I shared with a friend. He had been working summers as a construction laborer and, when I told him of my predicament, he went to his desk, rummaged through some papers, pulled out a card, and scribbled something on the back of it. He handed the card to me as he said pointing to an address on the face of it, "Be there tomorrow morning by seven. Give it to the guy at the counter and he'll do the rest for you."

The next morning I got to the address on the card. It was a union hall. Within an hour I was hauling 4x8s with a man who reminded me of sketches I'd seen of John Henry. The two of us and about fifty other people were on a concrete slab at the bottom of an enormous pit. The slab was as big as a few football fields and about a hundred feet in the ground. It was the beginning of a highrise being built near National Airport. It was January and above ground the wind from the Potomac made it feel way below freezing. But the weather, the hard work, the people, and something else I still don't understand very well made that day one of the best and most important in my life. Within an hour of the starting whistle I felt I was in the world where I belonged but until that day hadn't known about. 

The day after my dinner with Dorsey and his wife, I started driving in an area where I thought there might be some construction. Within a half hour, I noticed big truck tracks of red clay. "Marlborough clay" it's called, at least in Prince George County; you find it in swaths acres big and sometimes in just small patches a few feet deep. I followed the tracks for a mile or so and found an apartment project just underway. Sure enough, they were nailing plywood decks, actually just the first one, the one which covered the basement. I went to the trailer and fudged the facts a bit to get hired. By the time I'd filled out the W2 form and some others, it was quitting time. 

"Come back tomorrow, then," the accountant told me when I handed him the forms. "We start at 7. We'll pay you an hour for the time you've just spent."

At seven o'clock the next morning I was on my knees nailing plywood. Every now and then I would look sideways to watch a guy doing it standing up. He didn't even flex his knees but hung his right arm straight down with just his wrist moving the hammer and his left hand feeding it 6-penny nails. To me it was a wonder, almost like a circus act. The month was June and by eight o'clock the Maryland sun was making the plywood hot and the sweat from our bodies was making our t-shirts wet. By two o'clock patches of white salt would be appearing on the backs of the shirts. 

I had been at that job for a couple of days and we were still nailing the first deck when Charlie sidled up to me. He had a great sense of humor and would sometimes have us take a break to tell a story and listen to some from us. So I was OK with it when he said, "Let the hammer do the work! You're killing that arm." I ignored what he said though and kept using just my shoulder and upper arm to move my 20-ounce hammer. I had some sense of what he was saying but I wanted to put some muscle on my arms. They had always been skinny and I was hoping that doing construction work would change that.