My father was a contractor. He learned his craft in the Army Corps of Engineers,
building roads in jungles near war zones. He returned to the states to form a small
company — Construction Inc. — that built roads, installed sewer lines and moved dirt
… tons and tons of dirt.
His office was his El Camino. Half car, half truck, it transported the tools of his trade in
the back bed and his blueprints and thermos in the front cab. He’d drive the El Camino
to the job site, then climb aboard a backhoe or front-end loader to move dirt. When
the trench was deep enough, he’d climb down inside unstable earth propped up by
braces to, hopefully, prevent the ground from collapsing and burying him. He was at
great risk in the trench as heavy sewer pipe, swinging from cables tethered to a
front-end loader, was lowered down upon him.
“Sewers are the arteries of civilization,” he’d say, winking at the dangers of working
under ground, putting himself and the construction workers he so admired at risk.
My father died with boots on. He’s been returned to the earth, but as his son, and as a
lawyer, I live in appreciation of people who get their hands dirty and risk their lives.
