The Carpenter

Chapter 9

It’s hard to believe that a gifted craftsman like my dad could have had a son as unskilled as I am. Each of my three brothers is more skillful than I. Dennis, the number 2 son, is the most like Dad when it comes to being able to build stuff. Dennis is good. Just no Faris.

Me? I’m the son who always got an “85” on his shop class projects. An “85” is what you got if your creation looked terrible, but the shop teacher thought you tried your best. I think my shop teachers were afraid that a “C” or lower might mar a kid for life. A “C” would’ve hurt me bad, but not marred me. Hey, I knew I was no good at building stuff. So did Dad.

I really hated that about me. Son of a carpenter, yet, I can’t build squat. I believe my “B” in shop hurt Dad more than my “D” in Trig. When he saw the “D”, he said, “Well, I never took any Trig, but I know you can do better than that.” About the “B” in shop? He didn’t say anything. Just winced a little, and went “Ummm.”

I blame most of my lack of carpentry skills on the fact that I have little confidence. My conviction of dorkness came from several occurrences in life which pushed my mind into the realm of the inadequate. (Sounds like I wrestled with that sentence, doesn’t it?) The first real push – shove, actually—came from my first grade teacher. I knew my pencilkidship was lousy and my artistic skills were about the worst in the class. True, they never had a contest for worst, but I would’ve won, and all the kids knew.

However, I was pretty sure I’d grow out of it. Everybody grows out of stuff. Don’t they? Well, during the first open house at school, with me standing right next to Mom, Mrs. Smith said, “Well, Mrs. Hayter, I can’t grade Mark like I do the other students, because he has no neatness skills. Pretty much all work he turns in is a mess.” I really don’t remember the exact words, but I was close enough to put the words in quotes. I believe she added, “And, I see no hope that he’ll ever do better. I would say that you need to forget college and gainful employment for him and just try to keep him out of prison.” I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.

Grow out of it? Didn’t look like it from where I stood in that classroom. After the comment, Mrs. Smith led Mom to a wall of crayon pictures, and pointed to mine… the one with the guy with the square body and square head, standing next to the square house with the square chimney with the crooked ribbon of smoke coming out the top. Couldn’t tell where the ground stopped and the sky started. The only thing round was the dog. Anyone with sense could tell it wasn’t a rabbit.

For a day or two I was almost proud of that picture. The open house just sucked out any semblance of pride. Have you ever known anything good to come from a school’s open house?

Something like that can really knock the daylights out of any confidence you may have stowed away. You add that to my lousy projects in shop class, my bad handwriting grades all through elementary and the vision of carnage that each of my schoolbooks took following my attempts at covering them. Book covers? A tool of the devil, I tell you.

Have I painted a good enough picture for you here? The carpenter’s son is a mess and should not be depended upon to do anything other than mess stuff up. Yet, -- and try to latch onto this notion – Dad would still take me with him on his roofing and remodeling jobs. He took Larry and Dennis, too, but they almost knew what they were doing. Me? Reread the beginning of this chapter.

Dad during a break from building an addition to the South Houston Church of Chirst building. Dad is the one looking at the camera.

Dad took on construction jobs every time Crown went on strike. Crown went on strike about seven times while Dad worked there. I believe I mentioned he was one of the union reps responsible for negotiating with management. Considering what a low opinion many people have of labor unions, I’ll not go further into Dad’s thoughts of management. It’s enough that people feel safe in the notion that if companies didn’t have to pay for overtime, health insurance and retirement programs for their workers, they could sell stuff cheaper and have more money to hire more workers who wouldn’t have health insurance, retirement programs and could work long hours with no supplemental pay. If corporate America is happy, everyone should be happy. – I lied about not going further into Dad’s thoughts.

Back in the day, I didn’t even know what a strike was. I knew what to associate them with, though. If I ever told a teacher that Dad was on strike, I always got a sympathetic smile. I liked that. Also, during every other strike, the family moved to a poorer neighborhood, and Dad would try to get jobs roofing people’s houses and doing remodeling jobs. And, his only helpers were three of his sons. He would’ve dragged Al’s butt along, but the kid was too young. Probably had more skills than I did, but he couldn’t climb a ladder in diapers. Few people can.

I wasn’t crazy about heights, but during the roofing jobs I did what I had to do. I just didn’t do it well. The shingling jobs involved Dad and Larry nailing on the tarpaper and shingles while, Dennis and I hauled up the tarpaper and shingles, and handed stuff to the Dad and Larry. I read the job description, and that’s pretty much word for word. Oh, except for the part where “Mark is supposed to be the poor sap who has to fetch whatever tool Dad needs.” Made no sense. I was the dumbest, most irresponsible person on the dadgum room, and who does Dad send down to get the chalk line or the T square or the caulk gun or the eight penny nails? -- “I think I shall send the least qualified.” So he did.

Dad was the worst describer of tools in the world. Here’s his description of a T square. “You know, that thing that you square stuff with? I need it.”

A chalk line? “It’s a chalk line, for heaven’s sake!”

A caulk gun? “It’s a squeeze thing that shoots out goop! I need it for this vent. Go! Go, already!”

I’ve never been accused of being a visionary when it comes to picturing what someone has described to me. Whether it’s how to get to the nearest Luby’s or how to fold socks. I do get an image in my brain, but it’s never the right one. Notice, I didn’t say “seldom the right one.” Never!

I would say that during each day’s carpentry work I averaged three episodes of bringing Dad the wrong tool, nail, material. -- “Son, you knew what it was yesterday. How could you possibly mess it up this time?” -- The truth was, “Dad, you give a monkey a typewriter and it’ll type out a Hardy Boys’ book, given enough time. Ask for a second edition? I don’t think so.” -- But, I never told Dad something like that. If I could go back in time, I’d do it. Do it in a minute. What’s he gonna do? – “Pasadena father throws son from roof for using sarcasm. There was no arrest made, because, according to the father, his son didn’t know the difference between a pipe wrench and a crowbar. The police called the flinging episode justifiable.” – I just can’t see that happening.

I could go on awhile longer about me not knowing stuff, but let’s get back to Dad’s role in the construction business. That other stuff was just therapy for me, and a buildup to some of Dad and Sons’ construction jobs.

One of Dad’s specialties was roofing. Compositions shingles mostly. You know, the quarter-inch layer of black tar stuff covered in some kind of fine, colored gravel. The gravel determined the color of the shingle. (I’m either really insulting your intelligence or really confusing you.) The job consisted of removing the old shingles, nailing on a layer of tarpaper to the decking and then nailing the shingles on top of the tarpaper. Dad was good at all that. He wasn’t the best-organized or safest roofer, but he was fast. His help could not keep up with him.

To support the notion that he wasn’t the safest roofer, let me tell you about the ladder incident. Dad was in a big hurry one morning during a roofing job. (I’m being redundant here. Just stick with me.) Nothing unusual about that ‘cause Dad was in a hurry playing golf, mowing the lawn, driving to church, changing a tire… The man lived to rush. But, on this particular occasion he was going faster than he should. He wasn’t going to hear it from me, but he was.

At one point, he needed something that was in his toolbox, but didn’t have time to send me down for it. He did look at me for a second as if trying to determine the chance of me coming back with what he wanted, but shook the notion off quick. Real quick. So, he jumped up and hit the ladder in a run. When he threw his right foot on the rung just above the roof’s edge, the ladder, which was situated right at the end of the roof, flipped around. It should’ve gone all the way to the ground with Dad, and would’ve had he not reached out at the last moment and grabbed hold of the corner of the eve. His feet were holding the ladder at a bad lean, and his right hand was keeping him and the ladder from crashing in a heap. From my quick assessment it was apparent that it would be a most awkward crash.

Dad hung there for several seconds. He didn’t say anything, so no one did anything. We had learned that any movement without clear instructions, would likely be the wrong thing to do. However, I finally grabbed the bull by the nards and sprang to action, while Dennis and Larry continued to stare at Dad. I think my two brothers and Dad were thinking the same thing. “Wow! This is weird.” That’s just what I was reading from their expressions.

I had the weird-look too for several seconds until I realized that something had to be done, and no one was doing it. I was getting ready to demonstrate initiative. It’s a scary thing for a klutz to do. I ran over the edge of the roof and stooped and grabbed hold of Dad’s arm. This action by a complete goober, pretty well knocked Larry and Dennis from their gaze. They ran over to assist. The three of us managed to right the ladder and get Dad safely onto the roof. Then we laughed. No laughing before that moment.

After that, we got a lecture. Dad told us that we had to take our time and be safe. He started pointing and gesturing with his hammer. I’m surprised he didn’t send me down for a yard stick. Dad told us that “we” should never set the ladder on the end of the roof like that. “We” needed to think before we acted. Mom would kill him if anything happened to one of us. So, “we” needed to all be on the same page and act responsible.

During the lecture, each of us was thinking, “Good grief, Daddy, you’re the one who about killed himself. Why are we getting the long story?”

We each nodded in agreement for a suitable time, and then waited for the appropriate time to say, “Yes, sir.” After that, Dad turned, stepped onto the ladder and on his way down, placed his hammer right there at the edge of the roof, so, if it slid off, it would knock the daylights out of him. Again, I was Johnny on the spot. (No idea where that came from. Johnny on the spot?) I reached down and grabbed Dad’s hammer and held onto it. We never scolded Dad for such a careless act, because we enjoyed breathing so much. – “Pasadena Dad throws three sons from rooftop for sassing him.” – Back then there was no doubt whose side the public would’ve been on. This was before anyone ever uttered the oft used lines, “What about the chilllren? We’ve gotta think of the chilllren!” – Back then it was more like, “They told their Father what? Well, he should’ve tossed ‘em off the roof!”

We managed to survive that particular roofing job and all the ones that followed. However, there was one job that scared me more than any other. It scared me and gave me a hope. A hope that God was not only going to look out for us in the hereafter, but that He also had His eye on us while we were treading life on earth. I had heard way too many sermons discounting that notion.

During one of the strikes at Crown, Mom’s washing machine quit working. The poor thing died of exhaustion. (The washing machine. Mom was still plugging away.) There were five of us kids living at home at the time, and life without a washing machine was more than Mom could handle. A run to the laundromat every other day would’ve taken way too much time and quarters. Regardless, there was no way we could afford a washing machine. So, Dad managed to take on another roofing job. This one involved a well-kept framed house, on the west side of Pasadena.

I’d gotten more or less used to climbing around on roofs, but I was not at all easy about climbing on Starr’s roof. That’s the name of the man who owned the house. Starr and his wife had the house with the steepest roof we’d ever worked on. That buddy scared the willies out of me. Scared Dad a little, too, ‘cause he nailed some two by fours periodically along the incline to give us footing. I had never scene him do that before, and he certainly never did it afterward.

I remember the morning we started ripping off the old shingles. It was clear, hot and humid… accent on the “clear.”Larry, Dennis and I were up on the roof, using a couple of shovels and a crowbar to take the old shingles off. All the while, Dad was below cutting shingles for the ridgeline. He called it the “ridgerow.” Said the word fast, almost like it was one syllable.

Just as soon as we had scraped off the last of the shingles, the clouds showed up. Seemed to come from nowhere. They were black with a little green mixed in. And, they boiled. The wind picked up, the trees started leaning one way than another.

Dad had one scared look on his face when he came up the ladder. He had the ends of two ropes in his hand. The other ends had been secured to a tree on the other side of the house. He and Larry threw the ropes around their waists. Dad looked at Dennis and me and said, “I need you boys to feed us tarpaper. Don’t get on the roof. Just take turns climbing up, laying the rolls at the top of the ladder. Then you wait there for one of us to come get ‘em.

I don’t know if you’ve recognized the dilemma. I didn’t recognize it at the time. When we tore off the shingles, we left hundreds of nail holes in the plywood decking. With the rain coming, the roof was going to leak big time until Dad and Larry finished covering it with tarpaper.

Well, the rain did come and it brought with it an electrical storm. One of those where there was practically no time between the flash and the boom. Dad and Larry were scurrying across that roof like a couple of crabs. Dennis and I took turns carrying up the tarpaper. I didn’t know I could ever be too scared to cry, but it happened on that day. I just knew that one of us was going to get struck by lightening on top of that roof. By no means do I mean to come across as noble, but I was mostly scared for my Dad and my brothers. I certainly didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t imagine living without my Dad or either of my big brothers. I didn’t know if God would save us, but I was sure begging him to. With each crack of thunder my spirit shrank to acorn size. Whatever that means.

Larry and Dad did manage to paper the entire roof and both came down the ladder barely hitting every other rung. I was as happy as I had ever been to that moment. We had all survived nature at it’s near worst.

Starr was standing on the porch yelling for us to get inside. I thought we were too soaked to go inside anyone’s house, but the man insisted. When we set foot inside, my heart sank. The living room and kitchen were a mess. The tarpaper had not been nailed up quickly enough. Some of the ceiling had collapsed, and water and plaster were all over the place -- on the couch, the dining room table, the cabinets… everywhere in the front part of the house. Fortunately, the bedrooms were spared.

There wasn’t a thing Dad could’ve done about this, but you couldn’t tell by his demeanor. He looked like a beaten man. He shook his head, and with a slight tremble in his voice said, “Starr, I’ll make this right. I promise I will make this right.”

When Dad said what he said, Starr -- a man I knew nothing about before this day -- said something that has stayed. The gentleman smiled big and said, “Hayter, I’m not worried about it. And, I don’t want you to. ‘God causes all things to work together for good to them that love the Lord.’”

The words hung there like the wet Sheetrock draped over one of the dining room chairs. Larry, Dennis and I exchanged glances, each of us reading the other’s expression. We were brothers. Brothers who were completely befuddled. To my shame, instead of thinking of the godliness in Starr’s comment, I thought, “Whoa! This old man is nuts! Who wouldn’t be upset at something like this?”

Well, we did finish roofing the house. And, after a couple of weeks, we had fixed up the interior. It turned into a much bigger job than any of us had anticipated. It was as much of a remodeling as a repair. Starr had to have paid for all the materials, because Dad had no money. Bottom line, Starr got his house roofed and fixed up, and Mom got her washing machine.

It took me awhile to get over the hurt I saw in my dad’s eyes on that day after the storm. It was about the first time I ever caught the notion that my father might be fallible. Strange, but the thought didn’t send me crashing. That was because of Starr.

Over the years, all four of Dad’s sons helped him on many construction jobs. But, what’s weird is that I can’t remember the names of anyone whose house we worked on. I only remember Starr.

“God causes all things work together for good…” The old gentleman was right. What looked like a disaster to me, turned into a blessing. The blessing was in the example of a man who, just like our dad, not only spoke good words, but lived them.

Over the years, I’ve needed to be constantly reminded of those words. I do believe them to be true. But, it’s the “acting” as if I believe that is tough. During some of the bad times in my sheltered life, I’ve had to pull up the memory of that day. Larry and Dad were saved form a lightning storm while skirting around on a too-steep roof. And, Dennis and I were spared while standing near the top rung of a metal ladder waiting to hand over a roll of tarpaper.

Not only that, but Dad was spared financial ruin by the kindness of a man whose first name I’ve never known. Dad just called him Starr. I don’t know what in what ways God used Starr and his charming wife during their stay on earth. But, I do know one thing He had them do. He had them show my Dad kindness, and He used them to show three boys how to best handle a storm. -- That old man was standing in the middle of a massive mess in his living room… and he was smiling big as day.

END