Out the window

It's crisp and cold this morning, the sky a sharp blue, the air showing off the warm breath of the workers across the street. Around 8:30 a.m. vast amounts of lumber arrived, all perfectly cut and stacked in piles like flat Lincoln Logs. Since it's so early, the door to the bright red port-a-potty near the house owner's mailbox swings open and shut. All of the workers are trying to "take care of business" before the Main Event: Cement!

The cement mixer is expected any minute. We know it is coming because my sweet neighbor is very organized. A typed sheet is delivered once or twice a week that outlines what will be happening and, sometimes, what we need to do to be ready. Today, we all had to park somewhere else so the giant mixer could fit down our little street. It will dump it's soupy grey load in the pre-built molds and trenches that have been dug around the little old house, expanding its 1954 footprint so that (at the very least) man and woman can have separate places to pee.

The workers wear their uniforms, all similar, yet none the same. Clothes chosen because they are warm, washable and soiled through. Thick sweatshirts, scuffed leather boots, dented hard hats in all colors. And of course those jeans. Pants fulfilling their original purpose, with little pockets for screws and bolts, belt loops for hammers and keys and phones, deeper pockets for bandannas, electrical tape and chilly, chapped fingers. One man stands out with wearing a bright white T-shirt and new silver helmet. Temp worker, I'm guessing.

The mixer is here! It is huge and white with bold red letters that swirl around as it spins, "RIGHT AWAY REDY MIX." Oh dear. All of the other spellings must have been trademarked. I have heard that it must keep turning like that or the cement begins to set, and the truck would be ruined. The chute in the back is directed into a smaller type of vehicle. My husband says that this other machine mixes the concrete with water and such, then pumps it into the allotted location. The two men that arrived with the cement mixer seem cocky and sure of themselves. Checked shirts and baseball caps. They are above the fray, just dropping off, don't get attached to us, and thank you very much.

Watching the cement pour out, I am reminded of a strange product from my early toy-selling days. It was some sort of sand-based toy. You let wet sand dribble down and built odd underwater towers by directing its flow with your fingers. Magic Sand? Hmm. I will google it later.

I envy these workers. I envy their tasks, their focus, their camaraderie, and those comfy work clothes. Most of all, in this time of ,"who am I and what am I going to do with my life?" I envy what I project on to them, on to anyone who has a job. I envy that sense of purpose and accomplishment.

Jack the cat has propped himself against my body, resting his head on my left hand, making it difficult to type. But he is so docile and soft I hate to disturb him.

So for now I say goodbye.