Masonry
May
15 2025
He
built walls.
Slathered
on the mortar,
patted
it down
with
practiced precision.
Hefted
bricks
and
placed them evenly
end-to-end
and
bottom up.
Sometimes,
he trimmed them
with
a hammer, chisel, or axe.
Then
finished
with
the jointer of his choice,
if
not a bucket handle
then
a rat’s tail, grapevine, or flat.
Someone
else had dug the clay
formed
the bricks
and
fired them.
And
it was some other man
who
stacked them on a truck
and
delivered them reliably,
pallets
tightly
packed
with
dense blocks of bricks,
as
big as the man-sized stones
that
built the pyramids.
All
journeymen, working with their hands.
It
takes practice
to
make it look as easy as this.
I
watch him at work,
the
economy of movement
muscle
memory
expert
eye.
There’s
a regular rhythm to his work
that’s
hard not to watch;
hand-to-hand
and
right-to-left
in
a fluid back and forth.
He
works swiftly,
and
the wall rises steadily
before
my eyes;
finished
mortar
between
evenly-spaced bricks
on
a solid foundation
some
other journeyman poured.
I
wonder if at the end of a day
he
stands back
and
admires the fruits of his labour,
a
good day’s work
that
can actually be seen
measured
leaned
against.
Something
he made with his hands
and
built to last,
unlike
the daily chores
wasted
words
and
hot passions
we
quickly forget
when
the next life-or-death issue
fires
us up
with
its passing importance.
From
jour, the French for day,
an
itinerant labourer
going
from job to job
when
he can find the work.
But
this man is no hod carrier
or go-fer grunt,
he
is a craftsman and maker
skilled
at his trade.
Who
has made a wall
he
can proudly show
to
the sons and daughters he will have some day;
a
monument
to
the practical life
of
a working man,
who
was good at his job
and kept dutifully at it.
I’m
not at all handy. I don’t work with my hands. Don’t build things.
Am at a loss when something needs fixing. I work with words, which
are ephemeral, and don't do much good even before they’re gone. So
I envy people like this. I think the skilled trades are not given the
status they deserve.
I
recall my father driving us around fancy neighbourhoods and proudly
pointing out the custom outdoor lighting his firm had designed and
made. Of course, as the company owner he didn’t do the actual work.
But he was proud of his men, as well as his own part in it. And
particularly proud of how good the work still looked, despite time,
weather, and the whims of fashion. When he shifted to building
tractor trailers (the trailer part) — he was quite the
entrepreneur! — he evinced the same pride whenever we passed one. I
wonder if any “Mond Industries“ trailers are still on the road?
The
poem was inspired by that one word: journeyman, which for some
reason jumped out at me in my daily reading. Perhaps because of the
tension it contains. There is jour, which suggests a sort of easily
replaceable labourer, hired day to day. While the word actually means
something very different: a journeyman is a skilled tradesman who has
his undergone a long apprenticeship, passed rigorous tests, and has
his official papers. To me, this word seems to summon up the dignity
of labour, taking a professional pride in one’s work, and having a
specialized skill.
I
quite enjoyed writing the 2nd stanza: playing around with the
esoteric language of some small corner of life. Finding the music in
the sounds. Enjoying the feel of novel words in my mouth. I hope the
reader enjoys it as well.
(I
wasn’t sure if I’d made up this word. Or at least this form of
it. But apparently, “go-fer” is OK. Also (more commonly?) spelled
“gofer” or “gopher”. But whichever way, a self-explanatory
combination of “go” and “for”.
