Happy Day of the Dead!

I seem to be creakily headed back in the direction of weekly posting here, at least that’s my aspiration. I’m glad you are still along for this ride. Enjoy this week’s essay, Song of the Handle Jiggler, which is all about home repairs, identity, and accepting ourselves for who we really are.

So to speak.

Before you click over, here’s a little sketch that ended up on the cutting-room floor.

Leaving Their Mark

The other day, a man named Sam passed the late afternoon and early evening sitting in front of my house, watching fresh concrete dry. The concrete in question was in the shape of a twenty-foot section of sidewalk that had needed replacement partly because of the ravages of time but mainly because Sam had needed to cut through it while working on our sewer connection.

Sam and one of his employees were waiting for the concrete to set firmly enough for them to take the final step in their overall plan of work, that is, running a damp yellow sponge around on it to scuff it up. While waiting, they were also on guard against anything—from falling leaves to juvenile delinquents—that might threaten to mar the pristine surface that had taken a team of five men several hours and considerable focused effort to install earlier in the afternoon. Like any good captain, Sam had sent the rest of his men home to dinner while he and this one helper saw the last bit of the job through.

It being a Friday and the sun having sunk low in the sky, I offered beers, only to learn Sam no longer drinks the stuff. With Sam’s permission, I brought his helper a can of Michelob Ultra and a plastic souvenir cup to pour it into. While he poured, I regarded my new concrete. Sam and his crew had earlier worked so hard to make as smooth a surface as possible that I was surprised to learn of the intention to un-smooth it, but Sam explained that failing to do so would lead to slip hazards in wet weather and present a jarring visual contrast with the much older and more weathered concrete abutting each end of the new section.

After the sponging was done, Sam told me that it was time for the final step. As recommended by Google and confirmed with Sam, I rubbed the children’s hands with Canola oil, told them to spread their fingers, and helped them each press a handprint into the concrete.

The concrete was by this point so firm that, to help them leave their marks, I had to lean down on top of their little hands so hard I was worried I would hurt them.

It felt as though we’d waited until the last possible moment.