I was watching a man build a house. It was fall. He wanted to have it all under cover before the winds came and the snow. It’s on his own land. It’s back from the road. It faces square with the world. It’s low on both sides, high in the middle. The middle is one big room. Airy. Lots of room to play. Trees are behind the house, and he’ll plant bushes. They’ll make a snow fence in the winter.
This is the third house he’s built. It’s not his house. Besides the girls he and his wife had three boys. This is for the youngest of the boys, who has two small sons. The daughter in law is ready for another.
Art (not his real name) has always built houses. He built the houses, he says, the way he and his wife built the characters of their children.
The materials are not rich, but good. I noticed the wood of the studs and rafters, straight and clean. The footing had been made wider than normal. “Father, when you have good water close to the top, you have to know that and build a wide base. All my kids love it here, close to where they grew up. It’s hard these days to make a living and build a house at the same time. So, me and my wife share the work with them, each one, when their time comes. Once I get the house done, my wife takes over with the daughters-in-law. With the color and draperies they make that raw house into a home. It’s good for us men to know the difference.
“We think, and we pray, that we’re building for a life time, or maybe two life-times, if you see that grandson.”
There was pride in his voice. Pride in knowing that it’s work that makes the man.
Art is thin from all his work. The son, on account of his job, can work on the house only on weekends. But the grandson is some help. He’s nine years old. He’s there all day. The cut ends of the boards are all stacked neat. The cardboard from the wrapping is in a pile with rocks on top. The boy dusts his hands like a real man.
Listen to the son who will be the father in the house. He talks only when his Dad is out of earshot. “Father, I wouldn’t be nothing, if it wasn’t for my Dad. I didn’t do well in school. I was out for every sport there was, and I could get carried away with the partying. I know that my Dad liked me to be in sports, but he kept saying that there’s something more after graduation. I passed, but I think it was because I was embarrassed not to.
“And my Mom, gee, did she pray for me, and for all us kids. They were never what you call strict. They just looked at you, and you knew that you had better do what they said, or you’d be a dumb, even a -- pardon me -- damn, fool.
“No, really, that’s what us kids say. They thought that they had raised us to be smart, and just the way they looked at us they showed us that it wasn’t smart, it was just dumb to be stupid. And now that I am out in the world I know what some people say. They say that my folks were lucky to have kids like that. Lucky, hell. I don’t think there’s anything special about us. It was just that Mom and Dad concentrated on us.”
I noticed how this young father concentrated on his son. The boy was born with a disease that needs careful watching. He is getting good watching from his father, and I’m sure from his mother as well. He was born with a disease but also with parents who concentrate. They concentrate on what they do and on whom they care for.
Watch the way a man works. Notice how he respects the things he works with and the material he works on. The product of his work tells the tale of his life. The product won’t be in a bank. It’s in flesh and blood and it has quality and character and durability. It’s carefully handed down. You can be proud of it.
Postscript: About forty-five or fifty years ago the senior class at Turtle Mountain High School was told to write how they saw their future. Here are the closing sentences of one young man. “Our family has had a good name. My Dad kept our name clean. It was clean, when he handed it to me. I’m going to see that it’s still clean, when I give it to my son. Amen.”
Maybe that young man remembers what he wrote. He served Mass for me often. He was serious in doing a good job. His mother has always kept good memories. I hope she has kept that paper somewhere safe, too. It’s good to pass it on.