Honest Workers- JOE

Joe and my wife and I had just finished inspecting our back yard where the new garage was going to go. He had my sketched floor plan in his hand, and changed the dimensions enough to allow space for a couple of pickup trucks to park in there, this being Idaho where a gun-rack in the rear window is important for all but those few of us who prefer 40 miles in a gallon more than two elk carcasses in the back.

Joe's weather-tanned face concentrated on the sketch for about a minute, and then, "Okay, I'll get the permits Monday and we'll get Ron's backhoe in here and start work the next day."

"So, how much advance do you need for materials and all?" I asked.

"By golly, I don't do business dat way. You can pay me when the job is done." His tone allowed no argument. And that was it. No legal contract. I knew Joe and Joe knew me. No blueprints either. The sketch he had marked up would be enough for the County Building Inspectors; they knew Joe's work too, though they would be out to check the concrete and rebar on the foundation, and other items as the work progressed. In the twenty-five years since he had immigrated from Central Europe, Joe had become something of a local institution, and soon had a reputation for honesty and competent work. Always ready for a beer or a cigaret, after work is done for the day, he might also be found up on stage at some local event, pumping out a polka on his accordion, or just enjoying the crowd. The phone message on his answering machine never changed: *I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll get back atcha."

Joe doesn't waste time starting a job. When my old garage was leaning over like the Tower of Pisa, he appeared with his crew at 1:30. By 2:30 they had the building down and scraped into a neat pile, using his all-purpose back hoe. They carefully watched the pile of debris burn until 5:00, leaving it to a watchman with a hose. Although they had scraped all the tar paper off the roof boards before torching the pile in accordance with the the fire chief's regulations, I noticed that the pile of tar paper was a little smaller each time I looked out the window, until only enough was left to fill the back of a pickup. Joe is practical above all else.

But on any job, he always has time to talk a bit over a cup of coffee in our kitchen before getting down ro business. We found that we both had ancestors in Bern, Switzerland. We shared reminiscences of housing problems we each had had when moving into the Silver Valley. He spots a mango sitting on my window - it's new to him, and he wants to know all about it, but won't try one now - got to get to work.

He comments on the hummingbird at the feeder by the back door, and then is "back at it" with his surveyor scope and string line, or hammering planks into forms for when the concrete truck will arrive.

That garage Joe built is nineteen years old now, as sturdy as the year he built it.