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When I was AWOL from the Army back in 1986*, I got a job as a carpenter at a family-run home remodeling outfit called JRP Construction. The family were Joe, his father-in-law, Ron, and his wife, Pauline. There were no other employees besides me.
Joe was a stocky former ship builder, or welder, or something like that, so he was familiar with tools, but none of the three were real carpenters; they pretty much operated on a hope and a prayer. And I mean that literally; Joe and Pauline were members of one of those Christian fellowship churches—Pentecostal maybe, though I can’t rightly remember, as I was only twenty-one at the time, and lacked interest in both religion and politics. I know they did a lot of bible-quoting. And bickering.
Thankfully, they were enamored of me, probably because I had as much experience working on houses as the three of them put together, and that’s not saying much. They certainly needed someone who could swing a hammer! I won’t say it wasn’t a good feeling; to be valued and needed. After two difficult, degrading years in the Army, that was good medicine.
Joe offered me fifty bucks a day, which sounded like a lot when you put it in those terms; my previous construction job, which I’d quit to join the Army, had paid five dollars an hour. Wage-earning non-union construction positions aren’t exactly remunerative. Lose a day to rain, or miss a couple hours for a doctor’s appointment, and your take-home might not even take your girlfriend out to dinner. The guaranteed day’s pay at JRP was an unexpected bonus.
Pauline worked alongside the rest of us, and also did the company’s bookkeeping. She told me to buy one of those carbon-copy receipt books at the office supply and submit an invoice at the end of each week for my pay (read: you are an independent contractor, not an employee; taxes and insurance will be your responsibility.)
Most of the company’s projects were fairly simple; swapping out doors and windows, installing a bit of clapboard siding, some interior paneling and painting, a little concrete work. It was a good introduction to home remodeling for me, as I’d only worked on new-house framing crews and hadn’t yet faced the more complex challenges of home repair. In Massachusetts many of the houses are well over a hundred years old; that lath-and-plaster partition may or may not be holding up the entire structure, uninsulated wires often run willy-nilly through the walls, and rotted timbers are almost guaranteed to turn a small job into a big one. I still had a rather large education ahead of me.
The four of us got along well. Pauline was easy-going, non-threatening. Her dad could be a little grumpy but he was harmless, and his mood didn’t affect me much one way or the other. Joe was the unpredictable one. Though he usually treated me kindly, he could turn dark and pensive.
Not sure how much schooling he’d completed, either. Once, during coffee break, I was sitting on a sawhorse reading the newspaper. Joe was leaning back on the front steps we’d been repairing, drinking from a Stanley thermos. I saw a headline that I thought would interest him and tossed the paper over.
“Look at that,” I said.
I don’t remember what the article was about but I do remember that it was relevant, and Joe should at least have found it notable. He took a glance, then said, “What do I want with this?”
“Read it,” I said. “You’ll see.”
Joe glanced again, quickly, then flipped the paper back. “Yeah, I don’t care about that.”
It only dawned on me later that he may not be able to read.
I always had a book in hand at lunchtime, and one day Joe commented, “You know, I never liked reading until I discovered the bible.” That bothered me a little. Perhaps because I felt—feel—a loyalty and protectiveness for books, all books, and for reading itself. How could he call himself a reader when he’d only read passages from one book? If he even read them, considering my suspicion; perhaps he had them all memorized.
But what I really want to talk about is something that happened a little later. As many of you likely know, contractors are always in demand, and despite the mediocre quality of their work, JRP’s calendar was booked. They decided to hire another helper, an affable young man from their church. I don’t know the exact nature of Joe and Pauline’s relationship with this man—Matthew was his name—but I know it was more than just employer/employee. There was a familiarity between them.
I liked Matthew. He was tall and strong, eager and friendly; a good guy to spend long days with. One afternoon he and I were doing some trim work in the upstairs bedroom of a house. Matthew had gone to fetch a tool or some lumber, and the others were working in another part of the house. I was on a stepladder, reaching up to tack in some crown molding, when I heard a commotion out in the hall. I turned to see Matthew walk into the room shouting something over his shoulder, and then, without warning, Joe burst in and attacked him from behind. The two crashed to the floor.
I leaped from my stepladder as they slammed into it. Flailing and bellowing, they thrashed and rolled, knocking into tools and furniture. I barely had time to react before Pauline and Ron rushed in and broke them apart. The whole episode lasted but seconds. They escorted Joe out of the room, leaving Matthew and me alone. I still have a clear memory of Matthew standing there, dazed and red-faced, examining his broken glasses in his hands, a bit of blood at his temple where the frames had pierced the skin. “Are you okay?” I asked. “What happened?”
He just said, “Fucking Joe.” He picked up his tool belt and left. I never saw him again.
My own time at JRP was short, as I had to take care of my Army business. A month after the incident, which Joe had apologized for but never explained, I stood by my car in the driveway of that same job site. I’d stopped in to pick up my final paycheck. Joe walked over to say goodbye. He shook my hand and then stood back and looked up at my hat, a Boston Red Sox cap I wore every day.
“I’m going to miss that hat,” he said.
The most valuable gifts can come from the most unlikely of places. Here was a person who was obviously trying to turn a corner on a violent past. He’d fallen for the same god I’d cut ties with. He’d never read a book other than the bible. He paid me a pittance while avoiding the responsibility of my welfare and safety. Yet in that sweet, carefree comment he’d given me something my own father had never been able to.
Dad never said he missed me, not even once. Never said “I love you” either. The closest my father ever came to affection was when he would lean forward from his Lazy-boy in the evening to allow for a goodnight kiss on the top of his shiny head. That’s probably why I’ve always craved affection, a gentle touch, a loving word. Joe’s sentimental moment warmed me, and became a lasting memory.
After I left the company, a friend told me that JRP had gotten themselves into a bit of trouble. They’d contracted to add a second-story addition to a small ranch house. After accepting a large deposit and starting the job—they actually demolished the entire roof—something went wrong; I don’t know if it was a disagreement with the homeowners, or if they’d realized too late that the job was beyond their skill level and panicked. They took their tools and equipment and disappeared—with the deposit check. My friend thought they had gone to Maine. The homeowners were talking to the police.
I think of Joe, Ron, and Pauline often. 1986 was a transformational time for me, and my memory of JRP Construction is forever linked with finding myself, realizing my freedom, and learning that I could be of value. I doubt things went well for them after that irresponsible act—that criminal act. But I do hope they recovered, paid their dues, and found some peace and stability.
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*Read about my difficult choice to leave the military here:
I was recently honored to participate in two writer interviews on Substack. Please enjoy my answers to questions by
and here:
Truly enjoyed this on several levels - among which was seeing through your eyes this part what your life was like when living in between commitments that might seem larger but often lead to insights that add to greater understanding - yours and the readers.
(Sorry for than run on sentence ouch)
Great story, Don. I worked construction for my dad from age 10 to 24. At age 10 he had me pounding nails out of boards for a quarter. Working summers paid for a transistor radio and a bike.