Good Blood, Bad Blood

“… these things we depend on,

they disappear.”

Louise Gluck (1943-2023)

My son is building his house. He and his wife and two children live in the Upper Hood River Valley. I’ve been making periodic visits to view and photograph the process. The early stages amaze me: the re-shaping of his property, digging trenches, and establishing the footprint.

Often, when imagining house building, we think only of the finished product. We admire the polished floors, the paint scheme, and other cosmetic features. Yet, the quality of the build and its durability rests on what is unseen: the surveying, the foundation work, and the placement of piping, wiring, and drains.

*******

It’s mid-afternoon, the sky is overcast. The first rain of Autumn slips in. Summer’s dust settles. The landscape, recently excavated, drinks the moisture. Smoke wafts out of the foundation’s footings where wet meets dry. An aroma of dampened concrete bleeds upwards into the air.

We wait for the ready mix. It’s late. Actually, there will be three deliveries, one after the other. Twenty four cubic yards in total. Finishing before dark is a maybe. Workers pace back and forth. They chat about previous delays. Once there was a no-show. Not today, though.

An engine growls as the first truck downshifts to turn off the highway. It approaches the building site. It backs into position, next to a line pump’s trailer. The drum rotates, blending the sand and gravel with wet cement. Slowly, a thick slurry pours down a slide into the pump. Earlier, 90 feet of 6” diameter hose had been draped across the stem walls. The pump throbs with effort. It begins to move the heavy “mud” through the hose. 

The concrete crew waits in the trenches. They are a rough looking lot. Knee high boots, hoodies, and dried cement on their jeans disguise the artisans underneath. There’s sleight of hand in their attention to detail. They pick the pockets of the architect. They pinpoint corners. They laser elevations.  The integrity of future framing demands accuracy. Eventually, the beauty of their work will be hidden. But, the exacting preparations matter.

A muffled cheer greets the arrival of product. The strongest among them guides the hose of flowing concrete into the plywood cavities. Others wield cylindrical vibrators to help the “mud” settle. Trowelers smooth the thick slurry against the frame at precise heights. They work in close proximity. They splash themselves with discarded excess. Threaded bolts are placed upside down and upright in the thickening concrete. Once the cement drys, pressure treated framing plates will be bolted atop the foundation.

An ominous clank stops the pump. It’s owner/operator surveys the situation. A connection has burst under the pressure of too much rock in the mix. They solve the problem. The throbbing resumes. The cavities fill one by one. The trowelers dance in tandem with the vibrators. 

The first truck empties its drum and a second moves to hook up. A third rig pulls into place and waits. The pour moves apace. They finish in concert with the descending darkness. Tomorrow, they will return to breakdown the stem wall forms. The evidence of their artistry will disappear. Now you see it, now you don’t.

Here’s a song, an anthem for workmen and women in the trades, If I Were a Carpenter, by Tim Hardin.