The Links

One of the last jobs I had while still in college was as a construction superintendent for a small semi-custom homebuilder.  The company was run by three brothers and their dad.  Each had very different skills and aptitudes that seamlessly harmonized with one another.  This was a well-run business and I was fortunate to work there for a time. 

My job involved building houses in a small subdivision of about 40 or 45 lots called, The Links.  Never much of a golfer, it took me a while to make the connection between the name of the subdivision and the golf course directly behind the neighborhood.  

My boss was one of the three brothers.  He was the technically-minded contractor of the team, a man’s man, intense, highly motivated, and obsessed with the details.  I didn’t like him.  Maybe I could have liked him if he wasn’t my boss, but he was, and things there didn’t work out well for me. 

Being a superintendent is a tough job.  You are responsible for building several homes at the same time, managing the schedule, and working with a million variables like subcontractors, homeowners and the always changing weather.  At the time, the job proved to be too much for me, and my boss began micromanaging my every move.  Even today, the memory of his truck, pulling slowly into the neighborhood, its lights peering eerily through the hazy calm of early morning, still conjures up thoughts of a bad, low budget, horror film. 

I can’t blame anyone but myself for the way things turned out.  They took a chance on a young and untested superintendent, and I just wasn’t ready for the job.  All too soon, that fact became painfully evident to everyone involved.  In time, he asked me to move on.

Even now, 10 or 15 years later, I think about that place all the time.  Not so much about my old boss, but more about the little things that happened while I was there, the people I worked with, and the things I did.  As examples, I include just two of the most recent memories from this past week. 

Saturday, while I was roofing a small shed with my son.  I told him about a roofer I once knew, who could hand-nail shingles almost as fast as someone using a nail gun.  He could pound a nail with two hits of his heavy hammer, and then have another nail in place, ready to be pounded, all in about a second.  In his left hand he held as many nails as he could manage.  His fingers would quickly roll one nail into place, where the first strike of the hammer would tap it down.  Immediately this hand would pull away and begin rolling the next nail into place as the hammer came crashing down to finish off the first nail.  By then, held loosely between the calloused fingers of his left hand, he would have another nail ready to be started.  The memory of the dull, thudding sounds, coming from somewhere in the neighborhood, “bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . . bam, BAM . . .,” rings even today like music in my memory. 

Also recently, I was telling some friends about how I would often have to take cover when a stray golf ball would fly unexpectedly over a house and into the street.  This last memory came just a few days ago, after I got invited to attend a golf tournament for work. 

The tournament was today.  I haven’t golfed for a couple years and was kind of rusty.  The memory of stray golf balls again found its way into my consciousness, only it was me now who was pounding them out of bounds.  Fortunately for my team, the format we played was to move to, and hit from the best ball of each shot.  So even though I was the weak link on the team, no one suffered too badly. 

Even with that, and a couple strong players on my team, we still ended up with the highest score of all the 36 teams.  As we handed in our score card, with teams still coming in off the course, the man who took the card read it and said, “Oh, you will be getting a prize for this one.”

It was there in the clubhouse, waiting in line for lunch, that I saw him, my old boss, from years ago.  He looked exactly the same: tall, blonde, confident, smiling, and loud.  He was talking with some friends, and I decided not to interrupt.  After the lunch and awards, I caught up with him and shook his hand.  I reminded him of my name and said I had worked for him a few years ago.  We briefly caught up and then talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular.  In the conversation, I mentioned something about him letting me go.  He stopped me and kindly said he didn’t let me go, but, “encouraged me to find other work in another field.”  We both laughed.

Near the end of the conversation, I mentioned his old truck, “the one with the yellow lights on top of the cab.”

“My old Dodge!” he beamed, turning to the man standing next to him.

“Yes,” I affirmed.  “For several years after I left your company, whenever I saw a truck like that one, I would get the hugest knot in my stomach.”

He looked surprised.  “My old truck wasn’t that bad, was it?”

I laughed.  He laughed.  His friend laughed.  I don’t remember him having such a quick sense of humor. 

He then asked me, with real interest, “We didn’t part ways so terribly, did we?” 

Standing there in the clubhouse, with this man I once hoped I’d never have to see again, I realized I’d finally dealt with the pain.  Somewhere along the way, I had reconciled the frustration of that episode of my life.  I had put the past behind me.  I had forgiven.  And now I can forget. 

“No,” I lied, “No, of course not.”