He builds the form. It takes a lot longer to do than to tell about it, but there isn't much to say about forms. They are like little wooden boxes, shaped like the thing you want to make with the concrete. We are building steps. Steps that will run from the side yard to the back door. There is a big wall there now and to get down, you have to jump. My Dad already measured the space a few days ago and calculated the risers and treads and truthfully, I am not good at this part because there is a lot of math. As the morning wears on, he cuts and measures and builds. At 10AM he hands me his little black book and asks me to go inside and call his helper. I call and there is no answer. I go back outside and I can see my Dad is getting stressed. I wouldn't want to do math and work with a power saw at the same time, so I try to be extra nice about the bad news but he isn't having it. He is pissed and tells me to call a few of the local bars to track down his helper. Back inside I make the calls but no one has seen him since yesterday so I leave lots of messages to tell him to come to the Colwyn job. I doubt that he will get the message or follow the instructions if he does. I grab a pitcher of cold water and paper cups and head back out.
I always wanted a dog of my own and thought that the minute I had my own house, I would have my own dog. I wasn't thinking that maybe I'd be sharing that house with someone who didn't feel the same way. Just after our wedding when I realized that my husband wasn't kidding about not wanting a dog, I surprised him with a cat. I surprised myself with the cat also, since I really wasn't too crazy about cats. Pete was a tiny runt of a thing that I carried around in the pocket of my scrubs while I cooked dinner and ran the vacuum. I wasn't even sure how to talk to a cat and the first time I had to say "pssst, pssst, psst", I laughed out loud. I felt so stupid. In the year since I brought Pete home our relationship grew into an obsession on my part and I worried about him constantly. I didn't let him near the door for fear of him getting loose and run over by a car. My Dad laughs at my behavior. He doesn't like cats at all and this one in particular attacks his feet when he walks up the stairs ruining any chance for a mutually respectful acquaintance. That morning I carefully pulled the door close as I went back outside with the bad news.
My Dad took the news with a pragmatic head shake and moved the radio to the side of the yard where we sat waiting for the concrete, He listened to WPEN 950 Club, a station that featured Big Band music and rockabilly classics. He is singing along with "It's Only a Shanty in Old Shanty Town" and I lean back and enjoy his smooth crooner voice. The station breaks and the DJ is talking about D-Day. It is the 40th Anniversary of the Invasion. In my mind, it is ages ago, another world away. My Dad tells me what he was doing on that exact day and time 40 years earlier. He marvels that forty years have passed. He tells me that his experience in England during the war is possibly the best and worst days of his life. He tries to explain the thrill of coming back alive when you accept that you are likely to die. He tells of his disappointment at the Japanese cars and German stereos so proudly displayed in American homes. He knows it is the right way to end a war, to be friends again, but it feels too forgiving about something we should never forget. I am at an age where I begin to appreciate what my father has to say, I am experiencing the 40th Anniversary of the Invasion with a person who experienced the invasion. It is surreal and I am trying to figure out what I am feeling when my Dad gets up to use the bathroom.
I am not sure what is going on at first but I see my father run down the street. I move to the front of the yard and see Pete running back and forth across the street at the same moment the giant concrete truck is barreling around the curve. I watch as my Dad makes a swoop in front of the truck, lifting the cat off his feet and spinning back to the safety of the curb. He is holding the cat by the scruff of his neck and I can tell that the thought of tossing him in front of the truck might just cross his mind. "Put this goddamn cat in the house. The concrete is here".
An argument ensues because my father feels the concrete is too wet and the guy delivering the concrete is intent on pouring it faster than Dad and I can work it. This is the first time I ever worked with concrete not made in small portions by hand. This is a huge pour and we have to work quickly to get the steps done correctly. I am following his direction carefully as I sense we don't get a do over on this. After the truck leaves, we do the finish work, smoothing out the concrete.
Later that evening when my husband is home and my Mom stops by to see the job, my father tells them about the helper he had and what a great job they did and the thing is, he isn't just laying it on. He is really proud of me. I tell everyone how my father rescued the cat from certain death.
It is 29 years since that 40th Anniversary. Time has gotten so far away from me that I don't try to hold it still anymore. It is as fluid and fleeting as a summer storm. The war stories are nearly all gone too with the men and women who told them. The world spins and times change and nothing lasts forever. Except love and concrete.