Response to article on working with your hands.

This article reminded me of my last couple of years in the Toronto area ("GTA," locally) and my experience there with the labor force. I was active in the trades, mostly as an interior painter, but was associated with a company that did disaster mitigation work for insurance companies. I was often surprised when going on to a job site that most of the tradesmen were my contemporaries. I was pushing 60 at that time, so you get the picture. There were a few younger people on site, but mostly they were people who couldn't find an "electronic" job or who were otherwise computer challenged.

I don't think it was mi imagination, because almost daily there were non-commercial pleading through the media for people to enter the trades. This was backed by many news reports that, despite the wages of blue collar workers approaching or equalling some college supported jobs, there was a dearth of tradesmen and women. This is anecdotally confirmed by friends I hear from now who live there and can't find a plumber or painter or whatever who can do a job satisfactory even to the unpracticed eye of a homeowner.

For my part, though I've done a few stints at the keyboard and screen, I have worked mostly with my hands in the construction trades. I owned and operated a landscape design/installation company specializing in xeriscapes and water features (there's a contradiction for you!) and did a great deal of household renovations as well. I was younger then, able to swing a pick for most of a day in 110F on hardpan surrounded by white walls, if called to. Not any more, lol!

But I always remember the satisfaction at the end of a day. Whether it was a coat of gloss paint on a wall that showed no roller marks in the glare, or the sound of three tones of water falling into a fishpond we just finished. That was, interestingly enough, a great contrast to the drudge I felt in office jobs where the chief satisfaction was usually social, in that I got along well with co workers and management or not.

The choice is easy for me. There is clarity, virtue, and reward in working as a team with competent craftsmen. There is fulfillment in seeing something that was not long ago "just" an idea take shape not only before your eyes, but under your hands. There is a connection between the imaginative, cognitive, and technical skill realms of experience that precipitates a feeling of wholeness.

I can't work now like I did then, I'm 62 years old and feel some of the symptoms of six decades of engagement with the world and its personal exigencies. But I still work with my hands, doing painting, some building trades, and most interestingly, work in ceramic art that is moving into a satisfying realm of recognition even in this economy. For me the case for working with your hands is moot. It's been my life. My hands, looking at them, is a history of my labor and my love of expression. The scars are there from tool cuts to surgery for removal of cactus spines. The texture is there from exposure to sun in the Sonoran desert for 23 years to thick spots where mortar burned my skin. The feeling is there from an iv that nearly wrecked a nerve to the occasional twinge from what I hope isn't incipient arthritis.

We all have ours stories. If it is true that Romans were allowed citizenship by the calluses on their hands, I would have made the cut. But mostly I feel the rewards of complicity to the demands of using skills best expressed with my hands. When I shake hands with another tradesman, farmer, craftsman, artist or musician, there is a feeling of respect and gratitude that flows through those fingers and palm that, like mine, have a treasured grip on reality.

How I got to California

Well, it is a long story, but simply put for the benefit of those interested, here it is:
In early December 2006, I got a call from my sister that my Mom was not doing well. Indeed she wasn't. She has had a history of heart/blood pressure problems complicated at times with difficulty in breathing. This time it was pretty serious. It was everyone's sense that she was on her way out. Part of all the considerations as well, was the looming prospect of having to do something to free my Mom of the burden of taking care of her house, the one that she had lived in for fifty years and where most of the four kids had grown up. The upshot was that it would be a very auspicious time for me to go out to California. I could both see my Mother and help with the final decision of getting her house up for sale.

My Mother is a scrapper, and came through the whole thing noticeably weakened, but still going strong. In fact, today, she is for the most part back on track and doing as well as can be expected, and in general good health for someone in their eighties.

In the mean time, the decision to sell the house involved me here in a project that grew way beyond my original intent of just painting the interior and going home to Canada. There was a lot in disrepair that had to be addressed in order just to get the house on the market. It became an all or nothing decision that rested on the fact that the house is my Mom's nest egg and we all wanted her to get the very most out of it that she could.

The research and advice we got indicated that any money put into the house would at the very least be returned at double the investment as far as reasonable upgrades were concerned. They would also make the house far more attractive to any prospective buyer, even one who might want to remodel.

The only point of contention in all this was my brother's room that he had occupied some years ago and made into his art studio. It is a small bedroom in the back of the house. He had, very competently, I might add, textured and painted the walls and ceiling to look like stone. He had also added faux 6x6 wooden beams to the corners and across the ceiling. The base board, window, and door frames matched as well. This configuration was very controversial to the real estate agents who insisted that it should be made into a plain bedroom again. At first we agreed. However, as the various contractors, visitors, etc, came through for whatever reason, it turned out that without exception this "cave room" was a hit. The consensus became this: that the room ought to stay as is for the potential buyer who wools like it this way for a child or whatever, and if they didn't like it but wanted the house, we could easily enough get it changed over within the escrow period. This made sense, as there is other work that will be done then as well.
Suffice it to say, then, that in the midst of all this it became obvious that it would be a great advantage to Mom's interest if there was someone on site who could deal with the exigencies of the renovations. Because I was a family member and could be trusted to deal with the large amount of personal belongings yet here from several of us, and because of my extensive experience in renovations and additions, I was the obvious choice to be that one. Mom's health, being compromised, put her out of that role, what with so much construction activity scheduled. As for my other sibs, they were enmeshed in work and family matters. I, being an independent sub contractor for a GC in Ontario, was the only one with the necessary skills mobile enough to fill the bill.

So, here I am. One VERY distinct joy of that is that I am NOT in the snow and ice of that Ontarian Winter. I am here enjoying some very good weather. There are blossoming orchids, quince, and lush torolosa pines right out the window as I type this. The sun is shining and it is warm. Am I happy to have that? Considering the Northern alternative, I am overjoyed.
Do I miss my friends? Very much. A few in particular. But in this case, I feel I have no choice but to do this. Other considerations, including some continuing concerns surrounding my Mother, will keep me here as a resident for some time at least. I will continue my application for "independent business man" status in Canada from here, as that is a promising opportunity. It has long been a wish of mine to be there for the loveliness of the seasons that are lovely, and AWAY from the season that is white and shivery.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I am sorry to miss my friends, but life deals cards and you have to play them as best you can. It is, after all, a learning experience. It very certainly has been that for me in Canada. I worked for and was often in the Presence of, in my estimation, one of the most remarkable individuals on the planet, perhaps ever, that being Dr. Mills. What a timeless and priceless legacy that is for me, too large even for me to feel in its entirety. And the gift of being with all to the precious friends up there, of whom I was blessed with many. So if anything, I feel that I am carrying an immense blessing into a new land, and am the beneficiary of a remarkable legacy that I can discover by its sharing. That has to be good.