Constructing a building and a community

Once upon a time I knew how to hammer a nail, snap a chalk line, handle a circular saw, roof a barn, etc. However I was never clever enough to build something on my own, always looking for direction from someone who knew what he was doing. (no female foremen in my building history) I was the guy on a crew who was there for the summer, or for a few-month stint to help out a friend whose construction business was a little behind schedule. In other words, I was, in effect, a tourist in the company of professional hardworking men who did that kind of work for a living.

I suppose I was competent enough and I hope the other guys didn’t resent my presence: perhaps they should have. My fellow workers were of a class of people that keep this country moving ahead. Me, not so much. My job is to appreciate the roads they built, the railroad tracks they laid, the houses they built, and the cars they manufactured, and to make sure we understand the value of their work. This bit of looking back was brought on by the fact that a neighbor gathered family and friends for a couple of days recently to construct a building on his property and it was absolutely fascinating, and humbling to watch.

A few things have changed since the barn-raising of centuries ago, like the use of power tools, metal siding and roofs, and hydraulic elevator lift buckets. One thing that hasn’t changed is the sense of community such a gathering brings.

Out here autumn is approaching, sort of, like some half-forgotten dream, hinting but not arriving. Canada geese are on the move in their typical V-shaped flight formations, the lead bird cutting through the air, the rest drafting behind. Many thousands of pelicans are also on the move, their formations a bit more disorganized. Eventually, the giant birds will end up in the southern U.S. or Mexico for the winter.

Great spangled fritillary butterflies have decided to call my hollow home this year, sharing the flowers of wild thistle plants with bees. Goldenrod plants are everywhere. With luck, autumn will bring rains, because for far too long dust in my rearview mirror has been billowing, rolling, and folding onto the ditches as I pass. Yesterday a family group of coyotes moved through the hollow, howling and keening, reminding me that I’m living in their world, and that my presence is of no particular interest to them.

My hammock continues to beckon. It’s located a few feet from a thigh-high wall assembled more than twenty years ago from stones left by a glacier thousands of years in the past. The wall is a favorite scampering spot for ground squirrels, one of the truly adorable rodents. I can while away entirely too much time on my back, not doing anything particularly useful to anyone, rocking ever-so-slightly as I breathe, the poetry of Ted Kooser and Bill Holm in my hands, keeping company with wild things, away from people, away from any town.

The only sound is a slight breeze through the treetops and an occasional short-lived cicada eruption. But every once in a while, when the wind is right, I hear the sound of civilization pushing in from the north, from my neighbor’s place. It’s a sound I made when I was young, a sound I now leave to those who know what they’re doing, competent men who say things to each other like, “We’re only a sixteenth of an inch off in the back. Nobody’s gonna notice.” It’s the sound of a nail being pounded, a building rising from the earth where once there was grass.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.