I've been keeping a sketchy written diary of the construction going on here, and will fill in the blanks with the pictures I've been taking as we go along. The crew works hard, and they're all competent at their respective positions.
I arrive when I can to do the painting, and be there to answer questions they may have. Generally, I stay tucked up in a corner, in a quiet room and paint to the strains of air compression machinery, saws, the local classic rock station, and the natural conversation of the crew as they forget I'm here and go back to their cohesive jive.
Half the time, I don't try to understand the conversation, a combination of called-out measurements, purposefully mis-sung lyrics and constant ribbing at one another.
I like this orchestra. Then they get quiet as they pack up for the day. I come out of my secluded workspace, and we check out the day's work together. Monday afternoon, one of the workers commented on the frog symphony in the coming twilight. I told him it was my favorite spring herald, and we all just listened for a minute or two, then one talked about the coming fishing season, and the conversations broke out all over.
They fire up their trucks, and go off down the driveway, and up the dead-end street which is our little swamp home on a pond.
I stay still and listen for a bit, as I eye the constructions remnants all around, waiting for tomorrow's use. So much more to be done.
My thumbs hurt from all the painting, and I have more rooms to cover, but for now I just listen to the empty sound of me and the house, alone. Finally.
After a bit I go back to work, tired but content.