Tom, the carpenter; artist

Humility and pride rarely coexist in so perfect a union as with Tom the carpenter.

It's Friday morning, about 7:30 and the big red diesel backs into T.A.'s driveway with the precision a seasoned lapidary would envy. Big Tom is going to work. Sure enough, his accomplice, Ol' Bailey, will be coming soon, but now is the time to prepare. The fruits of his labor are typically wasted on the casual observer; subtle is the bevel, natural and aesthetic are the lines and depth, impossible the scribing and coped joints. But a craftsman, a true artificer, will immediately distinguish the pride and perfection in his work.

Tom eyes up the edges on a new dividing fence. The trellis is over engineered to Cold War standards. I smile and let him know it looks like the new wall could last a hundred years. Tom simply shakes the dust from his brow and says, "Well, should last forty."

I remark that the beveled edge is a nice touch, so he notices my interest in his work. He beckons me to the garden side and points out the slightly asymmetrical heights on the fore and aft pickets keenly designed to articulate the aesthetic of the garden and provide a pleasant edifice until the luscious tendrils of ivy encouraged by Ol' Bailey's care envelop the structure.

Ol' Bailey comes along and looks pleased, "We couldn't do it again in a hundred years!" I knew it was the flag pole he was referring to, recently moved to the best location in the curtilage. I had noticed just a few days before that when the wind is ever so slight, as it is in Boalsburg, the flag wafts at the same angle the porch roof inclines, creating an almost seamless illusion of continuity.

"Doesn't it break up the white face of the wall perfectly when coming down the street?" Admittedly, it does, and though I had heard the next comment once, I knew this was the perfect time to hear it again: "And Tom and I used the same materials as before. You know, we spent $60 bucks on the whole thing when we put it in originally, and now just the base pipe is over $100, so we saved T.A. at least a hundred bucks in material."

So I ask Ol' Bailey what the dirt is from in the garage, because I wanted to know, and more importantly, he wanted to tell me. "Tom's digging out the crawlspace under the house, so if there's ever a problem with termites, the exterminator can get under there. He can fit in places most men couldn't breath in."

Tom, who snugly fits inside his large truck, simply planned his next improvement, ever so masterly, as if no one were paying attention.