Dust from a construction project feels like an old friend who I haven’t seen for a couple years. Growing up it was always around me, like a friend that comes for an unplanned visit and stays with you for three days.

Dust and I got along so well because were both victims of the person working on the project. I was only the assistant to the person making the dust. My primary job was holding the dumb end of the tape measure, conscripted into service against my will. The dust was like a peaceful tenant forcefully evicted from its’ home. Maybe I was more than a victim, because it was also my job to take the broom and dispose of the dust.

Despite my limited title and responsibilities some of the lingo stuck with me and I can still tell the difference between a cat’s paw, flat bar, hammer, and crow bar and I still remember if all else fails use a bigger hammer or get the chain saw.

Recently dust and I met at a friend’s construction project. I forgot the joy of pulling nails and listening to the radio. There is a sense of satisfaction from having my hands busy while still maintaining the capacity  to think about something other than the task before me.