Writing Rites.

Participation – Observation is the name of this first exercise in torture of my class Professional and Creative Communication.

The particulars include visiting a building/construction/renovating site at least twice, anything from a new strip mall, to the painting of a window sill, and noting down the social/cultural implications and interactions therein.

Me being, well, me, I was lazy, I picked my back yard. What? It’s a whole 14 steps from my bedroom. I counted.

This is my first of ,what my lecturer has promised to be, many, many drafts.

Editing is the name of the game, ladies and gentlemen. And, apparently, I’m its bitch.

~*~

Every day, like clockwork, the incessant chatting of the radio talk show hosts spilling from the speakers of the small portable radio comes to a sudden halt somewhere between 5:35 and 5:40pm; regardless of how emphatic the guest speaker is at being allowed to finish his point before he is unceremoniously turned off. The sound of a car door opening, followed by the garage roller door being pulled up and curling into a coil of sheet metal signals the return of the neighbour from his eight hour day at work, and tells the builder in my back yard that it’s time to give the neighbouring houses’ inhabitants some quiet time in their evening.

He calls out to his young apprentice who, whether be pushing along a wheel barrow or balancing on a steel joist in mid air, appears to long be awaiting “knock off time”. Quietly and efficiently they gather up their tools, yell a quick “see ya tomorrow” to me through the kitchen window, and make their way out to their Ute thoughtfully parked on the street to allow me access to my driveway.

Sometimes, on days the job is too large for the two person team, or too specialised, a third, or sometimes, fourth, is called in. Sometimes they are just an extra hand to help carry out the excess debris, and sometimes, an expert in his field is required to polish the newly dried cement until it shimmers like a sheet of opaque grey glass. Either way, there is never any doubt on who is in charge. It seems every detail is talked through with the main contractor, and the decision, whether unanimous, or an obvious issue of contention, is his. An understanding that is demonstrated by a phrase that is often overheard drifting through the open windows into my home office, “I’ll take responsibility for it, mate”, his signal that the period for discussion has come to an end, and it is time to get on with the job.

The attention to safety practices seems as though it is the top priority, the ground on the site, immaculate despite the high volume of tools and machinery that are used interchangeably throughout a working day. Tool cabinets on wheels, pushed close to the area being worked on, and then, tidily, back against the wall as everything is shut down for the day, illustrate the contractor’s tight rein on keeping his working space organised, as does his frustration when he calls out asking for an implement that isn’t where it should be.

His work area isn’t the only place that appears to be under a regime of extreme organisation. Despite having a mobile hands free kit attached permanently to his right ear, phone call lengths are kept to an absolute minimum. His business, broadly advertised, such as on the side of his truck and equipment, invite calls throughout the day, but are answered with a polite, yet firm request for a phone number and a promise that he will return their call at either lunchtime or an appropriate time later in the evening. “Gotta concentrate at the job at hand first,” he yells over to his young charge, the beneficiary of such little lessons dotted throughout the day.

Nosy neighbours, desperate to be a part of the construction happening so close to their home, never fail to find a reason to poke their heads over the fence, pointing out a discrepancy in the height of the new roof, or the colour of the walls; accusations the contractor simply smiles at, while, almost by way of a challenge, offering them a viewing of the building designs approved by the council. A wink to me as I inevitably poke my head out the backdoor to stick my own nose in at the little scuffle, reassures me, as he goes about his work, throwing a parting shot into the wind, “Don’t worry, love, I’ll be buildin’ you a good fence, they do make good neighbours after all.”

I return to my office, reassured by the sound of the circular saw in the background that, while, I might not know the rules and tricks of this game of home renovation, my house is in the safe, hairy, calloused hands of someone who does.