The previous night has left me feeling like I have been run over by a train. Make that a large concrete truck. Before I even open my heavy and puffy eyes my mind races. Is the slab drying properly? Did someone’s lost cat meet the end and is now a tortured remnant in the middle of our pour? Is there a crater, a crack? Did a tree fall in the middle?
The worry is almost as heavy as every limb on my aching body. The excitement and anticipation felt from earlier the night before starts to return along with a sense of pride and accomplishment as we round the bend and I get a clear view of the absolutely huge and perfectly smooth and dark colored chunk of concrete. The slab is so expansive that it appears nearly double the actual size, which is, in reality a whopping 22,000 feet. As we exit the comfort of our very cool air conditioned SUV it becomes hard to breathe as the heat from the outside fills our lungs. The air is heavy and hot and humid and we are instantly reminded of how unpleasantly scorching hot it is in South Louisiana in August, which, by the way, is why the massive pour had to occur at night. All the uncomfortable weather conditions aside, the slab is huge and perfect. I have brought our son with me to check on the site. The wonder and amazement on his face, the excited light shining in his eyes as he gleefully gasps, “wow, that’s awesome”. There is no doubt in my mind that not only is construction in my blood, in the blood of my husband, but we have clearly passed it along. Not by force, but there is no mistaking the fact that he will one day be doing just what we did the night before. That the long, relentless work that is so tangible and gratifying to us will be the same for him. And as rewarding as the actual success is and all of the material gains that follow that success, even greater is the legacy that we have left, both on land, here in this concrete and in the future structure, but also here on the face and in the heart of our child. I wouldn’t change that for anything.