Now that I’ve got the modem cable for a few minutes, I just want to let y’all know I’ve been doing some masonry work in blazing heat, and there are few things that so thoroughly and quickly put you at a loss for words. I’m not complaining, though;  I was born to a life of repetitive motion.

Rose says the brickmason who constructed her fishpond drinks an average of eight or nine pints a day,  which makes him an artisan, in my book. In my brief stints as a paid construction worker, it’s generally been the case that for the old hands, anything worth doing is worth doing within walking distance of the suitcase of Milwaukee’s Best in the cooler in the back of the crew cab. Or in the case of the Hell’s angels doing  welding or electrical work up on the high steel, lunch=enough time to chug three or four brews.

T’.C. Boyle said somewhere that it’s a mystery why folks who work so hard are so fat. Not really. Not when they subsist on a diet of maltodextrins.

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