Grief is the name of a weary sculptor searching for meaning, carving a plethora of lines on the faces of the living. Hobbling the bravest and strongest of souls – forgetting at times to carve the fortitude to withstand the test of time. Indeed Grief maims at times, with careless strokes.
Iron worker Joe came into the store quietly one calm day, but soon with his huge warm presence found a space close to me to open up. Show his tender mortal side. “I am 40 years old you know, I know I won’t survive this job if I don’t take good care of myself – these younger guys just don’t understand. They’re putting their lives in a whole lot of danger. Their idea of resting from a hard days work is drugs, drinking, and driving dangerously in their big trucks. Us iron workers make a lot of money, you know – we’re in the best union in the country. My co-worker and I’ve been in this industry for going on 20 years and we were just asked last week if we’d be willing to tour the reserves in BC, Alberta to recruit some more strong, young, native men. We can live well if we wanted to. And we should, we never know when we’re going to die. But I don’t know if I would want to bring any more young men into this. A man died just last week…”
A man caught hanging from the strings that suspend the industrial landscape in the makings of bridges and tributaries that have fed “civilization”, many a man has been unceremoniously hanged. These are no ordinary suicides.
“This is very dangerous work. I wouldn’t want these young men’s blood on my hands. I’d feel so responsible as an elder, you know. I’d be worried sick.”
What would joy be without laughter or feeling life pulsing through our veins?
"But you know life goes on...work is work". He chuckles softly, his resignation softened only by the love etched into the smile lines of his eyes, and chiselled cheek bones.
Iron worker Joe came into the store quietly one calm day, but soon with his huge warm presence found a space close to me to open up. Show his tender mortal side. “I am 40 years old you know, I know I won’t survive this job if I don’t take good care of myself – these younger guys just don’t understand. They’re putting their lives in a whole lot of danger. Their idea of resting from a hard days work is drugs, drinking, and driving dangerously in their big trucks. Us iron workers make a lot of money, you know – we’re in the best union in the country. My co-worker and I’ve been in this industry for going on 20 years and we were just asked last week if we’d be willing to tour the reserves in BC, Alberta to recruit some more strong, young, native men. We can live well if we wanted to. And we should, we never know when we’re going to die. But I don’t know if I would want to bring any more young men into this. A man died just last week…”
“This is very dangerous work. I wouldn’t want these young men’s blood on my hands. I’d feel so responsible as an elder, you know. I’d be worried sick.”
What would joy be without laughter or feeling life pulsing through our veins?
"But you know life goes on...work is work". He chuckles softly, his resignation softened only by the love etched into the smile lines of his eyes, and chiselled cheek bones.
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