The photo is from 1978. My son, his truck. Behind him, my truck.

Monday, January 31, 2011


Sunday, January 31, 1993

I'm re-roofing a garage.  The owner wants a cheapo job. 

Half way up one side, I space out for a minute and let the shingles wander slightly out of line.  Disgusted, I tear out the last few shingles - but not the first ones where I'd just started to wander.  They're only a wee bit out of line - only five of them out of hundreds - they'll shed water just fine - the owner isn't paying for perfection -
and besides, it's Sunday.  I want to finish and go home.

When I've finished the job, from the ground I look at the roof. 

Like a pretty girl with one crooked tooth.

I came in under my estimate.  The owner is happy.  I get paid, and I feel like crap.

The trouble with cheapo jobs is that you end up producing cheapo craft - and your name is attached to it.

Now, 18 years later, it must be about time to replace that roof.  Soon, I hope.  It still bugs me.

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