In the beginning, that first steaming bucket of earth, its damp perfume like what the Lord enjoyed at His work on the second day; its resonant FWUMP upon the empty bed of the dump truck. Next, the sweet fragrance of a rich batch of concrete, rattling down the chute.

Even as it cures comes the tacktacktacketing nail guns and banshee skilsaws, backed by a cycling chorus of generators and compressors. Vaporized pine resin, from a blade spinning at 4400 RPM, stinging the eyes like turpentine.

Kah-WHAMP goes a sheet of plywood, flopped onto naked joists. Off-cuts clatter clunk-a-lunk onto the plywood deck.

Roofers, they drive the newest trucks. Do not begrudge them; their work is dangerous. Electricians are prima donnas, and rightly so. One mistake and it’s up in flames. Never call a plumber a brownie dipper, unless you want a lesson in respect.

ka-LOOK-shish, ka-LOOK-shish, a man on stilts joyfully slinging joint compound. He is graceful and fast. Piece work makes the job fly, and can make you some good money.

Many strong backs, twice as many skilled hands. So few they belong to have names. But let us remember some of the best: Flaco, Orsy, and his brother Alex. Johnny the Painter, who always worked alone; Fred the Mystic Plumber. Mike, and his main man Marvin.

Once, amid that ecstatic cacophony, I heard a man call out to me. What, I said. What, I can’t hear you. I’m hurt, I finally heard him say—and then I saw the blood soaking through the leg of his jeans. Reminding us to use a sawhorse, not your thigh.

We all shed our blood. Some more than others. When Mike was killed, Marvin adopted his three little boys. Any project worth doing is worth bleeding for.