It wasn't his mistake, or mine. An old friend of mine joined our faculty at the university. Subsequently, Tom entered into a contract to build my friend's home in a beautiful woods. Part of the contract prescribed that my friend would work with Bailey Construction providing skilled labor on the building project.
The mistake was that my friend began his employment at the university earlier than he had planned. So I agreed to work in my friend's place. Sounds crazy, I know. But that was forty years ago. In those good-old-different days, an agreement -- even a home-building contract -- was less formal than today.
Perhaps builders were different back then, too. What I remember is that when I told Tom he could count on me, that I was a middling-good wood-butcher -- slow and steady -- and would undertake any task he assigned and carry it through best I could. . .when I told him that, he somehow believed me.
I think it was also that for some mysterious reason, I liked Tom on sight. Call it alchemy. There are a few touchstone moments in the lives of working men. For my part, I just liked the look of the man, the way his clothes hung on him all casual, his dusty and scuffed work-boots, the tan line high on his forehead, left by his gimme-hat turned backwards.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and when he grinned real big and reached out to shake my hand, his muscled forearms reminded me of my own Great-Uncle Ed. He looked me directly in the eye and winked. It seemed like he was saying with his entire manner: Welcome! You're okay by me until you teach me different.
This much I know: when men meet, they intuitively size each other up. The day I met Tom Bailey I knew right away I would like him. While I can't tell you exactly why, I know it had something to do with the easy way he accepted me, took me on trial with a friendly grin and handshake.
As I said: I just liked the look of the guy. I had no intention of disappointing him.
Over time, among skilled craftsman, a mutual respect develops. It has to do not only with the respect they share regarding each other's craftsmanship. It has to do with the slow accretion of trust that develops when men are fair with each other over the long haul. When one after another, Tom's sub-contractors said to me something like: "Tom's a good one. . ." I knew exactly what they meant.
Such men seek each other out and find ways to work together on projects.
I always think that over the nearly forty years I've known him, he has run a family business. His lovely wife is his partner. His son grew up to work with him. So did his daughter and son-in-law. His daughter has developed into a skilled designer. His son-in-law has become much like Tom -- the highest compliment I can give him.
That summer of 1975 was the beginning of a long friendship. I admired Tom, not only because he had such a broad repertory of building skills, but because the same magnetism I felt the moment I met him, also attracted and held other skilled and friendly sub-contractors.
The electrician who worked with him was another super-competent person. So were the excavators, the plumbers, the wall-board specialists, the roofers, and the painters. Never once in all the years Tom sent workers to my home did he ever send a workman I didn't like immediately. They are all down-to-earth, friendly, and absolutely competent. In that way they are family.
What's more, they never held my doctors degree, my spotty skills, or my lack of experience against me. In fact, they often took the time to teach me things about their crafts that helped me be a better and more useful worker. Into the bargain, they never made me feel that teaching me was a waste of their time. I took this as a compliment, learned all I could, and tried to be a useful part of their world of work. I came to feel accepted among Tom's building family.
My wife, Nancy, and I got to know Tom well. We couldn't help it. Two years into our marriage we bought a ramshackle old place on a river-front and spent the next three decades expanding and rebuilding it. Tom must've contracted with us five or six times to improve and expand the place.
Each time he wrote with us what we came to call an elastic contract. The more work I did, the less his people had to do. Craftsmen are paid by the hour. What he got really good at was laying out for me preparation work I could do. That freed-up his crew to work other jobs. For instance, he'd say: "Okay, Bob: I see four phases to this particular job. You surely can do these first two. Here, I'll show you. . . ."
And he would. I'd pay attention, ask the right questions, see what I had to accomplish, and lit into the work. Tom's crew would come in the fourth or fifth day, and I'd work with them through the final two phases. Again, that process cut payable hours for the skilled craftsmen.
Some of my work provided comic relief. One time for instance -- when for the first time I was using an air-hammer to drive nails as we framed a large roof -- I drove a framing nail right through the instep of my work-boot. The nail penetrated right through the rafter I was setting, on into my boot, through my sock. It missed my high arch fortunately. But it effectively nailed me firmly into the plate.
I had the presence of mind to be stealthy. I reached into my nail apron for my nail-puller. But it squirted out of my hand and fell to the flooring below. A few of the craftsmen had seen the entire clumsy episode. Those who didn't heard the clank of my nail-puller as it struck the floor below. Suddenly everybody looked over toward me.
Good workers look out for each other. They really do. But, believe me, there was no danger of me falling off the roof. I was securely nailed in place.
In a few moments they dropped what they were doing and assembled quietly around me where I stood helplessly nailed to the top of the wall. Then there was this eye-rolling, head-shaking, gotcha ritual while they all decided I was a hopeless case. Finally one of the guys stopped chuckling and said: "We gonna cut him loose or leave-em here for the night?"
After much deliberation and many helpful suggestions, Tom reached over and yanked the nail. Then we went back to work.
For years after that, I never saw any member of that crew who did not remind me in some good-humored way about the day I nailed myself to the roof. In fact, guys who came onto Tom's various crews years later took the story as a vital part of their education. I don't mind: I'm sorta famous because of that incident.
Another job Tom likes to tease me about is the time when I spent two exhausting days trying to get the inside part of an addition square so that he could bring in a crew to complete the outer portions and blend the work together. We were doubling the size of a bedroom and adjoining walk-in closet. I say this much in my defense: over sixty years, the house had settled and tightened, and there was not one square corner or surface in the existing part of the old house. So it was especially difficult to square the old portions of the building. I had to use a sledge hammer to break loose and move bottoms of walls, drive shims under floor plates, and swing the 10-pound sledge over my head to drive top-plates into place. Believe me, I had to speak a torrent of influential language to achieve my goals.
After about twenty hours of miserable work I was willing to accept the resulting improvements. But Tom felt he could not accept the result of my two-day effort.
I said to him: "Please Tom: this job drove me crazy. It's not off anywhere more than 1/16th of a bubble. The OWNER accepts the work. Nobody'll see it from the road." It was a sort of plea that he bury my work in his crew's much-more skillful endeavors.
But he wouldn't do it. He said to me quietly: "The BUILDER rejects the work." Then he softened and added with a sympathetic hand on my shoulder: "I'll come over tomorrow and help. We'll tear out what we have to and have it right by noon." And he did. And we did get it right. And he left me feeling proud. Tom's more than a fine craftsman. He's an excellent teacher. He's also a good friend. Anybody can see why I say that.
When we sold that river place and bought our new home on Maple Lane, we contracted with Tom to finish our large basement and build a large four-season porch overlooking the woods out back. This time, my work-load at the university kept me too busy, plus I also had my knee replaced that fall. I just couldn't kneel and climb. I was also tied up in painful post-operative therapy.
Perhaps because I couldn't help, the job turned out so well that Tom asked that we participate in the fall Home-Builders' Show.
We did. And after the first night droves of people came through. Tom later told me he got a dozen or more contracts out of that show.
I say again: that was more than excellent craftsmanship. Tom has a quiet, yet powerful magnetism that draws people to him and holds them. It works among his sub-contractors who are busy folks who can't help making and keeping promises to Tom. It works among his own crew members. They want to do their best work for him. It works among his customers. They can't help coming to respect and like him.
Over my long life-time I've spoken with many people who've gone through the strenuous, often maddening, and expensive building process with their homes. Most of them are at least somewhat unhappy with their general contractor. They're glad the ordeal is over. They hope never to build again. Nor do they want to see their builder ever again.
The best thing I can tell them about Tom Bailey and Bailey Construction is that when time passes and I don't see Tom for one reason or another -- I actually miss him!
That's way beyond competence.
It's well-earned friendship
It's well-earned friendship
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