In our neighborhood a house is being restored. Originally built in the 1900s and not much done to it since then, that meant the roof and windows needed to be replaced. The old siding was removed, and the walls patched where the wood had rotted away. Crews have been working on it continuously for weeks.
Yesterday, though, workmen had left for the weekend. It was raining, that quiet drizzly rain that farmers say, ah-yup, good for the crops. Sunday afternoon, and rather than watching football or socializing with friends, one man was out there, putting on Pink Panther waterproofing.
He worked quietly, with only ear buds for company, painstakingly measuring, cutting, and installing each segment. He was singing. In the rain. When I walked over to say hello, I realized it was the owner.
He didn’t have to be there, he chose to be there. This was how he wanted to spend his Sunday afternoon.
“It’s wet out here,” I remarked.
“I won’t melt.”
He smiled and went back to his work.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.