Hard Days, Good Days

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The memory of the morning described in this scene is one I hold onto with great fondness: preparing for a day of hard and honest work with a kind and complex man I’d just begun to think of as a friend; the sudden, sharp turn of the dying season as autumn transitioned to winter, which (as my only winter in manual labour) would be the coldest I’d experienced; the simple pleasure of watching a spider weaving its web, creating something of fine beauty and uncomplicated necessity.

I also wanted, in the context of this essay, to express something of the way that I sometimes wanted Mike’s approval. This is a deep-seated part of my psyche that has much to do with growing up in a working class community and never fitting in. As much as I now live the life I’ve always wanted to as a man of words, it seems that some part of me will always feel apologetic for not working with my hands, for dealing in abstractions rather than tangibles.

In the end, I cut the scene because the second half of it, abou…