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Some people come into and out of our lives making faint impressions. Others, we never know, yet so many of them contribute to our lives in ways we may give little thought to.

When I was a newbie just out of college on my first large-scale construction site, all the activities seemed complicated and somewhat overwhelming. I spent a great deal of time admiring the skill of the men who ran the big machines, built the reinforced concrete structures, or installed and connected the miles of wiring to the systems that controlled it all. I was humbled by what I did not know and strived to learn everything I could.

During that project, I came upon a man digging a trench; he was a big muscular man who labored all day long and appeared, at least to me, to be indefatigable. I watched this man work day after day; he kept to himself a lot, took his scheduled breaks, and stepped back into his work with remarkable stoicism – unconcerned about the length of the trench before him. Shovelful by shovelful, he worked his way along, and at the end of the day, that trench laid true.

I admit that I was curious about this man, and I finally got the courage to talk with him. I admired his work and asked him how he could do this work all day and do it so well. He smiled and perhaps thought I was pulling his leg, but I think he recognized my earnestness. He told me that he had been doing this work for a long time and had learned a few things. He spun his shovel into position effortlessly, as if it was a matchstick, and explained that he set a rhythm and with each bite of the shovel, he would always take the same amount of soil; if it was too full and heavy, he would burn out too soon, and his body would pay the price the next day. And if the shovel was not full enough, it would be a wasted effort. So, every time he had to dig, he set a pace and got on with the work.

I have thought about that moment time and again. I considered then that this man’s approach to his work was remarkable and inspiring. I also felt that it was rare, but I have been proven wrong about that assumption.

Throughout my 40+ year career, I have traveled to many places and worked with many people. I have been in awe of crane operators who pick and set loads of tremendous weight with high precision – sometimes blindly with no more than hand signals to guide their response on the controls. I’ve watched the shaking hands of an environmental technician while she extracted samples from an abandoned chemical reactor known to have manufactured Agent Orange and contaminated with Dioxin. I have worked through the night with crews to keep systems running for a paper mill coming to life and at military bases to extract and treat groundwater. I am fascinated with millwrights who set equipment with exacting precision. I admire operators who know their systems intimately – not only by readouts from their controls but also by their senses through the hum of a powerful blower, the unloading pulse of a compressor, the glaze on a drive belt, or the color of a chemical reaction.

We lament the loss of manufacturing jobs and the export of our technology away from the people who built it. Those people still exist, their skills still exist, but I fear that we have not planned well for our future or theirs. The old ones are passing and with them go the skills and experience of gifted craftsmen and women. Perhaps this is how it’s always been with the passing of one generation to the next. So, I am concerned and hopeful at the same time.

The hope stems from the aftermath of a recent storm that took down trees and power lines around my home. The nearby tree service company crew made short work of the fallen trees. They worked as a team, skillfully and professionally. Hours later, a team from the power company (PECO) showed up in the cold night, scaled ladders in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights, and worked to repair the storm-damaged wiring. Their work too was done professionally, and they moved on through the night to the next neighbor and the next task – unseen by most of us. I admired their work ethic.

I was grateful decades ago for the lesson the laborer in the trench taught me as a wide-eyed college kid. I am grateful still. At the end of the day, your work speaks for you and of you.

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Kevin Deeny