On the Level
Great moments in building history: A trunk full of kumquats, grapefruit and oranges, and a little tan
In 1945, my good friend Orin, who survived World War II, got a job on the railroad and married a girl named Elinor from Bellaire, Ohio (our old hometown). They bought themselves a shack of a house for $3,000.
I had cast my heart north, however, to northern Maine where I met Dawn at an air base in 1943. I married her shortly after the war for a modest $37 (ring and all) and fetched her south to Columbus, Ohio, where I attended art school on the G. I. Bill; we were 135 miles from Bellaire. We also acquired a shack for $3,000.
As for our material wealth, Orin and I were pretty much even, except for one thing. He had a job on the railroad in Bellaire, and I was a starving artist in Columbus. I began plying the building trades to make ends meet, but I was mighty shy on tools: All I had was Dawn, a pair of pliers, a screwdriver, a saw, a hammer and a 2-ft. level made of aluminum.
Not long after each of us had gotten married, Orin and I realized that we’d better remodel our shanties so that our wives wouldn’t leave us. Using my tools, we began to visit back and forth, and help each other saw, pound, plumb and level. Slaving until midnight wasn’t unusual. Our wives took care of the coffee- and cookie-making, and the superintending.
But then a strange thing began happening. When I upgraded to a 3-ft. level and went to Orin’s place, he already had one. When I managed a 4-footer, same thing—he already had one. Finally, I got the granddaddy of them all: 6 ft. long. That’s right—Orin already had one.
By and by, Dawn and I bid Orin and Elinor goodbye, sold out and migrated to Land O’ Lakes, Florida. Once again, we bought an old shack, but this time on a lake and for $6,000. A chicken coop of some renown graced the backyard. I used it for general storage, my tools and a shop. The house was something I should have blown up, but we set to remodeling it.
Then I got an idea. I’d send Orin a picture. Dawn clicked the camera while I posed with my 6-ft. level stacked vertically over my 4-ft. one. My clenched fist hid where they butted.
Sure enough, come the middle of February, Orin and Elinor rolled in, smiling all over in a brand-new Buick. They were dying to swim, fish, drink orange juice and bask in the warm Florida sun. Before long, though, I noticed that Orin’s countenance had blighted. Orin kept wandering around, going in and out of the chicken coop as if he were looking for something.
On departure day, Orin was behind the wheel with the engine running and the window cranked down. He sighed. “That picture you sent. Where’d you get that level?”
“Oh, you mean this one,” I said, grinning as I stacked the two levels.
His face brightened as they hauled for Ohio with a trunk full of kumquats, grapefruit and oranges, and a little tan.
—Clyde R. Kennedy, Rushville, Ohio
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