We soon settled into a routine of sorts on the job. We would hold classes for an hour or two every morning, teaching the local carpenters all about steel studs. Then came a long day as we struggled not to criticize their failings as they tried to put to use their new skills? These were "wood butchers" through and through and it was like teaching them a foreign language. A language they were not interested in learning.
When 4:30 rolled around, we were always ready to drive out of town and into rural Connecticut, where we could unwind. After taking showers in our little apartment, we would head over to Duval's restaurant in Bantam. "Pop" Duval was the bartender as well as proprietor of this small bar and restaurant. A couple of Scotches or maybe a Schaeffer's brew would get us into the mood for dinner. Salad and spaghetti with a side order of a dozen steamers was always a favorite. $1 a dozen for fresh steamed clams. The whole dinner, $2.50. A Maine lobster dinner ran $5. (And there is no comparison in size between a Maine lobster and a Pacific Crayfish.) After dinner, we would rejoin Pop in the bar for a glass of sherry and Pop would entertain us with short and pithy stories of the local area. He didn't know he was entertaining us; he always talked this way.
About 10, we would head back to our room, the studded snow tires rumbling on the icy roads. A dark sky and a million stars to see in that frozen time...
It would start all over again the next morning. Sort of like "Groundhog Day". Except that movie hadn't been made yet.
We were getting desperate for good labor, our schedule was off by weeks now and not days and then we heard that some French Canadians were in town and they knew drywall. We searched them out and after a few minutes of interviews, where they said a few key words, words that indicated that they really did know the trade, we hired them. All of them. I think it was about 8 altogether and all related. Jacque and Nazaire were cousins and spoke English. That's all we needed.
It turned out well, they weren't the best in the world, but they wanted to work and that put them far ahead of the locals. And the locals hated them for it. All trades in the Northeast seemed to be divided up by ethnic origins and there was no place for these foreigners, these Canucks.
At break time or lunch, the Italians and the Irish would find their respective places on a stack of sheetrock, making sure there was no room for us or the Canadians.
So we would find another stack and then have to sit and try to figure out what was being said to us or about us by half a dozen of our new French speaking friends. Nazaire would usually remember to translate for us if there had been a particularly funny joke told.
Slowly, we made progress.
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