Why I know so much about limestone

Why I Know So Much about Limestone
The Essays: A Selection

"They who labor in the earth are the chosen people of God"
- Thomas Jefferson, on quarrymen

The following are selected interpretations from a period not so long
ago, during which time the author was completely out of his mind. He
was living in a small town in Southern Illinois and working at a rock
quarry nearby. He had vowed to live a monastic life, consisting of
nothing more than work and sleep, and an occasional trip to the
restroom. In his quest for purity, the author had completely sworn off
all harmful substances, except, of course, for doughnuts and
cigarettes. The following are only a portion of the volumes of work
collected during this time, to be published soon under the working
title, Never Buy a Truck from a Hog Farmer. Some of the following
selections are exaggerations. The rest are completely untrue.

On Names

I got my job here through a relation. My uncle Ron drives the
front-end loader. I catch him watching me sometimes as he stands on the
hood of his truck and pisses onto a pile of one-inch. Ron looks out for
me around here. He offers me his coffee when my thermos runs dry. He
offers me his cigarettes when my pack turns up empty. He offered me his
Carhards once in the dead of winter. I trudged through the frozen mud
as Ron watched from inside the heated cab of his truck. When I
returned, he had drunk all my coffee and smoked all my cigarettes, but
such is the price one pays for a good pair of Carhards.
Folks look out for their own out here. Half the people employed at the
quarry got their jobs because they had a family member already working
here. The other half are all related to Chris. An interesting
consequence of this familial networking is in the fact that no person's
name has changed since he was in the forth grade.
My own name is a mystery to the men here. My father, also a James, has
been calling me sonofabitch since birth. My mother took to using my
initials and the rest of the family followed her example. The oldest
man here at the quarry is known only as "Junior" for this same reason
and I feel that the men here will never know me as anyone but
J.T.
But most everyone in my life has known me by this name, so I ask
myself, what's the difference? What's in a name anyhow? Everything! I
reply. Just as Junior is denied the chance to ever finally become a
senior, I will forever be known here as J.T. I can never change this!
They're not keen on change in the country. Who you were is who you are
is who you forever shall be. Out here, a William will always be Billy.
A Daniel will forever be Danny. A Christopher will eternally be known
as? well, Chris.

On Leadership

I asked Chris if it is better to be loved that to be respected. He
gave me a quizzical look, then grinned and said he had never been to
Chicago. Chris and I communicate across an abyss the size of the pit
here at the quarry. Chris is the foreman at Brush Creek quarry, but he
refers to himself as Plant Manager. It's a friendlier title and it
suits him well. He likes to think of us all as a team, like the pit
crew at a stockcar race. (Chris is a big racing fan.)
Chris' chief concerns in life are that of production and the crusher.
"Every person depends on machinery," I tell him. "The earth is a
machine. We are all machines!" Chris smiles and reminds me once again
that he has never visited Chicago.
I have taken to calling the crusher Mr. Machine. We all respect Mr.
Machine and show it the devotion worthy of such an idol. We scramble
over it like a pack of ravenous ants atop a baloney sandwich. We
replace the screens and repair the motors. We oil the rollers and
grease the bearings. We weld the rails when they come apart and add
texture to the jaw as it wears smooth. We repair every injured joint,
muscle and ligament. We treat Mr. Machine better than we treat
ourselves.
But we never paint it. "What do you want to do?" Chris asks us. "Do
you want to look at it or do you want to use it?"
Chris has been a friend to machinery all his life. Growing up on the
farm, he and his brother were in constant competition, clawing over one
another to be the first to stick his head into the depths of an engine.
Chris can operate any piece of equipment on the plant. His knowledge is
without limits and his dedication is phenomenal. He lives just two
miles away in Mode, IL ("population 42, including cats and dogs") and
is at the quarry every day of the week. His wife drives in often with
their two-year-old son just so Chris can have a chance to see how the
boy has grown. Chris' spirit pushes us along and it is, in fact,
infectious. Never would I have imagined that men who work ten to twelve
hours a day, six days a week, could be so eager and even excited to
work a Sunday. Of course, it doesn't hurt that we get paid double-time
to do so.
Still, I have no doubt that Machiavelli himself would be speechless if
he had met my manager, for I believe that Chris has stumbled upon the
simple secret to that great question: Can a leader be both respected
and loved? He truly can. Can he settle the health care debate while
doing so? This is yet to be answered.

On Language

The worst state for a man is when he loses all consciousness and
control of himself. Worse still is when he finds himself alone in a
foreign country without his American Express card. However, I have not
transferred to a foreign country, but am in fact in the very same state
from which I was raised. Still, I am utterly incapable of understanding
a word spoken here at the quarry.
Region, background, education and interests all come together to shape
a man in his thoughts and in his actions, but also in his words. This
last observation has been the most startling and certainly the most
apparent of all I have seen here at Brush Creek. In the country, lunch
is not lunch but is, in fact, dinner. Breakfast is still breakfast, but
dinner is not dinner, and is instead supper. I have as yet to discover
where lunch ran off to.
A selection from my journals will more clearly illustrate my
confusion:

Journal entry: February 21, 1997
I have been here at Brush Creek for exactly one week and I am only now
beginning to learn their language. I have determined that the short one
is their leader. The others call him Chris and I have begun calling him
by this name as well. I was introduced to "Chris" as I arrived here
Monday morning. He was talking to a man with a pickup over his chest. I
quickly determined that the man was, in fact, working under the truck,
attaching a muffler tailpipe with a tube of crazy glue. I saw only the
feet - small boots, very muddy, well worn. I could hear his voice, but
his words were muffled and indistinguishable to me. Chris could
understand him, however, and I realized that the two were talking and
telling jokes. I deciphered this by noticing Chris' wide grin and
occasional random outbursts of laughter.
I watched the two for almost an hour and a half. Chris seemed to think
that I spoke his language and I felt that the safest course for the
moment was to let him keep this impression. With every joke, Chris
turned to me, laughing. I laughed with him, but I was quickly losing
confidence in my ability to deceive him for much longer

I grew accustomed to their speech and realized that it was not
dissimilar from my own. In fact, they had been speaking English all
along! Their accents, a lazy, yet not "officially" a Southern drawl,
had thrown me. Much of what they spoke, as well, dealt with mechanics
and machinery of which I was utterly ignorant. Most dramatic, however,
were the long-running jokes. These I could not possibly have been
acquainted with. These jokes last for weeks (sometimes months or even
years) and take on the form of an intimate conversation, although I
would never state my observation to the men in quite those words.
As I grow familiar with these shared stories, I have begun to feel
accepted within this group of men. Salespeople come into the quarry all
the time. I look down at them in disgust. They wear slacks and
button-down shirts. None of them drive pickup trucks like us. They all
come into the quarry in shiny new company cars - exotic vehicles such
as Buicks and Pontiacs. I feel no connection with these people. "Do
their shoes have toes of steel?" I ask the others, skeptically.

On Superstition

Farmers are, by nature, a superstitious people. Their livelihood
depends on the whims of an unpredictable force called nature. Most
quarrymen are also farmers. Many grew up on farms and now have farms of
their own. Several live on the very farms they grew up on as
children.
After a six-day workweek, I have often heard several of the men
discussing their plans to take care of the back forty over the
weekend.

"They say it's gonna rain in the morning," one of them says.
"Rain before seven, over by eleven," the other replies.

Several age-old superstitions have been passed down and are carried on
today by working men throughout the nation. Hog farmers never slaughter
their flock on the day of a full moon. This will cause the bacon to
curl when fried. Loggers, as well, will rarely slice a tree on a full
moon; for this will surely cause the boards to bend and split come
first rain.
Kevin is the drill operator and certainly the most superstitious of
our group. He's a long-winded talker and a slow-paced worker as well,
but he is diligent. Chris likes to say that Kevin won't be the first
done, but he'll be the last to finish. I think Kevin is Chris' favorite
of the group.
Kevin calls himself a gardener, but I'd say he's really a frustrated
farmer. He carries a beat-up copy of the Farmer's Almanac everywhere he
goes. Kevin likes to talk about the weather. He has been planting
vegetables at odd places around the quarry - A tomato plant down by the
bridge, a few stalks of corn over by the lake, a row of carrots along
side the pit road. It's ridiculous because the plants keep getting
either run over or buried. The quarry is an ever-changing beast.
This morning, Kevin has been pondering the fortitude of some of his
favorite vegetables:

I's thinking about planting some watermelons back there down by the
bridge on the North side just before the turn there," he says
Someone tells a joke, but Kevin is not distracted.
"I think my tomato plants oughta go right up here by the house. That
way we can have them with our dinner some time." (Pause) "Otherwise
they're just gonna die sittin in them pots I got em in at home." (Pause
- He's thinking) "Course, I'll have to weed a little round
there."
Everyone laughs. Chris can't contain a grin. Kevin is oblivious, as he
finds himself reaching a conclusion.
"Naw," he says, finally. "I think it'll work alright."

With such purposeful thought, it's no wonder that Kevin takes all
forces - seen or otherwise - into consideration when making important
decisions.

On Incompetence

Those who strive for incompetence are never so amazed as when the
moment finally arrives. This is the lesson I am learning from Jeffery.
He and I are the two pit truck drivers. Our jobs are to drive the dump
trucks into the pit, where Kevin has successfully blown up a small
portion of the earth, and bring these chunks of rock back to Mr.
Machine to be chewed up into tiny pieces.
Jeffery's been driving dump trucks all his life. His father was an
oilfield worker and taught him everything he knows about mechanics and
engineering. "Dad says you gotta get her to wink," he tells me, as I
struggle to loosen a rusty bolt. "If she'll screw, she'll wink," he
says, laughing. "And if she'll wink, she'll come." Chris says Jeffery
is like a blister. He shows up after the work is done. Ron says he's
just fucking useless.
I've had a difficult time understanding the way Jeffery operates.
Every time I pass him, he waves to me or makes some gesture. When he
puts his arms straight out to either side, he's saying that the road is
very bumpy today. When he gives me the thumbs-up sign, he's telling me
that he's dumped a load or that he will dump a load, or he's dumped my
load. I'm not quite sure. We pass each other thirty or forty times a
day along the dirt road that connects the pit with the crusher. I see
the whites of his teeth as we pass and I think that he is smiling at
me, so I wave, and I see that he's just staring straight ahead. Still,
he will not keep his mouth closed.
Because we are on private property, any idiot can get in a truck and
reek havoc over the land. No license is needed. Perhaps this is the
reason why the quarry seems to have attracted so many pitiful drivers.
I must account for my own share of pitfalls and near disasters in this
area. I drove over Jeffery on my first day in the truck. He was fine,
but I felt horrible and a week later I ran him straight off the bridge.
Often it is the monotony of the work that leads to such minor bends and
buckles. To keep alert (and awake!), I have taken to documenting my
travels, believing that this will give purpose to my day and will
somehow lift the work onto a slightly higher plane. The following is
documentation of a typical day as a pit truck operator:

Drive Times 4/30/97
(From crusher to shovel/shovel to crusher)
8:00:00 - 8:07 7 min
9:30 - 9:39 9 min
8:07 - 8:15 8 min
9:41 - 9:49 8 min
8:17 - 8:26 9 min
9:53 - 10:02 9 min
8:29 - 8:36 7 min
10:04 - 10:12 8 min
8:41 - 8:49 8 min
10:17 - 10:26 9 min
8:50 - 8:59 9 min
10:28 - 10:37 8 min
9:00:00 - 9:08 8 min
10:38 - 10:46 8 min
9:10 - 9:17 7 min
10:51 - *
9:20 - 9:28 8 min

* Here the record stops inexplicably. One can only guess as to the
state of mind of the recorder during these moments.

Junior is the shovel operator in the pit. His hand shakes terribly as
he jerks the neck of the shovel and drops its contents into the bed of
my truck. The noise is difficult to bear and I sometimes wear earmuffs,
but they are hard to get used to. Four shovelfulls are usually enough
to fill the truck. It's not difficult to determine when a shovelful of
limestone has landed, but I try not to keep track of Junior's work. His
work is his business, mine is mine. During these precious moments, I
like to try to read a book or catch a quick nap or scribble off a
letter to an old friend. It's not long before Junior blows his horn and
sends me on my way.
Jeffery has his own superstitions. For example, he insists on always
dumping each odd-numbered load. Once I recognized this, I was
determined to be the first to make it to the pit each morning. Jeffery
tries to lap me or he will pull off to the side of the road and pretend
to inspect the grease inserts under his truck. He always manages to
somehow end up with the odd loads and for this I resent him
greatly.

On the Importance of Being "Nick"

Journal entry: February 25, 1997
One of the quarrymen has taken to calling me Nick. He knows my real
name, so I can only assume that this is a part of some bizarre hazing
ritual. The quarryman's name is Ken. He is a lanky, dirty fellow, but a
cheery one, so I feel confident in assuming that he means me no ill
will

Journal entry: March 4, 1997
I have discovered that Ken truly did think my name was Nick. The
problem has been corrected, but Ken has found the confusion so
hilarious that he is continuing to call me by this name. In fact, he
asks for me more then ever and laughs each time he does so. His
partner, Mike, has joined in on the game. Mike and Ken do all the
welding together in the shop. The two are inseparable. They are to me
like a comedy duo, the gangly Ken and stocky Mike, forever carrying on
and joking about one thing or another.

Journal entry: March 6, 1997
The quarrymen are all calling me Nick now. "Nick, the new guy" is my
official title. They use the name most often in a friendly and humorous
nature, although I believe they enjoy putting me in my place. I am
often Nick during tense or strenuous moments. Examples:

Grab the rope, Nick
Watch your head, Nick
Are your pussy arms getting shaky yet? Nick?

Journal entry: March 4, 1997
I hear the name, Nick, less and less as my stay here has grown longer.
Only Jeffery continues to use this name. "You better stay the fuck out
of my way," I tell him. I can be a bad ass when I want to be.

On Hygiene

"Never buy a truck from a hog farmer," Jeffery tells me, as we watch
Chris force a two-ton boulder down the jaw of the crusher.
Mr. Machine is hungry, and he munches away relentlessly at everything
Jeffery and I dare dump down his throat. Some rocks, however, are
simply too large to swallow. The jaw continues hopefully, but the rock
remains wedged above its reach. Our first impulse is to bring out the
bars and force the boulder in. Kevin pokes away at it. Ken and Mike
rush out from the shed to help. Jeffery and I are put on hold and sent
to the crusher to do what we can too. It's dangerous work because to
get a good angle we need to climb in and stand on the pack of rocks
that have collected on top of the very boulder we're trying to get
down.
Chris says the quarry is the most exciting place he's ever been. "All
that noise, all the destruction, and the wardrobe is to die for."
Sometimes renegade rocks escape from the crusher and fly out in all
directions. I have taken to wearing two hard hats as a precaution.
Chris says he can't imagine being anywhere else. Most everyone agrees.
Working at the quarry is indeed a great adventure.
Once Chris learns that the crusher is down, he races in on his pickup
from whichever spot on the plant he may have been working at that
moment. Chris is quick to grab a bar from out of someone's hand and
jump straight into the jaw. His intensity is taken as a challenge to
anyone else who feels he's ready to attack nature. Ken and Mike jump in
with him. Kevin too. Jeffery holds back and, I suppose, I do too. For
my weakness, I am forced to bear the stench of those who stand aside.
This stench, I realize, is coming directly from Jeffery. As I happen to
be standing downwind from him, I can't help but notice that he smells
like shit.
"I've done everything short of ripping out the floorboards to try to
get the stench outa there," he says, of his new truck.
"Perhaps you should bite the bullet and just get rid of the thing," I
say.
"Well, I'll tell you," he says, "and this is just between you and me
and that rock." (He points down toward the end of the pole Chris is
wedging in between the wall and the boulder.) "I just don't even notice
it any more."
It seems to me that hygiene is not something born within us, but a
taste that is acquired, like the appreciation of a fine wine. Probing
deeper, I question if it would be wrong to condemn any man simply
because of his background, for the men here at the quarry surely must
find my environment as unusual as I find theirs.
Many of the quarrymen have had little or no contact at all with the
outside world. Chris tells me he has never been to a city in all his
life, yet the quarry is only two hours away from St. Louis. The people
here resent the city greatly. They have taken to calling me "Chicago
boy." Perhaps this is because I am from Chicago. This new nickname has
a sense of permanence that I'm afraid I will not be able to overcome.
In time, I will leave this place and they may forget even my initials,
but they will always remember where I came from. They will also always
remember that I was a terrible driver, but this is a rough break
because I got much better. Really, I did.
Eventually, Chris brings out the sledgehammer and hacks away at the
misplaced stone until a chunk of it finally breaks off and the whole
pile comes falling down into Mr. Machine's throat. Chris jumps back and
clings to the wall, barely avoiding becoming an afternoon snack. Ken
helps him up and Jeffery and I make our way back to our trucks. The jaw
breaks the boulder in two, then continues crunching until it grinds the
stone into a million pieces, taking Jeffery's secret down along with
it.

***********************************
? 1998 by James Temple Berg

jamesfromtheusa@yahoo.com

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