Writing stories from the construction worker’s perspective is one of many items on the list of things Mike hopes to do some day. And who better to do it than Mike? Go to Mike’s house and you will find a transformation of magnificent hardwood and custom cabinets where the linoleum and prefabs used to be. Mike observes that there are many books about writers, just as there are so many movies about show business. Construction workers, he says, have stories too, but they tell their stories to each other with their mouths full and their lunch pails open. They don’t generally write very much. Mike likes to write, but he doesn’t have much time. He is busy with other things.
When you go to mike’s house, you easily find out that the expert craftsmanship is Mike’s work. But this is a tiny percentage of his work. His cabinets and bookcases adorn many homes, included in the packages offered by companies who call themselves Master builders, rarely, if ever mentioning the names of the people who actually do the building. Those craftspeople remain in the background, their labours essential and beautiful, their stories untold, their role unacknowledged. It is almost as if they don’t really exist.
Invisibility is present everywhere when people work together to achieve something. But you also find it where you would not expect to. Take, for example, in the world of story-gatherers. Not long ago I spent a morning with three people making three minutes of television. The camera crew showed up first, two guys who scouted the place, made trips to their van, and had the furniture arranged for filming before the host arrived. After the host got there, the camera crew became invisible, standing behind the camera, following orders and making the occasional tactful suggestion if something seemed unworkable to them.
I was the subject of a lengthy interview. When the host asked me about shifts in perspective, I mentioned my accordion, how it was a treasure to me as a child, a source of shame and humiliation to me as a teen-ager, a closet-filler for many years, and lately, because it comforted my mother during an illness, a renewed source of interest to me. A few minutes later, the host briefly left the room. The cameras were off.
A cameraman appeared. “I have an accordion too,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “You might remember the show on CFRN television, Kiddies On Camera. I played on that show. There was a girl who played the drums and we did Jail House Rock as a duet. I had it memorized, but they said I could use a music stand, so I took the music in with me. Then, right at the last minute, they took the music away because it was ruining the picture.”
The host returned. Back to work we went. But a while later, she left the room again. The cameraman began to tell me he also knew the shame of a teen-age accordionist. We were getting into the stages of psychological development when the second cameraman appeared. “I have an accordion too,” he said.
“Oh yeah,” said his partner. I was suspicious too. You can understand how we felt. We were having a great time and maybe he was just trying to get some attention.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “It’s red. It’s a Hohner.” We couldn’t argue with that. I hadn’t mentioned it yet, but mine is a red Hohner also. “I used to be in the music business before I started doing this,” he said, in answer to our questions. “I have all kinds of musical instruments.”
By the time the host returned, we were talking about the difficulty of keeping the bellows from cracking when you pull them apart after—say—twenty years of idleness. We were sharing information about authentic accordion repair shops in Edmonton. But none of this will be on television.
So keep your dream in sight, Mike. There will be interest in your stories when you get them written down. There aren’t many accordion stories, but they probably outnumber construction stories. And we need stories of all kinds, all the better to understand each other.
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