Built like a tank, barrel-chested, calves like canned hams, thick forearms, a vice grip handshake, raspy voice and an easy laugh.
Falstaff on the job site.
Santa Clause in workman’s boots and carpenter pants.
He led us through the house, explaining truss construction, updraft rating, plumbing, electric, HVAC.
The inspector had come just that morning.
The house had passed the last milestone before drywall installation.
The workmen outside were up on scaffolding, carefully nailing long horizontal strips of green vinyl on top of the white plastic moisture barrier.
Afterward, as we sat in the car, he crossed in front of us, lighting a corn cob pipe which jutted straight out of his jaw. As he paused by the dumpster to shield his flame from the wind, I half-expected to see him pull a can of spinach from his back pocket.
“I am what I am!” - P.T.S.M.