Habitat Omaha’s “HabiBlog”

Charles Street

Large linden trees line Charles Street from 40th to 41st like an expectant crowd waiting for a parade. Their crooked branches intertwine high above the street, as if linking arms in a show of solidarity and reach across to form a sheltering canopy of multi-colored leaves. Their roots tightly grip the clayey soil and bump into the cracked concrete curbs, gently heaving weatherworn pieces of sidewalk into irregular angles. Sharply gabled homes have occupied the elevated lots of Charles Street since the beginning of the Twentieth Century and like elderly people, they seem comfortable with their imperfect appearances. I close my eyes, lift my face to the warm sun, and breathe deep the intoxicating smell of freshly cut lumber mixed with the decay of summer. In 1817, John Bradbury, an early American writer, described Indian Summer as when, “The air is perfectly quiescent and all is stillness, as if Nature, after her exertions during the Summer, were now at rest.” Standing on a scaffold, high above the ground, I rest my hands flat on the sloping roof, lean in, and tightly press my thighs against the edge. I do not like heights, but I hide the fear.

Jeff emerges from the opposite side of the roof, hammer in hand, and walks nimbly over the newly shingled ridge. His long white beard is sprinkled with sawdust and a small wood chip protrudes as if purposefully set by a fastidious wren. Eyes’ smiling with a golden heart, Jeff is followed by Kris who rises above the opposite end, unquenchable optimism written between the lines on his face. The ladder jerks and clanks and then quiets under Greg’s tested steadiness followed by Terry’s simmering intensity as they join me, suspended on the edge. Jeff says, “Is this an impromptu staff meeting?” We trade grins, us five autumnal men, inadvertently meeting on the roof of a semi-built house–a coincidence of comradeship. Comments on a broken driveway, heavy bundles of shingles, missing lumber, workmanship, and virtuous hard-working volunteers all pass between us like bursts of information on an antiquated telegram–to the point, no nonsense. We deal praise and encouragement to the appropriate players of our noble game. Words are quickly lost. Moments pass silently between us under the calm blue sky. I look down and smile at youthful upturned faces, gathering with enthusiasm and expectancy on leaf-littered Charles Street. Someone says, “Let’s get to work.” And we do.

–Dan Brewer