PRIME August 2020 / 11
Old Guys and Road Construction By Jim Drummond
O
ne of the old guys was late getting to the waterhole this week. The group had already discussed the weather and the conversation had moved to knee problems and the fragrance of Blue Emu. Somebody said to the tardy newcomer that he needed to do a better job of getting to the waterhole on time. “I know, but I hit road construction,” he responded. “I left my driveway on time and planned a quick trip, then I ran into barricades and a detour sign. I followed the detour arrow and hit more barricades, then more detour signs. I just kept following the detours and after a while, I realized that I was out in the country driving down farm roads.” How did you manage to get there, another member of the group asked. “I went up past Bridger Bowl, then circled around through Livingston, and finally worked back to this end of town on the interstate,” the latecomer explained. “It was a nice drive. I saw an elk.” Another old guy in the group weighed in. “I’ve had road construction on my street for years,” he said. “Most days I can’t get out of my driveway.” A fellow at the end of the table
inquired, “How do you get to the waterhole if you can’t pull out of your driveway?”
the construction started.”
The first responded, “I just drive through my neighbor’s backyard to the alley. He spends all summer at the lake and doesn’t know that I’m driving across his grass. Last week he was home to see his dentist and he asked me about the tracks. I told him the teenager down the block cuts across his lawn but he better not say anything or his trees will get toilet papered. He decided to drop the matter.”
“Road construction on our street has worked pretty well for me,” he quipped. “I had to give up most of my front lawn for a wider street and now don’t have as much mowing. My wife also let me buy a new four-wheel drive pickup in order to get through the mayhem. The old pickup kept getting stuck in sink holes. One construction pothole that I drove into was so deep that the only thing sticking out was the back end of my pickup. I couldn’t even open my door until a wrecker pulled me out. Some nice fellow with a hard-hat, orange vest and clipboard was very apologetic. He suggested that I find a different route until they are done with construction next year, or maybe some year after that. He also proposed that we find a new location for the waterhole, but I told him a couple of you fellows still have a straight shot and it wouldn’t be fair to move it.”
Another in the group commented that he too has had ongoing road construction in front of his house. He has to plan ahead to get to the waterhole. “It isn’t all bad,” he commented. “My wife quit her job and is now selling lemonade to the construction workers. She’s making more money than she ever made working at the courthouse. I’ve also gotten to know all of the workers on a first name basis. Our street project has taken so long that they are almost like family members. We have them over for Christmas each year and exchange gifts. We will probably host Christmas again this year if the project isn’t finished. It won’t be quite the same as past years though. My kids have all grown up and moved away since
The quiet member of the group added his thoughts.
Another of the group responded. “I know that fellow with the clipboard,” he said.” He sits in a Suburban and drinks coffee. I knocked on his driver’s window one day and asked him what he was doing. He held up the clipboard and said he was conceptualizing
new construction plans for my street over the next five or ten years. The job title on his business card said Project Ideas Engineer.” One of the old guys sighed and drank the last of his drink. “I better be heading home fellows,” he declared. “Why so soon,” someone asked. “The days are getting shorter and it gets dark earlier,” the fellow responded. “I need to leave while there’s still daylight to follow the detour signs. If I get home too late my wife will assume that I’m up to no good at the waterhole.” With a parting wave he left. The group looked at each other, fully understanding his plight. We pushed our stools back and headed for the door, most of us worrying about getting home through construction, but with the greater worry of planning a route to get to the next waterhole meeting on time.
Jim Drummond is a retired banker and Bozeman native.
