I was ten the summer my pop asked me to go along with him on a new job he was starting. This wasn’t his real job, but a side job he’d picked up during one of his vacations from the Bridgeport Brass Factory. He usually worked more than one full-time job. I was both excited and nervous. It wasn’t often that I spent time alone with my father.
He was building a stone wall on Bayberry Lane for the Thorntons, who had responded to his advertisement in the Bridgeport Post. Mr. Thornton was there when we arrived. He was tall with sunburned skin and had greasy slicked-back hair. He carried a briefcase and walked with long, quick strides. He wore a pink shirt with cuff links, and his boat was parked on the lawn. I never asked my pop what Mr. Thornton did for a living. He didn’t care for too many questions, and I wasn’t sure if he knew the answer.