Gary

The driver in that photo is Gary. He's from St. Catherines. He's 77 years old.

I met him on a job site where he was hauling a load of precast. He is making three trips a day to the job, and I had a moment to talk to him after he released the chains and binders on the previous truck.

Gary is as strong as an ox.

Yet his astounding ability to do his job at 77 years old wasn't what got us talking. I had just yelled at a young kid for something and Gary had heard me.

"We're in a real bind with the younger generation," he said. "And I'm not just a complaining old man. I just don't see how we're going to get some of the work done in the near future."

That was enough to get me drawn into the conversation. I really enjoy talking to older guys. I like to hear about the decades that I missed by not being here.

"Is it all that bad?" I asked. "I wonder because I remember hearing Nixon resign and listening to my Mom and Dad worry about it. Doesn't it just keep on rolling?"

"I suppose," Gary said. "But there are some things that have soured."

I was all ears.

"You know what's different?" He asked.

"Tell me."

"Credit cards," he said. "When I was young we couldn't get money on the weekends. If the bank closed on Friday afternoon and you only had $3 that's what you went through the weekend with. There wasn't any over-extending yourself. You'd hope you could pool your money to do something. If not, you sat in your garage...and talked to your family."

I knew that to be true even in my time. He was exactly right.

"And when we were young we hustled to make a buck. I've been driving freight since I was 15. When I needed extra money I'd pour concrete, or dig a pool. Now you just go and put it on another credit card, right?"

"Not me so much," I said.

Gary wasn't finished.

"And a family had one car. That was it. 5 kids, a mom and a dad and one car. If you were lucky enough to get a home it was because you busted your ass to get it."

"I know," I said. "That's how I was raised too, but that's sort of gone now. But it's more than that, isn't it? I made good money as a laborer in 1983. I honestly believe my wage back then was higher than it would be now."

"For sure," he said. "The greedy bastards are screwing the middle and threatening them with an even bigger screwing if they complain."

We had reached a conclusion of sorts.

"So it's dour, huh?" I asked.

"Only thing that can save us is respect," he said. "We need to respect each other again. There's a mass shooting every day; not much respect for fellow man when that starts happening."

Yet Gary wasn't complaining. He was working as we talked. He showed me the immaculate condition of his rig.

"This isn't even my truck," he said. "It's the company truck, but I respect that they let me earn a living with it. It's got over a million on it."

They were calling for Gary to pull the truck in line. Our time together was ending.

"You'll never quit, will you?" I asked.

He was getting into the cab.

"I'll quit," he said, "but it won't be my choice."

I turned away.

The single word 'respect' seemed to cross the site to my ears.

I didn't know if Gary had yelled it as he drove away, or that I had imagined hearing it.

I knew one thing to be sure:

I respected Gary.