Shoveling pea gravel isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
By John Murphy
Saturday I watched a livestream of a high school football game from San Francisco. That’s how exciting my life is.
Then I drove to Redlands where the remodel of my house is in full swing. Guilty at my lack of contribution, I did some work. I shoveled pea gravel from two big piles over a portion of the front yard. I also rolled white paint onto a ceiling in a spare room.
Early on I appointed CalTrans Girl as my project manager. I just Tom Sawyered the whole thing over to her. I didn’t want my strict regimen of lollygagging interrupted.
Moving the tan gravel one shovel at a time, I imagined that I was Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke.” Naturally CalTrans Girl became Walking Boss Godrey, the rifleman “with no eyes” because of his mirrored sunglasses.
“Use the rake instead of the shovel,” CalTrans Girl told me. I followed orders, lest I be sent to the hole.
I wouldn’t flourish in a prison environment. The early wake-up calls, the bad food, and getting “shivved” in the prison yard – not really my thing. Nor is that other deal that sometimes happens in prison.
I did better painting my spare room than moving gravel. Although when I smudged white paint onto a brown wall it elicited an “ay nako” from CalTrans Girl. She is Filipina and that expresses frustration or disbelief.
Dropping half of my paint onto our dog Mia also disappointed. But luckily Mia has white fur, so it wasn’t too bad. I didn’t get sent to the hole.
Main Street Dog 