By
Bob Harris
Contributing
Editor
In our recent company newsletter, we talked
about the trials and tribulations of a high-end countertop pour at
our studio. Like a finely tuned sports team going into battle to win
the big game, we had strategized with the pump company, the ready
mix producer and the helpers, stressing that this pour had to go
absolutely as planned.
Roughly 30 seconds into the big game (or in
our case, the big pour) the pump blew up. We had the equivalent of
about five wheelbarrow loads of concrete inconveniently resting
inside our heavily reinforced $3,000 form. Now what? We literally
had to wheelbarrow the remaining concrete into our showroom and
scoop the concrete into the forms using 3-gal. buckets. I'm pleased
to say the pour was a huge success.
After a few of our customers/friends read
that story in our newsletter, it jolted some on-the-job mishap
memories of their own, both of which involved their concrete
contractor fathers. Although I could fill a book of all my own fond
and not-so-fond memories as a young man growing up with an extremely
motivated concrete contractor father, I thought it would be fun to
share a few recent stories that I was honored to be on the receiving
end of for a change.
Domenic
Mattei Jr. with his father Domenic Mattei
Sr.
As told by Domenic Mattei:
As I read your most recent newsletter, I
couldn't help but chuckle over the headaches that you went through
with your pump company while installing the concrete reception desk.
Please don't think that I was laughing at an unfortunate situation.
I am merely sympathizing with your heartache as I was also brought
up in the concrete business.
My father's concrete company owned and
operated three concrete pumps.
While these pumps may have been the latest
and greatest in 1967, this was not the case the last time the pumps
saw any action in 2005. The boom's reach was a max of 60 ft. without
any articulation or a capacity to help the end user (always me!!!!)
with moving the hose. These trucks literally had to be put together
by hand with wrenches and nuts and bolts.
I had many sleepless nights before a big pour
dreaming about the day of HELL ahead of me. It was my job to run the
business end of the hose without any helpers. I think to this day it
has contributed to the cartilage deterioration in both of my
shoulders (I'm only 37).
Well, I just thought I would share some of my
horror stories from my childhood. I'm glad the countertop was a
success. I just would like to have been present when the choice
words started to fly. When my father's pumps acted up and jammed,
believe me, my cooler head didn't always prevail.
In the future, I would like to offer my
services to you any time you find yourself short handed or need
someone to help with one of your projects. I would consider it an
honor to work with you.
Domenic Mattei
Custom DesignCrete, Inc.
Pittsburgh, Penn.
As told by Dominick Cardone:
My dad was a ready-mix concrete driver
for 25 years and was also a concrete flatwork installer. He taught
us to place concrete at the age of 6. Although some of my dad's
methods were slightly unorthodox, we got the jobs done.
At the ripe age of 13 or so, my 12 year old
brother Pete and I helped dad pour a project in the Bronx, N.Y. The
hectic part of this pour was that my dad was to bring the concrete
to the site, the three of us were to place it and he was to run the
truck back to the yard (about a mile away) while we were to wait for
finishing.
Upon placement of concrete, our dad left with
the truck and we waited and waited and waited. The concrete was
setting and to top it off, some serious black clouds were moving in
- like two barely teenagers needed the additional stress. My brother
Pete and I, who would quarrel over every little thing as most
brothers do, were now in a state of panic. We needed to conclude
this situation in the most responsible way. We needed to work
together in harmony, contrary to our normal methods of working
together. Pete grabbed an edger, I grabbed some wood floats and
kneeboards, and like two seasoned finishers, we went at it. Pete
followed up with a broom finish like a surgeon, probably the most
precise he had ever done in his life. I applied our final center
cuts and we got it done.
The two of us now had another issue to deal
with - those black clouds that were moving over us were here, and it
was beginning to drizzle. Dad still had not gotten back and we had
no money in our pockets. We asked the owner to loan us some money to
get some visqueen and told him our dad would reimburse him when he
got back. There was a hardware store around the corner that we
jetted to and bought a roll of visqueen. We then jetted back to the
site and made up a huge tent using surrounding trees, fences and
bull float handles.
When it was all said and done, Pete went back
around the corner to the bodega that we both had our eyes on and got
us some refreshments. We sat on the owner's front stoop under an
awning while the drizzle turned into showers and were drinking our
Coco Rico's (soft drink) and eating Slim Jim's when Dad pulled in,
white as a ghost and in a state of panic. It turned out his truck
broke down on the way back to the yard, which delayed him.
He looked at us with a fiery, lost look and
said, "What are you guys doing sitting there?" while he contemplated
the rip out. We directed him to the pour area and he returned glassy
eyed and pleased. Pete and I still bring up that day, especially
when we have a disagreement … or two. That was our day of entering
manhood. Thanks, Dad, we love ya!"
Dominick Cardone
The Concrete Impressionist
Brooklyn, N.Y.
As earlier mentioned, I could tell
countless stories as the son of a concrete contractor, as my father
frequently reminded me that being an 1⁄8 in. off on the formwork was
not good enough and that it had to be perfect. One of my favorite
stories of my dad did not involve me. Dad was the concrete legend in
his senior living subdivision, which afforded him the luxury of
working only when he felt like it. His neighbor had asked him for a
quote on a backyard patio and sidewalk. Dad mentioned he was pretty
busy but he would try and get to it when he could. The next morning
around 6:00 a.m. (of course, Dad routinely awoke around 4:00 a.m.
every morning), the neighbors were awakened by what they thought was
a burglar. When the police arrived, they found my dad setting up the
forms getting ready for his 11:00 a.m. pour.
When the project was completed in its
entirety, the neighbor asked what the price was and Dad simply
smiled and said, "Don't worry about it." This is one of the
countless great memories I have of my dad.
We've been looking at generations past in the
concrete stories in this article, but I want to take a moment to
look ahead at future generations. At a recent large class in which
my 11-year-old son Robby helped, a friend made an observation of
which I was completely oblivious. "Look at your son up on that
ladder carving the vertical stamp mix," he said. And then it dawned
on me that Robby is a 4th generation Harris finisher. Pretty
cool!
In talking with Dominick and Domenic, I would
have to agree, thanks to our fathers, we can uphold tradition,
excellence and a heck of a lot of pride. Where would we be without
mentors like them?
Hats off to you, Dads!
Bob Harris is the founder and president
of the Decorative Concrete Institute, Temple, Ga., which provides
hands-on training in architectural concrete. He has personally
placed or supervised the placement of more than 3 million sq. ft. of
decorative concrete and is the author of a best-selling series of
decorative concrete books. For more information, call (877) DCI-8080
or visit www.decorativeconcreteinstitute.com.
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