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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.