Small stones and crushed rock are folded into a wheel barrow and transported across a wooly unkept garden.  The barrow makes a hollow grinding sound as the stones tumble to freedom onto a large wooden board. He reaches a trowel into a bag of dried cement almost as tall as the 4 year old boy watching inquisitively. It’s a two to one ratio. As the cement powder comes out of the bag a fine swish of dust accompanies it and moves toward the boy who starts to cough as he inhales, a thump on the back sorts all that out. The stones and the powder are mixed with water. A wide angled shovel with a  flat tip scrapes the mixture across the board and the man chops down at it from all sorts of angles until it starts to take on a consistency like pancake mixture; smooth and free flowing. It’s looking ready.

With the help of the elder brother the board is transported along the path and the man begins shoveling the mixture onto the newly dug path. The liquidous cement licks at the outer dividing wall and is then captured by a timber runner on the other side – just over a body width apart, this will allow easy access to the garage at the back when the Grandfather brings his caravan to stay for good. It’ll make it easier for him to get inside and go to the toilet. The emptied board is returned near the back of the house near the coal scuttle for another sequence of  concrete making. The boy – curious- goes to the cement bag and examines it. His hand dips in and finds it tickles, so light, like cloudy imaginings, all this becomes that  hard solid stuff? He is lost in amazement at the transformation in an almost reverent trance. In later life he will come to dislike concrete jungles that city dwellers seem to be lost in and thanks Christ he never has to make it.