Sands of Life

“And a rolled-up joint along the road of life”
By Vincent

I graduated from SUNY Delhi Ag and Tech College in 1979. It turned out to be a great experience…though truth be told, I never wanted to go in the first place.

Back then, blue-collar jobs were everywhere. I spent summers and weekends working with builders, putting up houses, doing woodwork projects for people…good work, great pay, and physically awesome. Some of those homes are still standing tall today. I drive past them with pride. I’d known I was meant to be a carpenter since I was in the crib, watching my uncle partition off our living room in our apartment on Yale Avenue in Ossining, NY. (But that’s another story for another day.)

Growing up lower class, I worked…a lot….I always had cash in my pocket thanks to working as a young carpenter. I could wine and dine the girls in style, cruising around in my first car: a powder-blue ’67 Chevy Impala SS, black vinyl top, Cragar SS polished wheels, and a center-shift automatic. Jazz cassettes filled the car, and the backseat was big enough to throw a party. I was different….and I learned early that girls liked “different”.

Getting caught parked on a back road under moonlight with a bottle of wine or a few beers and your pants down was just part of growing up back then. The cops would shine a flashlight in, let you get dressed, dump your stash out onto their shiny black shoes, without realizing and give you a lecture. You’d nod through it all with a sheepish, “Yes sir, never again sir.”

My mother, however, was relentless about college. From my first year in high school, she was on my back like a monkey. It felt like living with a hemorrhoid…. painful, persistent, impossible to shake and hard to walk around with,,,, I would’ve taken the hemorrhoid!

During one battle I finally snapped:
“If there’s a college for carpentry, I’ll apply to ONE and only ONE! Now leave me alone with this!”…she looked at me and just said “okay” and walked away.

I thought I’d found the loophole of all loopholes. I strutted off like a Peacock Feathers all spread out…. convinced no such place could exist. College was for those book smart kids, doctors, lawyers, business people, not for guys like me who had their path set out in front of them.

Then came the crash.

Senior year, I was sitting in Dennis Deloria’s English class (a saga of its own), when my guidance counselor pulled me aside one day after class. I walked into his office and saw a stranger sitting there. My counselor started:

“Vincent, your mom called a couple weeks ago. She asked me to find colleges that offer carpentry.”

I think that’s where I first experienced “that sinking feeling in the back of your neck”, I was gut punched and pissed off. Heck, I can not for the life of me remember either of their names! Probably due to the PTSD of it all.

“There are two,” he said. “Alfred and Delhi Tech. This gentleman is from Delhi’s admissions office. He was in town, he is a friend of mine and we gave him your transcripts: math, industrial arts, Technical School Carpentry Program, rifle team, wrestling team, baseball…he was impressed.”

The guy invited me to visit the campus. “Just come up, take a look. You might like it,” he said. I was cornered. I’d made a deal with my mother. So, a couple of weeks later, I skipped school and headed north in a full-blown snit…topped with creamy teenage attitude.

But Delhi surprised me. It was kind a nice for a school…Nestled in a quiet valley, the West Branch of the Delaware River and Little Delaware snaked through town. All I could think about was hunting and fishing. There were also plenty of attractive members of the opposite sex walking around that campus.

We toured the campus, the carpentry shop…it had the latest tools, a really beautiful setup…and I felt my breath quicken. The rise in my pants didn’t lie: I liked this place.

After the tour, he took me to his office. Pure 1970s design disaster: Formica wood-tone desk, tapered black legs, gray cushion chairs…ugly as hell…” modern yuk”.  We talked a bit. He asked me to answer a few course questions. I gave him my best attitude and said, “Sure.”

The questions were basic multiple choice carpentry concepts with a few process explanations. I finished in five or ten minutes. He laid a plastic overlay on top of the sheets and said, “All correct but one.” I really didn’t care which one. I was too bothered by the whole situation. Funny word, bothered. It summed up my entire mood that year.

“Vincent,” he said, leaning back and peering over his black rimmed readers, “you’re overqualified for the first-year program. We’d place you in the second year. You’d still need to take first-year liberal arts classes, but we’d love to have you here. For your second year you are here there are other courses you can take like Building Construction, Architectural Drafting, Masonry etc….Oh, and we found out you qualify for grant assistance through the Veterans Association due to your father’s disability.” “You’re accepted into Delhi if you like”. That sound was like nails on a chalk board.

I thanked him, made a wisecrack about repainting his office as I got up, and left.

When I got home, I didn’t say a word. Avoided my mother like she had the plague. But on Thursday…yes, Thursday, a day I’ve hated ever since….she was waiting at the door when I got home.

“You’re going to Delhi,” she announced all happy. “My son is overqualified (Gloating Mother) and with your father’s veteran status, there’s grant money, (way too happy) we only need to pay for housing. I’m proud of you. And mad as hell you didn’t tell me.”

She grabbed my ear (today child abuse) and pulled me into the house. My Father all smiles as he sat in his wheel chair. I was busted. A deal’s a deal.

That fall, I rolled into Delhi in my new ride: a fire-red custom Chevy van with flames, drop-down table bed, a moon roof fridge, rosewood interior, fully padded, plush carpet lined and killer tunes. I’d sold the Impala to make room for, let’s say, more comfortable activities. As I pulled onto campus, I flicked my last cigarette out the window and to this day never smoked again. Something about being on my own flipped a switch.

Later, my classmates nicknamed the van The Lil Red ___Truck. (You fill in the blank).

College life? Still drank, still smoked weed. CSNY still blared through windows. But I was learning. Two days late to my first construction theory class, the teacher looked me over and laughed: “Welcome! You must be Vincent. Have a seat, my man…and by the way, your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow!”

The class erupted. I made friends fast.

Within a month, I was job-site foreman. I didn’t drive a nail the rest of the semester. My job was solving the mistakes made by the Architecture students. We learned theory in the morning and built real homes in the afternoon. One instructor even invited us over for beers and a light-up. No names, of course.

I stayed on for the second year and took the Building Construction courses where I learned the deeper processes of building. I also took the Architectural Drafting Courses which helped me with design and structure.

Delhi shaped my future. I learned how to price jobs, read plans, manage crews, and run a business. A couple years after graduation, I cashed in everything and bought a small lot in Ossining. With help from my sister, and by shaking the trees of the Veterans Administration, The Disabled Veterans Administration and Congressman Richard Ottinger’s office, we got some grant money and built a fully accessible house for my parents and started my own business which I still run today.

No more apartment above my wicked grandmother. (Yet another story for another day.)

The house had a roll-in shower, wide hallways, no steps. It was everything my disabled father needed…. he had a second burst of life.

That education from Delhi built that house. It still fuels my business today.

There’s real power in knowledge….something I didn’t get as a kid full of piss and vinegar. And that relentless, loud, pain-in-the-ass Italian mother of mine?

She was right.

Dealing with her was tougher than any job site…..and still is….at 99 years old! But she made me who I am.

No Shiny Cragar SS wheel on earth shines brighter than a mother’s love.