Marvin's chair

"He was out there every afternoon," said Dennis, from around the corner.

(As opposed to Dennis from up the street, Dennis the electrician, Dennis the tile guy or Dennis the architect.)

He was talking about Marvin, who owned the house before us, and whose chair I've occupied for countless hours on the porch during construction.

"When the sun hit the porch, he'd take it across the street, and sit admiring his house, with a six-pack on the ground next to him."

I expect this is the chair Marvin was sitting in all those times we walked by the house and waved. Blanche, who cleans across the street, mentioned Marvin in his chair more than once, as has Martin, who does ditto.

"Yeah, that thing was here the day we started demolition," said Nate, who dropped in this afternoon to share his gold-toothed smile.

I've always called him Nate, and he's finally transcended his nickname from youth: "Bowleg," because his right leg had a 30-degree bend. I could never bring myself to use that name, as he sweated along with every other worker on the place, grimacing but seldom complaining.

He'd had a half-dozen surgeries on it, from teen years to the recent present, but doctors finally took the bones out and installed rods. He's still recovering on crutches -- but he's also still smiling, and still humbling me whenever I think I have a problem.

It was great to see him again and to show him what his work had gone toward as we went around the house. I was going to ask him to rest his leg on Marvin's chair of honor, to sit out front for a bit and survey the street's reaction to the house, but the sun was on the porch -- and we didn't feel like going across the street to admire the house -- so we settled on a long, cool conversation around the dining-room table.

"This place has some great vibes," Nate said.

I know, I told him. It reflects every bit of the skill, sweat and courage that every worker invested in it.