What The Trowel Binds

This is the story behind the story of the creation of Dead Load. It’s not about the book. It’s about the idea that’s woven through the book. Not the action part. Not the thriller part. But the part that’s closest to my heart.

I want Nick Stello, the protagonist of Dead Load, to be relatable. Yes, he has the familiar action-thriller backstory of a mysterious past catching up with him. But I wanted Nick to be an ordinary guy in the present. At least before the action begins.

To achieve this, I needed to pick an occupation that would absorb him. He needed to (and wanted to) forget the past. This required a certain kind of work he could credibly immerse himself in without appearing to be a workaholic.

I could have made him a fiction writer, but how many stories are about writers? (Spoiler alert: Too many. And that trope fatigues me to no end.)

No, I needed to pick a skilled trade. Craftsmen are like artists. We appreciate that because it means they take their work seriously. Sometimes too seriously, to the point where the craftsman believes his vision supersedes the vision of the person paying him to do the job. But when the visions align, great things happen.

It just so happened that both my father and his father (and ancestors going back several generations) were masons. Naturally, my father taught my brother and me the elements of the trade as we worked on projects for our family’s homes and other family members’ homes. In later years, he would teach my son, too, although their projects involved stone facades rather than brickwork.

My father taught us how to mix mortar. He taught us how to work concrete. (Yes, there’s a difference: mortar binds bricks; concrete becomes the structure itself.) Most importantly, he taught us how each tool had a purpose, and he showed us how to use those tools.

As kids, my brother and I treated it just like any other chore. As we grew older, we learned it was much, much more.

The idea of Dead Load may have started out as the action-thriller I’ve always wanted to write. It quickly, however, became an homage to my family’s craft—and to my father and grandfather in particular.

To make Nick Stello believable, I needed to remember what my father had taught me about the tools a mason uses. Fortunately, I still have my father’s tools. Including his trusty trowel.

More tellingly, I still have my grandfather’s tools, too. (Yes, including his trowel.)

The fact that both men kept their tools throughout their lives tells you about the relationship between a mason and his tools. Once something works and becomes familiar, a routine develops. Routines are essential to good craftsmanship.

The craft is both an art and a science. Art requires situational thinking. Science requires repeated precision. Art differentiates one mason from another. That’s where the added value becomes more apparent. The more routine the science becomes, the more attention you can give to the art.

Tools, then, become part of the formula for that routine. When you find a tool you can trust, you never want to part with it. It’s no longer a mere tool. The bond becomes personal.

Here’s an example of just how personal that bond can become.

There’s a tool called a bull float. It’s a broad, flat blade attached to a long pole. You use it to smooth concrete while it’s still wet. Technically, you first strike off the concrete with a screed—often a straight two-by-four—to bring the surface to grade. Then you run the bull float over it to knock down the ridges and fill small voids. But sometimes we cut corners, especially on narrow pours like sidewalks.

Well, during one of those times when we cut corners, the bull float handle snapped in two. It was old. Maybe close to half a century old. We could see that it was getting weaker, but we thought it would live forever.

The moment it happened the world went silent. My brother, my father, and I instantly stopped what we were doing. We looked at one another. We weren’t merely surprised. We were shocked.

We didn’t know what to say. We didn’t know what to do. I desperately offered, “We could still use it with the handle that’s left. We just need to bend down a little.” My brother’s eyes brightened with hope. My father lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head no.

“Maybe we can reattach it,” I suggested meekly. My brother, wondering if this would work, turned to my father.

“It’s gone, boys.”

That bull float had been with us for generations. I used it. My brother used it. My father used it. My grandfather used it. It wasn’t a tool. It was family.

For the longest time, the broken bottom half stood silently in the shed. A monument to its legacy.

But of all the tools, my father’s favorite was his trowel. It was a strong, solid tool, its blade wearing a thin skin of mortar accumulated over years of use. Its yellow acrylic handle reminded me of George Patton’s ivory-handled revolvers. In my father’s hands, it stopped being a tool and became an extension of his very body.

And he protected it the way a man protects a part of himself.

Watching him work the pile of mortar on the mortar board was like watching a chef knead the dough. He’d tip the trowel on its edge, repeatedly slicing and mixing the already mixed compound of sand, cement, and water. The symphony of motion mesmerized us.

And then, in one fluid motion, his arm would rise and arc downward, bringing the trowel blade flush with the board as he scooped up exactly the amount of mortar he needed. Every time. The exact same amount. How’d he do that?

Then he’d plop the mortar onto the course and furrow the bed with the tip of the trowel. After setting the brick, he’d tap it into line and level it with the butt of the acrylic handle.

I remember one time when my father and grandfather were laying brick together. My grandfather handed his wooden-handled trowel to my father.

“No, Pa. I don’t like your trowel. Mine’s better.”

Was it really better? Perhaps not to anyone else. But my father’s hand knew its weight, its balance, and every contour of its handle. Familiarity made it better. It had become his trowel, and no other one could take its place.

Ironically, the trowel never appears in Dead Load. A hammer can break. A chisel can cut. Those tools belong naturally in a thriller. A trowel joins. It carries and moves the substance that binds separate pieces into something larger and stronger. Not just mortar. Everything. Even dirt.

My father would use his trowel to plant flowers. The tip sliced into the fertile soil. He lifted the precise volume of dirt to create a space large enough for the plant. Then he’d knead the soil to aerate it.

Same style. Different application.

How my brother and I idolized that trowel. The day he finally let us use it felt like being handed the keys to the car. After that, we got excited every time he entrusted it to us.

That’s when we got to do the real work, not just the grunt work. Then it became play. We actually looked forward to any opportunity to scoop up a load of mortar with that trowel and butter a brick.

Funny. The purpose of mortar is to bind bricks together.

Who knew the trowel itself would do the same?