There's a brickyard outside
of Reston, Virginia.
I go there sometimes to watch
the workers make bricks by hand.
They slosh the red clay mud
around in rough wooden troughs
before pouring it from buckets
into wooden molds that dry
in the sun. For many weeks.
They do peaceful, quiet, steady work.
Mostly older men in faded overalls.
But one day there was a man
in a grey pinstripe business suit.
Sloshing the clay mud around.
His face was round and contented.
I decided he must be a famous person.
Who gave up the hurly-burly of fame
to make red clay bricks
to build homes and libraries
and courthouses.
"Do brick makers get paid well?"
I asked the guy loitering next to me.
"I suppose so" he replied.
"They all drive Volvos."
At the end of the work day
I followed the man in the suit
to his Volvo and then followed
him home.
Past fields of bright green grass
that looked spray-painted.
He pulled up a gravel drive
to a wonderful old house
hidden amidst chinaberry trees.
I pushed the buzzer at the gate.
"Who lives here?" I demanded.
"Peter Baker" came the scratchy reply.
"The reporter? Why is he making bricks?"
I asked in confusion.
"He wants closure"
replied a different voice,
equally tinny and scratchy.
I got back in my car and drove away.
There were no clear answers here.
My curiosity bubbled over.
But I figured every person
has a right to their privacy
and I had a duty to mind
my own business.
So I went home to look in a book
where I remembered reading
that Winston Churchill joined
the English bricklayers union
but was ousted because of his
conservative views.
From which I concluded
that great men build alike.
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