"Pool builders, Steamfitters, and Pilots"-a story about heroes and heroic tendencies...The old black man sat in a sliver of shade smoking a cigarette. He seemed puzzled by my fascination with his work. He must have wondered why this skinny kid was so intrigued by hard labor.“What’s your name, jitterbug?” he asked.I told him, but I did not ask him his. He was the darkest man I’d ever seen. He seemed ancient, yet his body looked chiseled from stone.“Jimmy?” he said, repeating my name as he stood up slowly and climbed back down into the hole.The way they built swimming pools a half century ago was a sight to behold. It was grueling, monotonous work—especially in the Florida summer sun— but to witness its construction was watching an artist at work. I was amazed by the old man’s meticulous efforts. His tender dumped a wheelbarrow full of fresh cement in the bottom of the hole, and with a square-point shovel, the man would start slinging it against the wire mesh on the walls. Two-thirds of the mud would slide down to the bottom, but never mind, he had already scooped up another shovel full and slung it, too, and of course, much of the cement slid back down. He continued the work for hours and this ten year old sat mesmerized. What seemed to be a terribly wearisome process began to take shape, as he formed the corners and edges with that square-point shovel, only stopping for a few cigarette and water breaks. I had no idea then about the dealing of cards and how they could be stacked against him. I didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me a lesson I would not forget. I never saw the man again, but I’ve spent many a day digging my own holes, slinging mud against the walls...