Let me start by saying this is not an exact science. It takes some experience and no short measure of creative thinking to achieve results. It has a place in many environments. But the key element is in the performance of work. Work work work. Without work, the boondoggler has no air to breathe.
The best way to learn is by observing artisans at work. Like I did all those summers ago.
It all started with a new job. Not just any job, but one where the art of the boondoggle has been elevated to level of perfection, garnering approval from all who behold the participants. I'm talking about the activity that sees our buildings built, our roads laid, all manner of outdoor construction completed. You guessed it, the humble road worker.
One summer, I was just such a worker at a beach side suburb. With time to kill before being inducted into the military, I took up an offer to work for the local council, with a small gang of road workers. The gang consisted of six fellow travelers, united with an ambition to build quality curb and channeling, thus securing ongoing employment and income. Curb and channeling on the roadside looks deceptively simple to the untrained eye. Making it look that way takes a lot of experience.
That's where a specialist comes in. Our specialist was named Kurt, a tall fit bronzed man, who had an accent and said he was from Scandinavia. He had tousled blonde hair which he never covered with a hat, even under a hot summer sun. We suspected it was an emblem to him, like the mane on a lion. He never shouted nor laughed nor shared how he came to be so far from home. We looked up to him like a father figure since he was middle aged and obsessed with the work at hand. Every gang of boondogglers needs someone like Kurt to deflect attention from the boondoggling being performed by members of the gang. You see Kurt didn't mind if he did ninety percent of the work by himself. It was his badge of honour to see a perfectly formed storm drain taking shape without a group of youngsters getting in the way.
We for our own part had our own leader in the form of Steve.
Steve had the relaxed manner of a retired stamp collector and also never told us stories about his life experiences and looked forward to a cold beer in his back yard, in the evenings. Steve had worked for the council for most of his life and was almost as old as Kurt. He was never far away from Kurt and seemed as if he was actively engaged in the work that Kurt was doing. Boondoggling to him was effortless. He was ready to accept Kurt's comments about the work flow as if they were enlightened observations from a central command authority. He was Kurt's left hand man when inspectors came to see the works progress. Yet he was rarely seen with a shovel in his hand. That was indesputeably the domain of us youngsters. The four of us were there for a variety of reasons. Dexter was a surfer with bleached blonde hair and no particular aim in life. He also liked to work without a hat, or even a shirt on, most of the time. He didn't care if anybody thought he was boondoggling or not. It was this natural state of mind that made us think that his life was already mapped out for him to be a council worker. If Kurt or Steve needed anything from the truck, it was always Dexter who was called on. We other three had it tough. We were beginners in life, with no experience of making our way in it. That meant we had to appear as if we were earning our daily wage. With Kurt and Steve doing most of the work, we lived in constant fear of inspectors coming to see the work. Inspectors wore white shirts and black pants and had tidy haircuts. Invariably they made notes on a clipboard. They never looked us youngsters in the eye and spoke exclusively with Kurt.
For us it meant lots of walking. If you were walking, you were doing something. At the same time, we couldn't come to the attention of Kurt if he thought we were going to do something inappropriate. So walking purposely from one end of the work site to the other, was the safest option. If the inspectors were still there, we simply walked back again, carrying a shovel of course. Dexter simply leaned on his shovel while standing over the work that Kurt might be doing with trowel in hand, smoothing the latest concrete pour. In council worker parlance, that means you are simply waiting for instructions. So the summer wore on and we settled into a pattern of walking around without much talking. Billy went all day without saying anything between 'Good morning' and Goodbye'. Bill's technique was to stand at the far end of the work site and look like he was thinking about what he might do next. He wore finger less leather gloves and a beaten canvas hat. Weather beaten leather boots and rolled down thick socks completed a picture. No painting or photograph of a roadside work gang was complete without at least one 'Billy' in it.
Some days it rained and Kurt grimaced and sputtered under his breath. We sat in the canvas shelter and Dexter talked non stop about surfing, girlfriends and cars. Every work site needs at least one Dexter.
It didn't usually rain long, but covering and uncovering fresh concrete slowed things down. But eventually, every job was completed and we tipped our hats to Kurt for another beautiful construction that we knew would likely be there in 100 years time. We knew we couldn't have done it without him, but relished showing the site to friends and family as we drove pass the sites. Life moved on and after working on several sites, I finally put the shovel back in the truck and said my goodbyes to the gang.
Years passed and I recalled with affection how I boondoggled my way through the summer of '75.