shovels are stacked one above the other; seven different levels; seven parallel tracks, moved to new positions every day; dirt trains moving back and forth with no snarls. This is my father's job, overseeing all this.
I'm done, or think I am. But then something remarkable happens.
Thirty-Three
From the corner of my eye I see the impossible. I take a good look. A steam shovel is sinking.
There's no doubt about itâthe shovel is sinking. A barely perceptible movement.
I nudge Father. "Look."
He's busy, doesn't respond.
I poke him again. "Look!"
He turns his head. Shovel number forty-nine is sinking.
Father's jaw drops. Seconds pass. The shovel lowers and we watch. Blasting noise continues around us.
Father calls over to another engineer and he, too, watches, all of us in disbelief. The shovel descends, still swinging eight-ton buckets of dirt to a waiting railcar, both engineers on board totally unaware.
Several pick-and-shovel workers now see the phenomenon and call out to fellow workers,
"Mira! Mira este..."
and there's minor panic.
Workers drop their tools. They back off, spooked. We all are. It couldn't be happening. The steam shovelers notice, too, and suddenly stop, which signals all the other workers and everything comes to a halt.
Now, behind us, a railcar pulls up and Colonel Gaillard hops off and comes striding forward with great authorityâhe's our lead construction engineer. "Ah, you've seen it."
"What's going on?" says Father.
"It's happening all along the Cut, about a foot a minute, all morning."
"What is it?"
"We're rising." He waves toward the canal center. "We're on soft strata here in the middle so the slides along the walls are pushing us up. The shovels aren't sinkingâthey're near the wall. We're rising."
Father looks over the situation and sees that what Gaillard says is true. "How far will it go?" he asks him.
"We don't know. But it's nothing to worry about."
He's never seen such a thing. Nobody has. Nobody's ever done anything like this before, so everything is new. How does he know it's nothing to worry about?
Gaillard goes back to his transport car. He sits observing the phenomenon until it stops. Then he gives Father a little salute and he's on his way.
Can-do Americansâthere's no stopping them.
Father calls out to the workers that everything is okay, to go back to work. They trust him. Pick-and-shovel men begin swinging their tools. Steam shovelers give their idling engines a throaty roar and everything resumes. Tons of lava rock blast to the canal floor and shovels deposit the tons into a waiting railcar. My father is boss of that. That's what he does in the canal.
Thirty-Four
At supper Father knifes the air with his hand.
"Like pressing down on the side of a pan of doughâthe dough will push up in the middle. The slides on the sides of the canal are making the soft floor in the middle rise. It has nowhere else to go."
"Terrible," Mother says.
"No, only the slides are terrible. We may never stop them."
"What then?"
"We keep digging."
Father keeps saying these words and it disturbs me. I don't want to think of everything moving forward while my dilemma remainsâhis success to my failure. The work goes on in spite of slides and yet I can't reach Federico. I might never see him again.
"We'll dredge when it's full of water if we have to," Father says. "That's what mattersâkeep going, keep working. Gaillard and Goethals, you never see them shaken. Canal center risingâthey're calm, tell us to wait till it stops and then go on. Nobody's ever seen anything like it, but we do as we're told and we're fine. Most important thingâattitude and endurance."
It's important, all right, and it's admirable, but to me it's disturbing.
Father takes a bite of beefsteak. All's well in his world.
I include Father's remarks in the essay and my own remarks about machines made in our likeness. A few days later I get the highest grade in class and an extra
I'm done, or think I am. But then something remarkable happens.
Thirty-Three
From the corner of my eye I see the impossible. I take a good look. A steam shovel is sinking.
There's no doubt about itâthe shovel is sinking. A barely perceptible movement.
I nudge Father. "Look."
He's busy, doesn't respond.
I poke him again. "Look!"
He turns his head. Shovel number forty-nine is sinking.
Father's jaw drops. Seconds pass. The shovel lowers and we watch. Blasting noise continues around us.
Father calls over to another engineer and he, too, watches, all of us in disbelief. The shovel descends, still swinging eight-ton buckets of dirt to a waiting railcar, both engineers on board totally unaware.
Several pick-and-shovel workers now see the phenomenon and call out to fellow workers,
"Mira! Mira este..."
and there's minor panic.
Workers drop their tools. They back off, spooked. We all are. It couldn't be happening. The steam shovelers notice, too, and suddenly stop, which signals all the other workers and everything comes to a halt.
Now, behind us, a railcar pulls up and Colonel Gaillard hops off and comes striding forward with great authorityâhe's our lead construction engineer. "Ah, you've seen it."
"What's going on?" says Father.
"It's happening all along the Cut, about a foot a minute, all morning."
"What is it?"
"We're rising." He waves toward the canal center. "We're on soft strata here in the middle so the slides along the walls are pushing us up. The shovels aren't sinkingâthey're near the wall. We're rising."
Father looks over the situation and sees that what Gaillard says is true. "How far will it go?" he asks him.
"We don't know. But it's nothing to worry about."
He's never seen such a thing. Nobody has. Nobody's ever done anything like this before, so everything is new. How does he know it's nothing to worry about?
Gaillard goes back to his transport car. He sits observing the phenomenon until it stops. Then he gives Father a little salute and he's on his way.
Can-do Americansâthere's no stopping them.
Father calls out to the workers that everything is okay, to go back to work. They trust him. Pick-and-shovel men begin swinging their tools. Steam shovelers give their idling engines a throaty roar and everything resumes. Tons of lava rock blast to the canal floor and shovels deposit the tons into a waiting railcar. My father is boss of that. That's what he does in the canal.
Thirty-Four
At supper Father knifes the air with his hand.
"Like pressing down on the side of a pan of doughâthe dough will push up in the middle. The slides on the sides of the canal are making the soft floor in the middle rise. It has nowhere else to go."
"Terrible," Mother says.
"No, only the slides are terrible. We may never stop them."
"What then?"
"We keep digging."
Father keeps saying these words and it disturbs me. I don't want to think of everything moving forward while my dilemma remainsâhis success to my failure. The work goes on in spite of slides and yet I can't reach Federico. I might never see him again.
"We'll dredge when it's full of water if we have to," Father says. "That's what mattersâkeep going, keep working. Gaillard and Goethals, you never see them shaken. Canal center risingâthey're calm, tell us to wait till it stops and then go on. Nobody's ever seen anything like it, but we do as we're told and we're fine. Most important thingâattitude and endurance."
It's important, all right, and it's admirable, but to me it's disturbing.
Father takes a bite of beefsteak. All's well in his world.
I include Father's remarks in the essay and my own remarks about machines made in our likeness. A few days later I get the highest grade in class and an extra
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