Dawn on the Dome

The following is a transcript from my restoration journal:it was written
before I returned home
I hope you enjoy it;... if not..delete my friend delete. . Best Michael(1999)


Homecoming is always an emotional time;so I'm looking forward to it. I've
been gone since August; on a cross country oddessy that's landed me on a
swing stage 300 ft up on Goodhue's archival masterpiece the Nebraska State
Capital.
 Today is my last day on the job site for ten days; like a good Southern boy
I expect to hunt and fish for most of my time off ; but meybe just relax and
loaf in the warm fall weather.
My wife tells me she has all the doors of the house are open; enjoying the
cool autumn air as it passes freely through our creole cottage. To keep warm
she keeps a small wood fire going in the hearth and sleeps with only a
comforter as the nightime lows warrant nothing more than one blanket.She
tells me the dogs; Thelma and Louise;know Im coming home as they are sleeping
under the full moon ,way up along the dirt road to the cotton patch; keeping
one eye open for me and one eye open for foraging deer and rabbit. .
Now if you have never seen cottonfields in moonlight it is truly a wonderland
of shimmering  downy clouds inviting you to walk across them ; they can
mesmerize the imagination as if in dream and transform the soul in
tranquility.
 That's of course untill Thelma or Louise spot a cane rabbit; then all hell
breaks loose; and solitude gives way to the chase.and the all mayhem that
follows....but Im not home yet .First I need to get by this day.

We rhendevous at the shanty for coffee just before sunrise. The shanty
exterior is windblown; yet  inside is  tidy with 2x4 furniture and a couple
of coleman lanterns. Rigging and tools decorate the walls; and this morning
coffee steams from large pot on the army surplus gas field ring.
We take our coffee and head up the scaffold before dawn. Its cold out; the
temps are hovering around 33deg;.... up top with the wind chill?  ;no telling

.The scaffold is unusual; as all the corners of the historic tower are fixed
pipe ; allowing the middle access only by swing stage.
For the corners;( there are four bays to every corner) the masons have a
choice of steel decking for the heavy stone replacement,
 or using  motorized baskets for Gommage dry system.
 I like the integrety of this scaffold as it reduces weight; and provides
greater mobility to the trades.. This scaffolding  system was chosen this way
as the standing seam roof below cannot tolerate large amounts of weight. Its
also  good for the men as we can easily complete drops;without moving heavy
decking; Lightweight and simple.

.We still share the base bridge with the scaffolding crew;  and all Irish mix
of Donnegal and Ulster men out of Chicago.  They are behind in their schedule
in completing the West and North elevations;  and have been pulling 10-12
hour days just to stay ahead of us.
 We often ride the personnel hoist with them. Great big ruddy lads with red
hair and freckles;and not immune to taking an "Irish" lunch now and then;
and they love to give my french roughnecks "the blarney"; who take  their
kidding in stride ;but seem to bide their time well in the skulldugery of
waiting their turn....

There is an ancient affinity between these nationalities ;... I can't quite
place it ;  but it's there;
    like two incongruous mongrels who sidle up to one another unexpectantly
in an prize fight
 ;... my guess is its their disdain for the English... and their common
affinity they have for one another  as ruffians and  sea dogs.
 Now if all this wasn't enough;  throw in a dozen smart ass, second
generation, ham fisted,  Norse stone masons out of Michigan, and Illinois.
These blue eyed blond devils sport cold weather leather faces;    fierce
Nordic Viking beards; and noses that could double for new potatoes that had
been left in the freezer.
 To make matters worse they communicate in a strange dialect starting each
sentence with the F" word; corrupting my French crew; as if that were
possible;  and giving them bad speech habits;..
There is one female; a blond who wears her hair in long Norwegian plait down
the back of her insulated overalls; she is a mud man (person)  to one of the
union setters; and tells her own bawdy jokes; laughing hoarsely while always
tugging on a Viceroy.
 She uses a pre-mixed 1-1-6 lime mix; fashions her own pointing trowels; and
tells all my guys where the best strip clubs are; I have never seen her eyes
as she is always in dark glasses.She is quick with a smile; and a knife; so
Im told; if you rub her the wrong way..

Now, dress the whole lot of these pirates  up in arctic carhart suits and put
on them  the wrap around viper sunglasses;
Then harness everyone in" step in" safety straps; make them crotch tight;
with  climbers D rings on the back; .. in case you have to hang around.
Then in the pre dawn gloom ride the coffee/ tobacco stench of a  personnel
hoist; with the feeble blinking light bulb; up to the  bridge base  of the
upper  dome of the limestone rock face.
The hoist rumbles along and lurches in jerks like a freight train for this
ride
Some of the men are munching on rock hard dunking donuts; you know the kind
that  granulates on impact with your upper molars;... forming a smooth
paste.... with aggregate.
This by the way , is an old masons secret for pointing mortar,  but  don't
try it at home...
 Rumble , rumble  ; nobody is singing Kumbayah at this hour.Our brains are
comatose with lack of sleep and missing the warmth of ones bed.The air is
acrid with cigarette smoke; and blank stares.
Inevitabley someone passes wind in the hoist; with the guilty party usually
being the most complaintive. Like overipe fruit; the ride becomes torturous
to the point of tears.Such behavior can start the day poorly and should be
discouraged.
The hoist reaches the upper base of the dome; and we spill into the now
welcoming cold air like a firefighters gasping for air..
With a clear head and a steady breeze we stand at the base of the outer walls
of the  Dome of Remembrance . It is here where the sun's first rays
penetrates Goodhues holy of holy's ;
 a 60 foot dome of gilded Gaustavino tile in plains mosaic; that encloses a
black and gold marble mausoleum like interior dedicated to the fallen dead of
the first war.    (later rededicated to all wars)
It is here; in the interior; visitors stand in awe surrounded by historic
murals of men and woman active in uniform. The sun perculates the upper walls
 through long narow transoms of occluded glass set back in the stone.;  thus
traveling down the wall embolding the black and gold marble .
The floor is an inlay of VT. Green and Minn. Rose in eight sided pattern.
..Visitors find the experience ;meditative and respectful; and are mindfull
that the citizens; in stewardship of  State government of Nebraska; could
create such majesty to honor their sons and daughters with fitting tribute
and place.

.
Outside is a different story; the wind is a constant 20 plus mph. The
landscape is bleak in a hoarfrost of endless cornfields and silos awaiting
the first rays of the suns blazing arc to break the monotony of  the nights
nocturnal  icy grip.
Compressors and generators sputter then  struggle to start;; the men once
assembled up top , finish their cigarettes and drain their paper coffee cups;
and suddenly like Tibetan Shepra's's turn instinctively to witness the  break
of the golden orb of the sun poke  the horizon then  illuminate in a ball of
fire the Great plains in a magical  display of  pinks and golds.
Facing the sun our breath is  captured in frozen whiteness ;and smiles for
its return.
The stone behind us is bathed in brillant rays of dawn sunlight ignighting
the monocrome gilded tile of the dome in a glow of resonance visable for
miles around
..Like some reverent assembly of Soloman's sons we silently aknowledge the
passing of the old and the birth of the new; jogging an ancient memory of
time ,light,and building stone in the dawn of new day.     Our radios then
crackle to life; and we go to work ....Best Michael
.all rts MDD 1999