Howdy, folks. Glen Blamstead here. Last Tuesday I told the crew a joke about frozen ground. It took forever to sink in.
I told it at seven in the morning, out on a job site east of Mora. The coffee was hot, the wind was not, and the ground had turned into something like a parking lot overnight. I said, "Boys, I'd tell you a joke about frost, but you'd only get it after the thaw." Nobody laughed. Dale stared at me. Our newest guy, a young fella we call Rookie because he hasn't earned a real nickname yet, asked whether I was feeling all right. Biscuit, the shop dog, walked off. That one hurt the most, because Biscuit laughs at everything, including the vacuum cleaner.
Then around two in the afternoon, right after we got the last post set, Dale started chuckling in the cab of the truck. Seven hours. That's about how long it takes a Minnesota November to soak into anything.
The Ground Has Opinions
If you've never tried to dig a post hole in November up here, let me paint you a picture. In September the dirt is like brownie batter. Your auger goes in, hums a happy little tune, and out comes a nice clean hole. By the middle of November the top few inches have turned into something closer to a brick patio that's mad at you.
We had a customer that morning, a real nice couple putting up a pole barn for their hay and their tractor. The husband came out with his coffee to watch, the way folks do, and asked, "Is it always this slow?" I told him, "No sir, sometimes it's slower. Sometimes the auger just sits there and thinks about it."
He laughed right away. Customers always laugh right away. The crew has heard all my material, so they make me earn it.
The Auger That Wanted A Day Off
Rookie was running the auger. He lined it up, set his jaw like a man about to wrestle a bear, and started it down. It went in about four inches, then bounced. Not a big bounce, more of a polite little hop, like it was knocking on a door to see if anyone was home.
Biscuit came back over to supervise at that point. He sat down right next to the hole, tilted his head, and looked at the auger, then at Rookie, then at me. I swear that dog was thinking, "You people do this for a living?"
Dale said, "Let her work." Dale says that about everything: augers, chainsaws, his truck, his wife's casserole. Fair to say it's his whole philosophy. And to be fair, he's usually right. You don't fight frozen ground. You just get stubborner than it is, and you take your time doing it properly.
So we let her work. We chipped through the frost layer, kept going, and got down past it to the soft stuff underneath. There's a reason we set posts deep up here. Minnesota frost goes down a long way in the winter, and if your footing isn't below it, the ground will lift your building like a kid lifting the lid on a cookie jar. Slow and gentle, and then all at once you've got a door that won't close.
Lunch In The Truck
By noon we had most of the posts in, and we all crammed into the truck to eat. Rookie had a sandwich so big it needed its own zip code. Dale had the same lunch he's had since about 1994. I had a thermos of coffee and a granola bar that had been in the glove box since the Fourth of July.
I tried another joke. "Why don't post holes ever get lonely? Because they always get filled in." Rookie groaned. Dale chewed. Biscuit looked out the window like he was considering other employment.
I'll be honest with you folks. My material is like the ground in November. It's hard on the surface, but if you dig a little, there's something soft underneath.
Then It Sank In
We got the last post set around a quarter to two. The customer's wife brought out a plate of bars, which in Minnesota is basically a legally binding thank-you note. We packed up the auger, Biscuit hopped in the back seat, and Dale climbed in the cab.
That's when it happened. About two miles down the road, Dale started to shake. I thought maybe the heater had finally given out. Then he said, "After the thaw," and started laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
Seven hours, folks. It was a slow joke, and he was a slow audience, but he was a good one. Rookie caught on about a mile after that, and now he tells the joke to everybody like he came up with it.
What I Learned
Here's the thing about working in a place where the ground freezes solid: you learn patience whether you sign up for it or not. Concrete needs time. Frost needs respect. Customers need someone who'll tell them the truth about when the ground is ready and when it isn't. And jokes, apparently, need about seven hours and a warm truck.
So if you're thinking about a pole barn, a shop, or one of those barndominiums everybody's talking about, stop by Sherman in Mora or holler at us. We'll talk it through, and we'll do it right no matter what the ground is doing. I'll even tell you a joke. Just give it some time. It'll sink in.
