Six of us on Wednesday.  Doing drywall.  Muddin’. Talkin’.  Having lunch.  It was fun.  We probably got the same amount of work done as would one guy working two hours who knew what he was doing but it was a nice way to spend the day.  Stories told.  Jokes.  A few laughs.

Some might think we were bonding.

That is, in essence, what working on the bunkhouse or the Q-hut is all about.  My neighbour calls this ‘fellowship’.  My other neighbour calls it ‘community’. I think of it as kinda goofy but, regardless, we all enjoy it.  Food’s usually good.

My wife is big on bonding, tho.  For me, anyway.  “Why don’t you go up to the workshop and find some guys and do that bonding thing?  You know?  Like guys do?”

“Sal!  I don’t bond!  OK?  I talk.  I socialize.  I may even ‘like’ or ‘enjoy’.  I do not bond. That is just bloody weird.  Paramecium bond.  Men don’t bond.  Guys who think they bond freak me out!”

“Well, you know.  Guys standing around, hands in their pockets, talking guns or engines or whatever.  Isn’t that bonding?”

“No, sweetie.  That is not bonding.  That is called talking.  Bonding is when glue is involved.  Seems highly over rated to me.  Actors in movies claim to bond.  No one else does.  Maybe if you fought in a war together and saved each other’s lives and married twin sisters and bought a business together.  Maybe then you’d bond.  But it would take more than that for me.  I’d need glue.  Epoxy.  Literally.  So, stop with the bonding, OK?”

As we wrapped up this conversation, my neighbour, J, came over.  “Hey, Dave!  Wanna go out and get some logs, ol buddy?  Do a little bonding?  Waddya say?”  

I look at Sal.  She gives me one of her beautiful smiles………..“Yeah.  Sounds good.  I’ll just get my boots.”

“Don’t forget the epoxy, sweetie”, she says.