``If it's built with brick, it's there forever''

The sidewalk to the home is brick. The house was built with over 20,000 bricks. The man who answered the door held out his hand to greet me and I noticed his "Popeye" forearms. His strong hand squeezed mine. Meet Bernie Jankowski. The bricklayer. He welcomes me in. *** The weight of fate In the moment I'm about to describe, spring was ready to give way to summer and Bernie Jankowski has just graduated from Avon High School. It's June 1965. Bernie is only 17. He won't turn 18 until July. He's in a line of boys outside the Federal Building in downtown Cleveland. In the spring of 1965, the United States had significantly increased its involvement in the Vietnam War, and young men all across the country were only a physical away from fighting in a war no one would win. "I was going to be a Marine," Bernie told me. His father, Bernie "Bruno" Jankowski, served in the Army during World War II. He was a corporal. Bruno was a member of the Screaming Eagles 101st Airborne Division. His father's medals are on display in a shadow box that hangs on a wall in Bernie's house. The 101st Airborne Division, among other things, gained renown for its air assault role in the D-Day Landings on the beaches of Normandy, France. That day in Cleveland, a young Bernie learned his fate. "The (military) wouldn't accept me," he said to me as we sat at his kitchen table and the morning sun fell softly through the windows of our moment. In 1965, Bernie had only 20 percent hearing in his left ear. As a child, he had a perforated eardrum that went undetected. The military men in the Federal Building turned him away. Bernie came home and "tried this and that" for nearly a year and then, in May of 1966, he joined the International Union of Bricklayers and Allied Craft Workers, Local 34 based in Lorain. *** Integrity, stability and strength The average brick weighs 7 pounds. Some bricks are solid and others have holes in them that allow the mortar to squeeze into the holes and lock the brick into place. Because of that, the brick and the structure it creates are secure. In 1966, Bernie wanted a secure job and a stable future. He started as an apprentice making $5 an hour. I asked him about his beginning and his eyes sparkled as he put himself back in time. "When you're brand spanking new, more than likely, you're not gonna lay brick," he said to me with a simple smile. "You cut brick with your hammer and chisel and you lay mortar, when they allow it." The "they" in Bernie's reflection were the older guys. "Not all the bricklayers were friendly," he said to me. "Some of 'em were grouchy." Then he paused. "My wife says I can be grouchy sometimes, too." "It's not easy," he said to me about bricklaying. His first job was laying the bricks that built Lorain County Community College. The crew was 35 bricklayers for the five original buildings on what would become Ohio's first community college with a permanent campus. "That was a big crew and the mortar used on those buildings was your strongest mortar," he said. "In 1966, that was 94 pounds of cement, a bag of lime and 36 shovels of sand in each mix. That's some hard mortar." He earned $10 an hour when he started as a union bricklayer. "That was some pretty good money in 1966," he said. Bernie has quite a legacy. He was on the bricklaying crews that built The Chronicle-Telegram, Lorain Catholic High School, Lorain Southview High School, St. Joseph Hospital, Church of the Open Door in Elyria, the additions to Avon Lake High School, St. Joseph Church in Amherst and the additions to the Lorain County Sheriff's office and jail. Bernie is a man of the trades. The people who build things with their hands. Carpenters, plumbers, welders, bricklayers. Pride enters the room now as he speaks. "You worked," he said with emphasis. "You were on time. If your shift started at 7 a.m., you were on time." He pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand and added, "There was a work ethic." He's most proud of the schools and churches that he worked on. "When you see it (the buildings) going up, you know you were a part of it. You didn't do it all but you were a part of it." Bernie worked on the renovation of Cleveland's historic PowerHouse in the Flats in the 1980s. He laid bricks and hung granite slabs on the facade of the 10-story Louis Stokes Wing of the Cleveland Public Library in the late 1990s. He diversified his bricklaying by working at U.S. Steel in Lorain in the coke plant and blast furnaces. He built walls of brick inside the blast furnaces. The walls were 4½ feet thick. It was his least favorite job. "It was too much work," he said. I laughed. He was serious. "Just piling and smiling. That's all you did. It was a lot of bull work. There was no fun to it." He enjoyed working in the coke ovens though. Bonds In bricklaying, the words flemish and stagger are bonds or patterns of laying the brick. "You gotta figure your bonds out" is a phrase you might hear on a site. "What happens if you start with the wrong bond?" I asked. Bernie just smiled and said, "It's best that you're not the guy who screwed it up." On May 3, 1969, Bernie Jankowski married Maryellen Oleksa at Holy Trinity Church in Lorain. Holy Trinity was built in 1906 out of brick and stone. Bernie and Maryellen have been married for 56 years. They have two children, Brian and Steven and two granddaughters, Ella and Mia. That bond is brick strong. As I sit with Bernie, his wife and oldest son are in the room. "The good Lord was good to me," he said regarding both his family and his health. He was a bricklayer for 42 years. He retired at 60. In July, he will turn 78 years old. "I did all of that work and I have no hip or knee trouble," he said and then stopped himself, "Well, knock on wood." I ask if he has arthritis in his hands. He looks down and rubs his knuckles as he answers. "Nope. I keep 'em moving. I don't let the old man in." Bernie doesn't look 77. His skin is smooth and shows little sign of time. "Do you moisturize?" I asked the tough bricklayer. He laughs at me. "No," was his quick answer. I kept the thought alive for a moment though and wondered out loud, "What would happen if you moisturized on a job during a break?" He looked at me and said, "I wouldn't want to be that guy either." We all laugh. It's there forever Bricks and the use of them to build date back to at least 7000 BC. The phrase "came with the bricks" can mean many things. In Bernie's life, everything — at least since he was 18 years old — came with the bricks. His family. His career. The place he calls home. That home, the one made with all those bricks, was built by Bernie, his wife, and their sons, one brick at a time. "Did you ever have a boss?" I asked about the project. He pointed to his wife. Bernie bought the bricks, four for $1. His sons would carry them with brick tongs, 11 on each side and 22 total, to their father. The family worked on it seven days a week after Bernie would get home from his regular job. It took a year. "I wore my fingers out on that garage," Maryellen said. One of her jobs was to strike the joints and she worked herself to the bones, literally. "I walked up to Bernie at one point and said, 'My fingertips are bleeding." She had worked right through her gloves. They refer to the undertaking as the Jankowski Family Project. It's a beautiful home. Bernie is 17 years into his retirement as a bricklayer, and more than anything, he misses the camaraderie with the men he worked alongside. "It (bricklaying) was good to me. I worked with a lot of people who were very good, and son of a gun, you want to be around that. I got on with a nice group of guys and I enjoyed it." Now and then, over his years of retirement, someone has asked if he'd do a job. "It's a no," he said. "Right now, I don't want to do anything. I'm not built for it anymore." He was definitive and as hard-headed in his answer as the brick he made a life laying. I pressed him. "What if one of your granddaughters snuggled up and asked you to build a nice brick house in the backyard to play in, would you do it?" His body language changes. His firmness softens, and his eyes start to smile. He shrugs sheepishly and says, "I'd probably do it." Bernie Jankowski's life is secure. It was laid in brick. "If it's built with brick, it's there forever," he said. Contact Ron Jantz at rjantz@chroniclet.com.