Workers were sawing at six o’clock in the morning. Hammers swinging, too. Old men on rooftops tossing shingles. Boys below picking up scraps.

The noise stops for a minute or two. Coffee is poured from a thermos into plastic cups. There is discussion amongst men. Speaking in some kind of foreign languages. Spanish, Esperanto, Pennsylvania Dutch, a mixture of different dialects. Different sounds.

Climbing on ladders, old men never look up or down, just straight ahead at the white wooden siding. They carry a load of roofing tiles slung over their shoulders; Mexicans on one side of the house, and the Amish on the other. Sweat pours out of them. The mid-day sun melts their spirits.

The work is done by evening.Vans and trucks pull up to take the laborers one way, and the roofers another. Jokes are told in both. The Dutch have their stories, and the Mexicans have theirs.

Most of the jokes are about the other workers, opposite of them. The Mexicans laugh about the Amish square, which is basically a thumb and pointer finger in the shape of an L. And the Amish laugh about siesta at lunchtime. Both talk of who is the better worker. But, both know they rely on each other.

They will come the next day in vans and rusted trucks with hammers and saws to white suburbia to build another home for those who have it easier. School buses filled with kids will look on as they sweat. Housewives will look, too. Watching as they drive by in BMWs, a Lexus or two, Broncos and Land Rovers. Talking on their cellphones. The Dutch call them English. Mexicans simply shake their heads, and they both keep working.

The end of another day and an Amish elder with a stone face says, soon this job will be over. He packs his tools and scratches his beard. Yes, soon this will be over.