For my son, Tommy Junior — who  started his bricklaying journey, Level 1, 2025
By Tommy Kennedy IV

The site smelt of wet mortar, diesel, and cold tea.
Frost on the scaffolding. Pallets stacked, spirit level catching the first bit of morning light.
That’s the world you’re stepping into, son.

You’ll learn early — it’s not just brick and muck. It’s balance, rhythm, patience. It’s knowing how the wall feels before you’ve even laid it.

Old Mick taught me that, years back, when I was in Everthorpe. .
“Get your corners right, Tommy,” he said, “or the wall’s lost before it’s begun.”

He used to talk about pigs in the wall — bricks sticking proud where they shouldn’t.
“A pig’s a sin,” he said. “You leave one, you’re telling the world you didn’t care.”
He was right. The wall remembers. Every mistake stays there, staring back.

You’ll make plenty, lad — that’s how you learn. But you fix them, you take pride, you keep it clean.

A good bricklayer’s not just a grafter. He’s part craftsman, part mathematician, part poet. He sees the job before it’s built. He knows when the line’s true and when it’s lying.

You’ll know when it clicks. When your trowel moves without thinking, when the mix is perfect, when the course runs straight and you don’t need to check the level because your eyes already know.

That’s the day you’ll feel it — that quiet buzz that says, I built this. Me. My hands. My sweat.

And when someone walks past years from now and leans on that wall, they’ll have no idea who you are.
But you’ll know.

That’s pride. That’s legacy.

So travel light when the time comes.
Take your trowel, your skill, your name — that’s all you need.
The world’s wide open, lad. You can build in Bangkok, Sydney, Havana, Kingston, New York, Hanoi — the trade travels.
Good hands always find work.

But before you go anywhere, remember what Mick told me.
“Every wall’s got your name on it whether you sign it or not.”

So make it straight. Make it true.
And never, ever leave a pig in the wall.

© Tommy Kennedy IV — www.tommykennedyiv.com

The Lesson in the Wall

by Tommy Kennedy IV

For every bricklayer, every grafter, every pair of hands that’s ever built something that stood longer than the man who made it.

The site was half mud, half frost — pallets, scaffold poles, the smell of wet cement and tea from a dented flask.
I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, full of attitude and not enough sense.

Old Mick was already there, rolling a fag with hands like quarry stone. He’d been laying since the seventies and carried himself like the walls owed him rent.

“Right, Tommy,” he said, spitting grit. “First thing — set out. Corners, lines, levels. Get that wrong, the wall’s crooked before you’ve even laid your first brick.”

I crouched down, tape measure trembling in my fingers.

“And a pig in the wall,” I said, “that’s bad, yeah?”

Mick gave me that look. “Bad? A pig’s a sin. It’s a brick sticking out where it shouldn’t. You put one in, you might as well carve your name into it in shame. Never leave a pig, lad. That’s the mark of a cowboy.”

The mortar steamed in the cold air. I spread, laid, tapped, scraped, checked — finding a rhythm in the chaos.

“Foundations,” Mick said, stepping into the trench, “these are the bones. Too shallow, the wall cracks. Too deep, you’re wasting sweat. You’ve got to feel the ground.”

By mid-morning the wall began to rise. Arches, circles, manholes — all the things I’d only read about in textbooks suddenly alive in my hands.

“Arches are magic,” Mick told me. “They hold up on faith and geometry. Circular walls too. Measure twice. Trust nothing.”

When I asked about good bricklayers, Mick leaned on his trowel.

“A good one’s patient, precise, proud. He doesn’t rush or guess. He knows his wall — every joint, every course. Keeps it clean, level, true. When he’s done, it stands long after he’s gone.”

“And a bad one?” I asked.

He spat into the mud. “A bad one cuts corners. Leaves mess. Thinks he’s cleverer than the line. Says ‘no one’ll see that bit.’ But someone always does. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but when that wall cracks, they’ll know who built it.”

He looked at me hard. “You’ll break your back in this trade, Tommy, so make it mean something. Every wall’s got your name on it whether you sign it or not.”

That stuck. Still does.

Years rolled on. The callouses hardened, the pace quickened, and I learned the feel of the craft — the perfect mix, the weight of a good brick, the quiet pride in a plumb corner.

Then came the day I knew.

We were building a long boundary wall behind a school. Frost on the scaffold, sky pale and cruel. Mick watched me lay, silent as always. When I finished the course, I stepped back — straight as a ruler, tight joints, no smears, no pigs.

Mick gave one slow nod.
No smile, no speech.
Just that nod.

And that was it. The moment I stopped being a labourer and became a bricklayer.

You never forget your first true wall — the one that stands straight because you made it so. The one that carries your pride inside every course.

That’s what Mick taught me.

You don’t just build walls.
You build your name.
Brick by brick.
Course by course.
Until the world learns to lean on what you’ve made.

© Tommy Kennedy IV — www.tommykennedyiv.com

Bricklaying Apprenticeship • Level 1 Bricklayer • Father and Son • Skilled Trades • Working Class Pride • Craftsmanship • Building the Future • Vocational Training • Grit and Graft • Life Lessons • Builders • Travel with a Trade

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