The Cement Mixer's Big Day

Gertie was a cement mixer, round and proud, with a big drum that went CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA when she spun.

Today was Pour Day.

The biggest day there is, if you're a cement mixer.

A whole new sidewalk. Smooth and long and perfect. Gertie had been waiting all week.

"Let's go, let's go, let's GO!" she rumbled, warming up her engine in the yard.

But when she tried to roll out the gate — PSSSSSSHHH.

Her front tire went flat.

Not a little flat. Pancake flat. Soggy-balloon flat. So flat a squirrel walked right over it and didn't even trip.

"Oh no," said Gertie.

Hank the forklift brought a new tire. He pushed it on crooked. It wobbled. But it held.

"Good enough," said Gertie, and she bumped and wobbled down the road. CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA.

She was halfway to the job site when the sky turned dark and grey and grumbly.

Rain.

Not soft rain. Not nice rain. Big, fat, sloppy rain that pounded on Gertie's drum like a thousand tiny drums.

PLANG-PLANG-PLANG-PLANG!

"Oh NO," said Gertie.

Rain is bad for fresh cement. Very bad. It makes it soupy. It makes it weak.

Gertie slowed down. Her wipers went swish-swish-swish but she could barely see.

Maybe she should turn around.

Maybe Pour Day was ruined.

She sat there in the rain, engine rumbling low, thinking about her perfect sidewalk that nobody would get to walk on.

Then she said a quiet thing, just to herself.

"I'm going anyway."

And she rolled forward. Wobble-wobble-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA.

She got to the job site and it was a mess. Mud everywhere. The wooden forms for the sidewalk were half-knocked over from the wind. Two of the traffic cones had blown into a puddle.

And standing there, soaking wet, was a whole crew of workers. Waiting. For her.

"GERTIE'S HERE!" one of them shouted.

They didn't look upset about the rain. They looked glad to see her.

Gertie backed up to the forms. Her wobbly tire hit a rock and she lurched sideways — and a big glob of wet cement slopped right out of her drum and landed SPLAT on a worker's boot.

Everyone looked at the boot.

The worker wiggled his toes.

"Well," he said. "That's one way to start."

Everybody laughed. Even Gertie's engine seemed to chuckle — chugga-ha-ha-ha.

Then they got to work.

The crew fixed the forms. They held up tarps to keep off the rain. And Gertie spun her drum and poured.

Slow and steady, the thick grey cement flowed out like the world's heaviest pancake batter. It filled the forms. It spread and settled.

The workers smoothed it flat with big long tools — swiiiiish, swiiiiish — and the rain started to ease, and the clouds cracked open just a little, and one long beam of sun hit that fresh wet sidewalk and made it shine like silver.

Gertie's drum was empty now. Completely empty. She felt light and quiet inside, the way you feel after a really big deep breath.

Her tire still wobbled. There was still mud on her fenders. The worker's boot was still gloopy with cement.

But the sidewalk was there. Real and new and long and smooth.

Tomorrow people would walk on it. Kids would ride bikes on it. Someone would draw a flower on it with chalk.

Gertie turned around and headed home in the last bit of rain. Her drum didn't spin now. It was still. She was tired.

But every few seconds, her engine gave a happy little rumble.

Chugga… chugga… chugga.

All the way home.