This column originally ran Sept. 2, 2016. Look for an update at the end.
If there is one thing that weighs heavy on Jack Way, one thing set firmly in the footings of his mind, it is the road you are driving on and the sidewalk you are walking on and the foundation upon which your house is built.
All that CONCRETE, which, admit it, you often call CEMENT.
I know this about Jack because he told me so in an email last week, after I'd written a column using the word cement to describe my patio.
"The correct word would be 'CONCRETE,'" he wrote. "'CEMENT,' used in construction, is a grey powder-like material produced at the Ash Grove Cement Plant in Louisville, Nebraska. That 'CEMENT' is shipped to Lincoln by rail or truck, mixed with water and aggregate, the final product is called 'CONCRETE.'"
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I KNEW this, truly I did.
And I replied, apologizing and telling Jack I would endeavor to NEVER confuse the two again (which, the former president of Concrete Industries Inc. pointed out, would be like confusing FLOUR with BREAD).
And so began a series of email exchanges in which I learned that Jack had made the proper use of concrete his mission in life, writing to reporters and publishing houses whenever he saw the word used in error.
Which he did dozens of times, not just by hacks like me, but even in books. (Shame on you, Random House!)
But Jack rarely heard back after he sent his missives. Only twice, including my reply, in all these years. He felt like a failure.
"HELP," he wrote at the end of one email.
Gladly, I answered, a woman who knew the nails-on-chalkboard horror of hearing people use LESS THAN when they really meant FEWER.
We made plans to meet Wednesday and off I went, down my concrete driveway, along Lincoln's concrete roadways, up the concrete path of the Grand Lodge at the Preserve to meet Jack.
Who was perfectly charming.
The 89-year-old welcomed me to his lovely apartment, adorned with model airplanes from his carrier pilot in the Navy days, and intricate model boats he put together himself — a nod to his love of sailing — and purple pillows and pictures, a salute to his alma mater, Kansas State.
"It drives the Big Red people crazy."
He told me about his last house — the house he designed and built, mostly out of concrete. "Not a crack in it."
He told me about his daily recumbent trike rides along the city's concrete bike trails. "An hour or two a day, I love it."
And about Betty, who died in 2011, and whom he met at a USO dance in Ottumwa, Iowa.
He told me he and his bride came to Lincoln in the 1950s and the architectural engineer landed at the Abel family business, where he remained for 35 years, a father of two, rising in the ranks to president of Concrete Industries.
When school tours came through the concrete plant, Jack would remind the teachers to take the lesson back to their classrooms and cement the difference in their students' minds.
Patti Laursen was there in those days. She began working as Jack's secretary in 1979, still with the company, and still a friend to her old boss.
Everybody loved the man, she says. And he taught her the important distinction between cement and concrete on Day 1.
"He wants the people of the world to know the difference, because there is a big difference," she says. "It's a tribute to the industry and to the company he worked for."
Jack retired from Concrete Industries in 1992 but his devotion has never wavered.
He's still the Concrete Guy. At the retirement community, his fellow residents warn visitors not to slip up and say cement.
"Around here it's become kind of a joke," Jack says. "I'm dedicated to it, and I guess that's kind of strange."
But Jack? As you can see, Jack isn't strange at all.
A lovely gentleman, says Jeanne Beaudette, the Grand Lodge's receptionist.
She just learned of Jack's obsession last week — after five years on the job — when a letter showed up on her desk.
It seems the office manager had sent out a notice to residents about the completion of CEMENT work in the garage. Which prompted Jack to sit down at his keyboard, occasionally leaving on the ALL CAPS.
"We will not make that mistake again," Beaudette says.
Jack does worry about offending folks, although that's never his intent.
And I understand both sides, having been on them.
After our visit, we exchanged a few more emails. In one, I asked if he would mind posing with a cement truck to illustrate the column.
The reply was prompt.
"CINDY: It's a 'CONCRETE' truck pouring 'CONCRETE.'"
I attempted a rebuttal. But everyone says. ...
"CINDY: Now you are seeing the problem," my new friend Jack answered. "You are correct, Everyone calls it a 'CEMENT truck'. EVERYONE IS WRONG."
Postscript: Jack continues to pursue his mission of ridding the publishing world of clunky concrete errors. The 94-year-old is doing his due diligence now down south in Overland Park, Kansas, where he moved to be closer to family. (The great-grandfather has been the family's COVID-19 connector via Skype, Facetime and group text quizzes.)
Since my delightful encounter with Jack, I've been known to toss a book when authors — and editors — have failed to know the difference between CEMENT and CONCRETE, although I have yet to fire off an edifying email.
As for Mr. Concrete, he believes he's making progress.
"I think I am winning the battle," he said. "The last find was in the book 'Where the Crawdads Sing.' In the last chapter the author used cement when meaning concrete many times. My form letter was sent off immediately."
No word on whether Random House plans to correct the mistake in future editions of Delia Owens' bestselling novel.
Cindy Lange-Kubick counts down her final summer at the Journal Star with one column from each of her 25 years on the Lincoln Life beat with a …
Reach the writer at 402-473-7218 or clangekubick@journalstar.com.
On Twitter @TheRealCLK