Mount Rushmore, South Dakota
It was a bright March day in 1939. Deep within the Black Hills of South Dakota, the drilling crews were just beginning for the day. One of the workers was already eagerly absorbed in his task, honeycombing the surface of the rock with small drill holes so that it could be easily chiseled off. After waiting for years to see the completion of the labor, an everlasting monument to their country and its leaders, only the face of Roosevelt was yet to be unearthed from the stone. The worker no longer gave heed to the dizzying heights, or the measly ropes suspending him over the precipice, or the way his breath rasped in and out of his dust coated lungs. He no longer paid attention to the dynamite blasts nearby, or the shouting of his fellow drillers in a multitude of tongues. He was one of many well oiled gears in the sculpting machine, ceaseless and mechanically exact, pushing towards a singular goal.
As the sun crept higher into the sky, the man paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, to survey their progress. He smiled, a rare event, to see the keen eye of the Rough Rider emerging from the rock.
What it must be like to be immortalized in the side of a mountain! he thought to himself.
It was only then that he heard the shouts of warning. He looked up just as he was hit with the force of the explosion.