Kirby and the Garage

As a child, I had the privilege of growing up in a quiet middle-class neighborhood. The streets were quiet, neighbors polite and we had the perfect house for a family our size. It was the perfect environment for a young boy like me to grow up and observe the world around me.

Each of our neighbors had a uniqe personality, which I noticed over the years. For example, I had a front row seat to observe the neighbors across the street – notably, their Dad; Gary.

Gary seemed like a man’s man sort of man, and he took meticulous care of his cars, yard and garage. He’d even go so far as to vacuum out his garage on a regular basis, something my Mother always commented on.

It didn’t matter what season it was, Gary was out and about caring for his property and family possessions. It seemed as if he found a great deal of pride and satisfaction from the work, which was meticulous.

Now that I live in a home, I find myself looking back at all of the different men in my life that have helped teach me how to care for a home. Those lessons didn’t come easily, and they weren’t always kind.

When I was in college at The Ohio State University, I spent a year working in the OSU maintenance shop behind a desk, working as the administrative assistant to the office manager. I can still remember the thick smell of grease and machine oil which seemed to thicken the air and pollute your skin.

While I worked in an air-conditioned office, I sat next to the head of each individual maintnence department; HVAC, plumbing and electricical.

Jon, head of HVAC, was a barrel-chested bear of a man who meticulously shaved his head each morning to a shine.

Bill, head of plumbing, sported a thick beard rarely smiled.

Gary, head of the electric, also sported a thick beard and was the outlier in the shop; riding a Honda Motorcycle, while the rest of the pack proudly road on Harley’s.

The shop was full of incredible characters, each full of character and proud to be who they were.

“Junior” was once the youngest in the shop, until his ‘little’ brother joined the team. They reminded me a lot of Ernie and Bert…

“Trash man” sported a handlebar mustache and road a Harley that made the walls shake.

“Big Mike” was often the brunt of jokes for his working speed. He also played tennis with my Dad and went to our church for the entire time I went there.

The entire crew worked as much like a work crew as they did a famiy; they helped each other out, broke bread together, went riding on the weekend and planned Thanksgiving dinners each year. It was a really electic bunch of men.

Like a family, they all made fun of somebody. That somebody was usually me.

In the shop, I stuck out like a sore thumb; wearing Abercombie, sporting gauged earrings and high-end haircuts, I didn’t make things easy on myself.

“A-Ron the Mo-Ron” was the nickname that stuck, compliments of Jon. Did it ever hurt? No.

It didn’t.

At that age, I learned a valuable lesson about men; they kid. In most cases, the sharper the joke – the funnier it is. Unless something is inappropriate – it’s best not to slam the brakes on the fun, even if you’re the target.

While I didn’t take it personally, I certainly wanted my own form of vengeance with Jon. It came, one fateful day when he ordered wings for lunch – enough to feed a football team. He ate half of them, saving the other half in the styrofoam box, which he left of his desk.

Seeing the box on his desk, I decided to eat all of the wings. Every last one. I left the bones in the container and put it back on his desk. He didn’t seem to notice, because he took it home with him that night – as well as the note I left on the inside of the box with a post-it note:

“Thanks for the wings, Jon! A-ron the Mo-ron”

The next morning, I could hear him screaming as soon as he walked in the building – while our shop was three flights of stairs up from the entrance.

“A-RON YOU MO-RON!!!!!!!!”

I sat there, glued to my chair. It was time to face the music. Secretly, I eyed “old Betsy” who sat in the corner of Bills office; a 36-inch pipe wrench.

The door burst open and there stood Jon, announcing to the shop what had happened.

“I got home, sat down to watch my movie and eat me some wings and do you KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?! This m*tharf*cker ate all of them!”

The shop roared with laughter, and so did Jon.

“A-Ron the mo-ron – you GOT ME!”

I started laughing too…

As I looked around the shop, I felt like I had graduated in some way – as a man-in-progress. See, I wanted to earn the respect of the people in that shop, but I didn’t necessarily know how to…because nobody ever told how to navigate an entire maintenance shop full of blue-collar workers.

After accepting a job at the OSU Medical Center, I went back to the shop for one last shift. That way, I wore a shirt and tie, wanting the team to get one good last look at me before I said goodbye.

That day, I bought wings for the entire shop.

There are a lot of things that compose the development of a young man as he grows into a mature man. The most pivotal element is the mentorship, observation and interaction with [good] men.

In my neighborhood, my front row ticket to watching Gary was one of the most important ways I learned how to care for the home I now live in. As a boy, I remember looking up to him and doing my best to mirror the way he cared for his yard; mowing, watering, fertillizing and even working on flower beds.

Today, I had a self-proclaimed ‘man-day’ and spent the day working on the house. Most notably, cleaning and organizing the garge.

as I worked on the garage, I thought quite a bit about Gary; pondering all of the different ways he helped me grow into a man – which I distilled down to one simple lesson.

“When you clean, be like Gary and vacuum your garage…”

As a hat-tip to him, I haulted out my Kirby and gave it several passes through the garage. Before turning off the lights, I gave it one last nod of approval and gave Gary a silent token of gratitude for helping me on my journey.