Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Necessity’

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2023)

 

 

In this space, or others allotted for the same purpose of self-expression, I have often written about a particular bias hardwired into my brain. One pitted against the talent by which I am most frequently identified. Specifically, the ability to engage freely in creative writing.

 

My upbringing came in a family of professionals. Doctors, teachers, administrators, librarians, and university professors. Each of these relatives offered a sense that education and aspirational excellence would lift me toward new heights, which were otherwise out of reach. I was inspired by their abilities. Reading mattered. Study mattered. Artistry in various forms mattered. Music provided a useful soundtrack, but was always coupled with composing lyrics, historical research, cultural appreciation, or an understanding of how the mathematics of cadence and tonalities affected human behaviors.

 

I became very much used to being around talented people. And in a sense, lost a certain appreciation for these gifts, because in my own world they were so plentiful. What was less common could be summed up in a phrase sometimes used to marginalize uneducated folk, who were said to be good at ‘working with their hands.’

 

My father was a church pastor and holder of two higher degrees. Yet he had grown up on an Ohio farm, and therefore developed a direct familiarity with building things, and fixing the same when they failed in a structural, electrical, or mechanical sense. As a child, I manifested a similar vibe to his own at the typewriter, or when perusing our home library. But the sort of physical work often associated with Midwestern manhood was something I did not take to in affectionate terms. I could perform certain tasks, or even explain how they might be accomplished. But skinning my knuckles or chafing my knees did not bring an authentic sense of joy. I simply wanted to have things done.

 

The youngest in our brood, my little brother, had taken opposite characteristics from our pater’s toolkit. He never spent much time tapping away at a keyboard. Books were rarely of interest, unless they were shop manuals. His focus was on automotive repair, and custom modifications. He had an ease in the garage that made me jealous. Suffering for hours to diagnose a technical malady did not make him turn away from the cause. He would wrench on junk cars and trucks and vans with zeal. Soon, this predisposition attracted others who wanted to support him in becoming more proficient. And a group of newbie followers who were eager to watch and learn.

 

Once, he had inherited a Ford Galaxie sedan from the family stable. We were living in a house with no outbuilding for storage or tinkering. Only a gravel lot used as a parking area, next door. His wheeled mule had already received a replacement motor, one with greater reserves of horsepower and torque to make driving a more entertaining experience. But then, he needed to replace the entire rear axle after many tire-burning launches put a strain on the drive system. Despite lacking a proper venue for the task, he jacked up the metal carriage on stands, and stretched out on the ground. After cursing, twisting and hammering his way through rusted bolts and mounting points on the frame, he managed to make the swap like a pro. I bowed my head with respect at his accomplishment. There were no broken bones incurred, or muscular digits lost in the process. Just the resulting howl of an FE series, interceptor V-8 confiscated from a police cruiser. He rolled around our village proudly, after that feat. Though the car was not photogenic in any sense, it filled him with pride to be in the driver’s seat.

 

My sibling later found employment as a full-time truck driver. Yet he never lost interest in manual labor with a nuts-and-bolts inclination. His hands stayed greasy, and calloused. While his soul remained satisfied.

 

When I graduated to a career in managing retail businesses, such individuals became very valuable to me, as human resources to be cherished. Anyone who could handle the logistics of delivering merchandise, or on-site maintenance of HVAC systems and our brick-and-mortar facilities, was golden in nature. Each encounter with a person of that type reminded me of the warm respect I had for my father, when he manifested such skills. I was not so amazed at his prowess with language, or building lines of communication in a local faith partnership. I knew how to do those things thanks to his expert tutelage. But his aptitude when navigating roads at the helm of our family bus, a Chevy Corvair Greenbrier, or the ability to put right what had gone wrong with contraptions in the household, filled me with awe.

 

My pal ‘BA’ who was a maintenance technician employed by company owners where I worked, said that an open mind was his best asset. He did not claim to know how to do everything, from the start. But always understood how to learn. And where to look for clues. His competence gave me comfort. I held fast to believing that in the end, problems would be addressed and the flow of customer traffic would continue. That lifeblood kept all of my stores up and running.

 

Kids with college degrees on our team were numerous. I enjoyed their curiosity and forward outlook. We had a kinship that gave us a familial connection, whether on the sales floor, or outside of our workplace. Though time would usually take them away, as their own career paths meandered toward greater achievement. My enduring habit of wordsmithing could sometimes produce fantastic results, when given a chance in the paradigm of an employment venue. Yet in the end, I felt indebted to those who kept the clockwork machinery in motion. I had the greatest admiration for those in the circle who were my opposites. Gritty, hard-nosed, blunt problem-solvers, who were able to cope with calamities, and thrive. Those were my heroes. And quite often, my saviors when chaos came calling.

 

Like father, like brother. Both men of character and undeniable value.