Motors and Mentors
I recently sold some stuff on Craigslist. It’s amazing what you can find and sell there. Despite the cautions I’ve read of people in shady situations, I’ve come across some fascinating stories. I sold some cabinets to an immigrant woman and her father who were elated to use them and a beach cart to a man going home again. Whatever the format, where people have needs, people have stories.
I recently sold a lawnmower motor to a man we’ll call ‘Jose.’ This lawn tractor had been passed on to my kids when its utility shifted from grass-cutting device to fort-building transport. Once the transmission went out, all utility was lost. The kids dismantled it like my Uncle on the Thanksgiving turkey and shared their greasy hands with great aplomb. Everyone should use a pneumatic wrench at least once, according to my sons.
Jose and I met outside the Cracker Barrel, the hub of all great commerce. When I pulled up, it was clear that I was in no apparent danger of being stabbed over the Briggs & Stratton. Jose looked like an old garden gnome (down from his glory days as a ‘little Buddha,’ he later shared with me). He was well into his 70s, precariously held up between suspenders and a cane.
His relics told his story: his truck had been repainted with a number of spray cans and was adorned with stickers articulating his voting preferences. He, however, was adorned with combat medals, brotherhood pins and hard-earned scars. He thanked me for meeting him and started sharing his story. My heart broke from the onset. Jose had grown up in Catholic school under the watchful eye and quick rule of Sister Theresa. From there, he joined the Army to fight a war he didn’t understand. I got lost in the acronyms, but what I did understand was that he was an infantryman whose job was to ‘flush out Charlie with German Shepherds after Westmoreland ravaged every living thing with agent orange’. He pointed to the birthmark-looking ‘tattoo’ peeking out from his shirt sleeve; a relic from his exposure to the chemicals. After the Army, Jose finished his PhD in bugs, which he put to work in a small family pest control business which he ran "until my wife died of cancer. Then everything stopped.” He sold the business to ‘retire’, but lost everything when he found himself immersed in his son’s custody battles and ‘bad decisions made from bad character.’ He needed a used lawn mower motor because his son had stolen his money and his identity, opening and maxing out a number of credit lines. On the day we met, he was down four pants sizes from the cancer and actively wished he would die so that he could join his wife in peace.
I shook his hand and said ‘Sir, I’m sorry. I’m sorry life is not as you thought it would be. I’m sorry you lost your wife. I’m sorry your son isn’t who you’d hoped he’d be. I’m sorry your grandkids are being used as leverage against you.” He wasn’t looking for sympathy, just an ear. As he told his story, he went to the cab of the truck and let his service dog — a German Shepherd — out to meet me. As the dog came to life, so did Jose. Jose was tired and his eyes showed it, yet underneath the cancer and behind the pain was pride covered in gratitude. Here was a survivor: he made it through Sister Theresa, Boot Camp, The Viet Cong, the death of his wife and the failure of his son’s character. A survivor is who he is. Surviving is what he does.
What struck me about my conversation with Jose was the glimmer of hope: built on a foundation of gratitude. When nearly everything in his world had fallen around him, he got up again. And again. I asked him how he did it: “the Creator. I don’t understand why He operates as he does, but I do know that there is an Architect, that I am not Him and that my calling in life is to serve my brother — my fellow man — you. Don’t think me for my service, son. Thank the men and women we couldn’t bring home. Thank you for listening to an old man”.
No, Jose. Thank you for your service and thank you for the call to gratitude.