By Phil Hugo
Guest Columnist
It’s early June, and late spring is casting flirtatious glances at the not-too-distant early summer. Bird song makes its way through an open bedroom window, and I admire multi-colored blossoms in the garden below. With blue skies overhead, it looks to be a good day to get after my part of the world.
I make my way to the bedroom closet and look at the clothes on my side of the cramped space, which is not a great repository of threaded garments. I have never considered myself to be a man of fashion, and if you were to see my wardrobe you might agree. Shirts, long and short-sleeved, a couple of sports jackets, Jerry Garcia ties, work pants and so on.
When I was a handyman taking care of my customers’ properties for some 30 years, e.g. painting, cleaning gutters, trimming shrubs and doing other projects that keep a property functioning and looking well maintained, I wore clothes that fit the chores at hand. Depending on the season, standard attire was long and short-legged carpenter jeans along with long-sleeved flannel or work T-shirts. Unfashionable function.
I’m retired but still consider myself a working stiff because I have our estate on High to maintain. Today I will pull a pair of work shorts from a shelf, grab a T-shirt and some foundational items from a drawer and show up for work. After breakfast, of course.
When I worked in customers’ homes, say painting a bedroom, the closet door might have been closed, and if I needed to open it to paint trim or remove door hardware, I never commented on what I saw. Not my business.
Our bedroom is on the second floor, so there would not be a reason for a service worker to enter that room unless an individual was there to clean the carpet in that space and the adjoining hall and stairway. However, there is an exception, and that is where my friend, Dave Crawford, comes in. His company has been doing the job since 2003, so he knows the place quite well.
When Dave shows up, I usually help him pull hoses, place corner guards, and we chat while he works. At some point last year, Dave informed me I needed to get some new clothes because he was tired of looking at the same old thing. Being the easygoing guy that I am, I didn’t take offense, but the nerve of that man! I should have told him he was there to clean the carpet, not critique my wardrobe. He finished the job, we shook hands, and he moved on.
I knew I would fix him the next time he showed up, so I had a year to review my options. I could purchase a couple of new shirts, rearrange what is there or take some items out of garment bags and put them in the mix. Would Dave even notice what I did? It would have been a year, and what is it they say about the memory as we grow older?
We scheduled a date for this past June, and I couldn’t wait to fix him. I fastened a well-used painter’s drop cloth over the shelves and hanger rod to hide the goods. “Yes!”
Dave showed up, I helped, he started cleaning and I watched and waited. He noticed and asked, “What’s this?” “Well Dave, remember your comment last year about being tired of looking at the same clothes?” Of course, he tried to wiggle out of it.
“No, that’s not what I said!”
“Yes, Dave, you did.”
He got a good laugh out of it. “I thought maybe there was a hole in the wall you were covering up.” He couldn’t resist taking a peek.
I told Dave that if I spent money on new clothes just to keep him happy, I wouldn’t have any left to buy food to feed friends and family. “Oh, so now it’s about affording food. Maybe I should tell your friends to buy you some clothes so you can afford to feed us!”
It was comical, and as he moved into the hallway, his comment was: “I need to come here more often.” The job was completed, I helped him pack up and he was off — until next year.
But before then, my wife Karen and I will invite Dave and his wife Barb to break bread with us at our table for good food and laughter. Sans new clothes.
Phil Hugo lives in Lima. His column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Lima News editorial board or AIM Media, owner of The Lima News.
