Work of Life By Robert Caridi

Robert Caridi

Personal Narrative

CW1

Work of Life

The beginning of a child’s life sets the stage for the kind of person he or she will become. Early on in my life, I was my dad’s “little helper.” Taking the first steps into my fathers’ auto repair shop was daunting, hundreds maybe thousands of cars all lined up in a row, the sound of hammers pounding on metal, loud pops followed by whining when the acetylene torches were lit, pneumatic impacts hard at work loosening and tightening bolts. The floor was like a polluted ocean, perfectly blue but stained with spots of many different fluids; smelling of exhaust and musky Chicago air. I knew there wasn’t anything my dad couldn’t fix.  I started helping my dad at about the age of 5, and it has changed my life ever since.

                When I was young, I was only concerned about how much play time I would receive and if I could stay up later than my 8:30 bedtime.  At first I used to complain that it was mind-numbing to work on his latest project, which at the time was finishing my basement. Fortunately, by the time he got home from work, it was already so close to my bedtime that I didn’t have enough time to help him work. The weekends, on the other hand, were a different story. Every weekend, in the span of about two months, if my dad was working on the basement, so was I. I used to nag and complain that I just wanted to play and not work, but my hairy, gigantor of a dad would turn to me and say, “Man up.” I eventually stopped nagging and started focusing on the task my dad gave me, such as driving a nail into the wall every so often. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the basement was finished. With its blue-gray walls, a dark blue carpet, and smelling of freshly dried paint, the basement project was pure success! I was positive that my days of working were over forever.

                As the days went on and a few years passed, no major projects were taken on by my dad. A few things here and there, like a broken faucet or a clogged bath tub drain, came up but nothing that took more than about an hour or two. Then a dilemma arose: my parents were determined to find a perfectly square table for our perfectly square dining room. The table, to my parents’ standards, didn’t exist, so my dad decided that he was going to build his own. When I found out about the upcoming project, I willingly volunteered. The reason I volunteered to help is still unclear to me to this day, but the decision I made, unknown to me, would change my life forever. My father built most of the table by himself, and after the initial build was done, it was finally time for me to step in. That was the day my father introduced me to one of the most useful and safest power-tool in all of woodworking, the palm sander. I put on some work clothes (also known as the clothes that I stained with food or drink or that had holes in them from age, the type of clothes that were no longer acceptable to wear in public anymore) and went into the shop. The shop was usually locked up for safety reasons— I was a pretty curious kid.

Taking those steps into what seemed the forbidden part of the house was a whole new experience for me. The smell of freshly cut red oak, the sight of an 8 foot by 8 foot beautiful, decorative, and hand-crafted tabletop sitting on the top of the table saw, and an endless supply of every tool known to man were in that room. Upon my arrival, I was equipped with a pair of safety glasses and a step stool; I was ready to work. After an explanation of the proper technique on how to use the sander and a short speech on safety, I got my try at using my first power tool by myself. I immediately fell in love with the loud yet soothing hum and the constant tingle that lead to the numbing of my hands coming from the little Black and Decker mouse sander that my dad bought for me to use. After hours at a time, I would emerge covered head to toe in saw dust and smelling only of raw wood. After the table was finally done being sanded my part in the job was over and it was time to move on to finishing. Unfortunately, due to the safety hazards of nearly every chemical being “Known to the state of California to cause cancer,” I was not able to help with the finish.

Year after year, my talents progressed more and more, but freshman year was the game changer in my life. It was Christmas time, and being in high school, I really wanted to make my mom something nice for the holidays. After discussing it with my dad, I decided upon a larger jewelry box. It was to be approximately 11 inches back, 13 inches across, and about 12 inches high. Being made up of a combination of ¾ inch solid red oak on the top, sides, and bottom with ¼ inch thick dividers and two smaller boxes on top of the dividers, its purpose was to store jewelry and watches. The outside was a beautiful golden brown with a layer of red felt inside the box. On top was my final personalized touch, my mother’s initials that I hand engraved. Although it wasn’t finished in time for Christmas, it still served its purpose on Valentines Day. She said it was the world’s best Valentine’s Day gift. The moment I knew that woodworking was going to be more than a hobby for me was the moment my mom instantly burst into tears upon seeing the box. Quite honestly, I felt terrible the rest of the day for making her cry before she had to go to work; however, I did later learn that they were purely tears of joy, so I was relieved. I never knew that I could create something that would have such an effect on someone.

Upon recognizing the quality of my work and hearing the endless compliments from everyone that my mom showed, I decided to start brainstorming ideas of other things I could build; I decided upon a picture frame, simple yet delicate but with a twist. I veered from the standard picture frame design and decided to create my own, which was versatile, stylish, durable, and most importantly easy to use. After completing my first picture frame, I made my design more efficient, and I made a few more frames. Needless to say, I continued making more and more items up to the point where I was putting so much money into making these items that I needed to start making money to fund my passion. Instead of going over to McDonalds or some other fast food restaurant, I did what no kid would think about doing, I started my own business. I had a couple hundred business cards printed, and Robert’s Custom Woodworking was started. Today I sell online and at local craft/art fairs as my main form of income as a college student.

I went from being a kid who didn’t want to work to a young adult who has his own business. The knowledge and experience I now have due to my persistent father is priceless, and working from a young age changed my life forever. The big, bearded man that I was once resistant to learn from has become closer to the image of my present self.