Life 101: The Mechanic

Cecil Kitchens was a mechanic who worked on all my vehicles, lawnmowers and tillers when I was younger. He lived in an immaculate white frame house on Red Star Hill near Old Dora.

The front porch reached across the entire front of the house with big white rocking chairs for porch sitting weather. He kept his hedges and lawns manicured and his garage was cleaner than most homes. He never advertised. No signs pointed to his shop but he was always busy- winter, spring, summer and fall.

Every year, I took my mowers and tiller over for annual maintenance, usually arranging my day so that I could spend some time watching him work. I know it’s hard to imagine but he was an artist with tools. He built his shop with his own hands- nothing fancy yet always in order. When he went to the bench for a tool, he never had to look around. He knew exactly where to place his hands for the right tool.

His motions were fluid. His conversation was intelligent. Mr. Kitchens was never boastful, vulgar or judgmental and I never heard him say anything negative about another person.

When he finished working on my machines, he would sit in the shade near thedoor of his shop, cleaning his tools one by one with a rag. When he was finished, he would return each tool to its place on pegboards or on the shop table. He handled his tools with care, as if they were heirlooms.

I watched him work on an old Plymouth once while I was waiting my turn. It had a nasty miss. The owner had taken the old car to a number of reputable mechanics that told him it was a bad head gasket or recommended that he replace the carburetor – either repair was an expensive proposition. He brought it to Mr. Kitchens as a last resort.

Mr. Kitchens cranked the car, walked to the front, carefully opened the hood and listened. He stood still, slightly moving only his head from time to time.

“Do you hear that?” he asked. I moved closer. So did the owner. We listened as if we were trying to pick out the sound of an oboe in a Vivaldi concerto,

“That!” Mr. Kitchens prompted.

All I could hear was an old engine coughing and missing as if it were on its last leg. Mr. Kitchens moved over to one side and slid his hand toward the back of the engine, down close to the distributor cap, searching carefully with his hand until he found the vacuum hose that runs somewhere deep in the engine compartment.

He found the hose, slid his finger up and down until he felt the tiniest hint of suction, and then sealed the leak with his thumb. The engine purred like a sewing machine.

A few minutes later Mr. Kitchens had cut a length of small rubber hose from a larger hose arranged on his shop wall and replaced the defective vacuum. He charged the owner $3. The man paid with three wrinkled bills and was on his way with a satisfied smile on his face. “You can learn a lot from listening,” Mr. Kitchens said as the man drove away.

I was young and I knew that I enjoyed his company. I had no inkling the depth and wisdom of his words. These days life comes at you fast. Often we spend more time reacting than thinking or listening. I think we all could benefit from Mr. Kitchen’s words. “ You can learn a lot from listening.” Listen. You might be amazed by what you hear and learn.