Homage to mechanics, who labor in obscurity

Bob Martin

is a former Inquirer writer

and editor

Today, when many will mark the end of summer with a beach bash, or will luxuriate in the advent of five months of football, I choose to focus on the grease monkey.

I use the term deliberately. If it were a description of an ethnic or racial group, it would be rightfully banished from acceptable vocabulary. But in that it refers to a group of workers - mechanics, in polite parlance - who operate on the edge of invisibility, there's no protest to be heard.

These days, I'm not sure if Labor Day should prompt celebration or mourning.

The American labor movement, which gave us the eight-hour day and the minimum wage, among other things, is bailing water from a leaky ship.

One of America's biggest exports is the outsourcing of manufacturing, information-technology and personal-services jobs to the Third World. Call mechanics what you wish, but one thing is certain: Their jobs are too immediate, too hands-on, too face-to-face to be shipped overseas.

Indeed, they join a long list of "anchored" workers - nurses, police, retail-sales clerks, day-care employees, to name a few - whose jobs can't be outsourced.

But what makes mechanics different is their obscurity. They typically toil in the off-limits back shops, where grease and gasoline permeate their skin, engine blades bloody their fingers, and temperatures are often stifling.

Balance all that with the constant demand for problem-solving and critical thinking, and you'll see why I choose to honor mechanics this Labor Day.

Until last summer, I was part of the out-of-sight, out-of-mind mindset about the group. Then my lawn mower malfunctioned. I could take it to Sears, have it shipped off to a repair center, and wait at least two weeks for its return.

Or I could approach my neighbor, a small-engine repairman.

I opted for the latter. And after 40 minutes, this deft surgeon had the mower running like new, having diagnosed the problem even before taking things apart.

The experience gave me not just a working mower, but also a new appreciation for the talent and resourcefulness of the small-engine mechanic.

I honor their work without romanticizing it; I've mentioned the uncomfortable working conditions. Now consider the pay of these soldiers who are the first line of defense against the throwaway society: about $31,000 annually on average, rising to a top figure of about $50,000 for the veterans.

It's a good wage, but not anything to get rich on.

Frank DiEgidio's career reflects the ups and downs of a mechanic. DiEgidio, of Glenolden, Delaware County, rose from the parts department, to repairman, to technical manager at Sears before being downsized in 2002 and replaced by a younger man at lower pay.

Frank loved the work, especially when he could fix an engine and see the customer's face light up upon hearing "OK, you're all set now." But there were also times when a patron got angry that a simple repair resulted in a hefty home-visit fee.

His standard retort: "Sir, you're not paying me for what I do. You're paying me for what I know."

That's strong language, especially from a guy who smells like an exhaust pipe and is known as a grease monkey. But he's right, as would be a doctor or lawyer if either uttered the same thought.

Charles Graydus is a small-engine-repair instructor at Octorara High School in Atglen, Chester County, and Brandywine Center for Arts & Technology in Coatesville, which operates in partnership with Delaware County Community College. His message is, Don't get too hung up on terminology.

"For my kids, it's kind of a compliment to call them grease monkeys," he said. "I don't see it as a bad word. Grease monkeys are probably making more money than the people who call them grease monkeys."

So

grease monkey

it is for these craftsmen whose purpose is to take the

in

out of

inoperative

.

Demeaning? Yes, but I hope provocative, too. Perhaps it will serve to remind us this holiday that their intensive, grimy labors bear bountiful fruit for the rest of us.