Father Said To Do It Properly

My second job, like my lawn-mowing gig, was arranged by my father. A local daycare center needed a janitor to come in every evening and do some cleaning. There was a tile hallway, five or six classrooms, and a couple of restrooms. In return for cleaning these, I would be paid four dollars an hour for two hours of work each day. That was a little more than minimum wage at the time, so I took home about $150 a month. It seemed like a fortune.

My specific duties were clearly laid out for me. I was to empty the trash, vacuum all of the classrooms, sweep and mop the hall as needed, and clean the bathrooms. I wasn't sure what they expected me to do when it came to the tile bathroom floors and hall. Along the baseboards and around the bottoms of the toilets, the tiles were dingy and not very clean. Did they expect me to make the floors spotless or simply maintain them as they were when I began the job?

I wasn't experienced enough as an employee to get this issue clearly spelled out before I began. I decided that they wanted me to simply maintain things at their present state. In truth, that was likely what they intended, given the small amount of time I was to work each day. To do more would have meant staying longer than two hours.

For months, that's exactly what I did. I emptied all the trash cans, vacuumed the classrooms, swabbed out the toilets, cleaned the sinks, and mopped the bathroom floors. Once a week I mopped the hall, but most of the time I only swept it with a dust-mop.

Occasionally the director of the daycare would leave me a note if she wanted something specific done, but for the most part I was left to myself. I worked after hours and never saw anyone. I did enough work to maintain the place, and that seemed good enough to me. I never received a complaint.

Then one evening, my father showed up to see how I was doing. I was just finishing when he arrived. I showed him the classrooms, restrooms, and hall.

He frowned when he looked at the hallway.

"This floor is dirty," he said.

I looked around. There were scuff marks here and there and other stains that sweeping and simple mopping couldn't clean. The bathroom floors were the same. I had gotten used to the way they looked and really didn't notice anymore.

"Well, that's the way it looked when I got the job. I sweep it every night and mop it sometimes. It's not gotten any dirtier since I took over."

My father blinked a couple of times. Clearly my words did not make sense to him.

"Yes, but the floors are dirty. You're the janitor, so you've got to clean them properly."

My heart sank. I knew what to expect when my father said something ought to be done properly. It meant he was going to get involved, and there would be no stopping until things were done to his satisfaction. At this point. I discovered something about my father that I had not known. He had been a janitor himself once, years before. He knew all about tile floors and their maintenance.

"First we'll have to strip the wax off the floors in the hallway and bathrooms. You do that with a chemical. Then we clean them thoroughly, apply a new coat of wax, and buff them until they shine. I think we can borrow a professional buffer from our church."

"But I only get paid for two hours of work," I said. "This is going to take a lot more than that."

My father looked at me carefully. "Sometimes you finish this work in less than two hours, don't you?"

It was true. By hustling and running I had learned to do my work in an hour and a half or maybe an hour and forty-five minutes.

"Well, then you probably owe them some time anyway. But Gordon, the important thing is, this is your job. You're the janitor. You need to take pride in your work. If you do, in the longrun, you won't have to worry about how much you get paid. That will come to you."

My dad and I stripped, cleaned, and waxed the hall and bathroom floors together one evening that week. It was every bit as grueling as I had anticipated. There were chemicals involved and multiple steps, including buffing the floor with a large machine that slung me back and forth into the walls until I got the hang of it. We worked until late that night, but when we were done, those floors shined. We were very proud of our work.

The next evening there was a note from the daycare director, praising me for the beautiful floors. "Everyone was talking about it today. Keep up the good work."

I worked there for about a year. When I left, I recall that the administrator said she would miss me. I think she meant it.

I wish I could say that every place I've worked over the years appreciated extra effort and excellent work. Unfortunately, there are many dysfunctional workplaces where going above and beyond the call is not only ignored but sometimes punished by supervisors who are threatened by that sort of thing. Nothing kills human initiative and pride like a toxic workplace. But over time, my father's wisdom has proven to be true.

Do your work as though it were a reflection upon your character. It is. Keep your mind on doing your best and not on the clock. Whatever work you do, do it well. And over the course of your lifetime, you won't have to worry about getting paid enough. In the longrun, people usually receive what they have justly earned.

Gordon Atkinson is an active member of our blog network at HighCallingBlogs.com.