Baptist Spirituality

When my sister and I were walking on the Midland Beach pier the other day, we were reflecting on how our father impacted our lives. We spoke about how our dad shaped our approach to life, and we wondered whether we had too an idealistic point of view for our own good.

We agreed that Dad had faults like everyone else, but that our father, a television repair man since 18 years of age, still holds a place of heroism in our imagination.

One of the ways I personally reflected on this heroism was considering the work space that made Dad larger than life. His many shops over the years were lairs from which he wielded great power and great responsibility. These lairs were not bat caves or mansions or tech-hubs, they were television repair shops often rented out of spaces connected with video rental stores, store fronts, or the simple lean-to.

My father’s places of business had three sections.  The first section greeted guests, solicitors, and customers. This was the place of greeting in which hand-made signs told clients of the various prices, from “free estimates” to hourly labor costs.  A welcome chime or security-triggered ring informed Dad that a customer had entered his sacred premises.  There was also a trophy wall, which displayed my father’s certifications (in dollar-store plastic frames) so that people could see his education and years of experience regardless of his oft-stated position that most televisions were pieces of junk. 

The front counter, about bar-height, was made out of an old door and L-supports, covered in carpeting.  A nearly-ancient cash register and credit card machine created a caveat where wires, highlighters, Sharpies, and ballpoint trade pens were held for safe keeping.  A notepad with some manufacturer’s name — likely snagged at a trade show along with those pens — sat beside the telephone so that we, Dad’s children, and his nephews (part-time employees all of us) were able to take notes and record customers’ information in his absence. 

The second section of Dad’s lair was reserved for repairs. It included all kinds of gadgets used to diagnose, repair, and restore televisions, VCRs and microwaves.  I did not know how many of these diagnostic machines worked, and I rarely saw my father use them.  I believe, to this day, that most were antiques, placeholders that reminded Dad of the good times of yesteryear and provided the illusion that my father knew what he was doing despite his lack of social decorum.  

Here also was his trusty work bench, again constructed from old doors (“Doors are cheap,” my father always said), L-supports, and 2X4s.  Power strips, extension cords, and surge protectors adorned the structure.  Lamps with telescopic arms hung over him like mechanical claws threatening to choke anyone who got in the way.  A television or two, left behind by some negligent customer, sat in a corner and played various game shows that kept my father present to the outside world while he worked tirelessly through the day.  Schematics and other books, which lined hand-made shelves that sagged under Florida’s humidity, collected dust.  Containers of various sizes stored parts, electrodes, doodads, and other items you see at local Radio Shacks.  Larger spare parts were thrown in corners, and the skeletons of televisions in disrepair sat patiently on other, peripheral shelves or carts, awaiting parts that Dad had ordered. 

This is an appropriate time to mention that when my father died, it took two of his colleagues, television repairmen whom my father knew from his union, nearly two full workdays to go through these parts that he had collected over forty years of being in the business.  They were legitimate repairmen.  I could tell by their fancy, ad-laden vans.

The third section of Dad’s shop was what my cousins coined “The Graveyard.” The Graveyard was a place enshrouded in superhero mystery and mayhem.  This was where all of the derelict televisions and spare parts went. Stories about the graveyard abound.

On at least one occasion, my cousin — Dad’s nephew — asked Dad to repair his TV.  My father looked at it, took apart the back panel, and provided a brief diagnosis. This typically spelled the TV’s demise because very rarely is a flat screen worth fixing: “This TV is garbage, just buy a new one,” to which my cousin responded, “Come on, Uncle Vin, fix it for me; I can’t afford a new TV.” Extensive hassling ensued, and Dad eventually took the television against his will. 

According to legend, the result of this exchange became inevitable.  Months went by, and my father failed to produce a repaired television.  My cousin lamented of having to watch a small TV while awaiting the repair of the larger one.  Dad insisted that the television was garbage, and the very same conflict erupted between them several more times.  Finally, after wrangling with Dad, my cousin visited Dad’s shop to check on the television.  According to my cousin’s eyewitness account, he found remnants of his television in The Graveyard, salvaged for spare parts. 

Failing to learn his lesson, my cousin gave Dad a second television about a decade later. After a few months, that TV went missing entirely.  Whether my father scrapped the television and sold the parts, or whether he restored it only to sell it to a customer still remains a mystery to this day. 

It was not long after that my family became weary of my father’s intentions to repair televisions belonging to relatives.  It was indeed far better to spend money on a new one than give it to a man who relegated each beloved boob-tube to the bottomless abyss of that deathly hallowed ground in the third section of his shop.  These experiences were ever reminders that disposable televisions, in general, were marking the end of a trade so beloved by my father.

When a customer entered the store, my father began his long, ambling journey from the back of the shop to the front.  This journey consisted of drinking a mouthful of water from a gallon jug, belching, coughing, unbuckling his belt, tucking in his light-blue work shirt, buckling the belt back, and greeting the customer with an awkward “Yes, How can I help you?“

Customers, in turn, presented Dad with both a frustration and an opportunity: A frustration in that people placed too much value on their disposable televisions, and an opportunity that said customer might deliver on what my father called “PD”, a payday.  Dad’s only pitch consisted of either a free verbal estimate (consisting of two choices, either “Throw it in the dumpster” or “Yeah, we can fix this”), or the three-decades-old “special price” of  $69.99.  If I remember correctly, when the economy accelerated around 2000, the rate ballooned to $ 79.99.  Dad added a service fee later on, after moving to Pennsylvania, because he had to travel through the Poconos to reach his clients.

I don’t know what customers made of Dad.  His glasses were always askew, the prices always questionable, and his presentation rather idiosyncratic.  It takes a great deal of trust to put one’s television in the hands of a repairman, akin to placing your loved one in the hands of a surgeon.  But this was Dad’s business model that got us through college, employed nephews, and offered a decent home and a sailboat.  Paydays were more common than disrepair, and for all of my father’s social awkwardness, he always seemed to win the hearts of friends and strangers alike.  It was his gift to the world and his ministry to grateful television-owners everywhere.

There was one advantage to having a television repairman for a father: We were never without a television or VCR in our own home.  Although our entertainment appliances were always second-hand and of questionable sources — most likely cobbled together by various sets in The Graveyard — we had the best TVs and VCRs.  We had every upgrade available, from state-of-the-art video recorders and players, to decent surround-sound systems that brought movies to life.  That my father befriended people whose businesses thrived on these electronics—mainly salesmen at electronic stores and purveyors of video rental stores— we also seemed to have unlimited access to cable equipment and rental movies.  We often saw new releases before they became available to the public, and we were able to watch movies numerous times without threat of late fees.  Dad excelled in bartering, a preferred system among television men, as archaic as it was. 

Dad’s repair shops were more than workplaces, they were incubators for learning.  It was a place for us to hang out after school, and it was not uncommon to find Dad’s nephews spending time with him, making a few bucks on the side.  One of Dad’s nephews works for one of the largest energy utilities in South Florida to this day and uses the basic skill set he learned from Dad over the years.  Another nephew purchased a home, started a retirement plan, and birthed a family before he was 30 years of age using a budget Dad taught him when he lived with our family after graduating high school.

My father’s wisdom, otherwise known as Vinnyisms, became family lore and embodied our deepest values concerning friendships, frugality, and faithfulness.  Loyalty was more important than making a quick buck, and family always came first — even when, or especially when, disagreements or friction arose.  Friendships were the means whereby iron sharpened iron, and discipline guaranteed that when one worked hard, one had the permission to play hard—even if play only meant watching a movie with a bowl of ice cream at the end of the day. But it was his lair that embraced us all in the long haul of living life together, even if our TVs ended up in The Graveyard.