George was a World War II vet, Pacific theater, lifetime resident of the town we grew up in, rural Maine. I worked for him at 17, building houses. He never lectured. He was quiet. He taught by doing. They called it “George’s way.” To this day, his lessons linger.
The day was abnormally hot for Maine, mid 90s, maybe August. We used to take off our shirts on those days, as kids will, thinking we needed a tan, which we didn’t – same thinking that made us proud of callouses and our “summer feat,” which got to be leather-like about that point in summer.
While we knew how to stud up walls, measure twice, cut once, pound nails without defacing, use a skill saw, build forms for cement, liked wearing an apron filled with nails, hammer to our side like a six gun, I had not yet shingled a roof. Today was the day I learned.
By habit, we arrived early, worked four hours, broke for lunch, listened to the radio, and listened to “The Rest of the Story” by Paul Harvey, a great storyteller. Then, we would go back to work, quitting around five.
On this particular day, I felt good about everything, was fit and purposeful. Once George showed me how to lay down the chalk line, snap it flush with the ridge, I was at it. Scaffolding was up, roof steep, but directions clear.
I climbed the ladder, 20-pack of asphalt shingles on a shoulder, put roofing nails in each three-tab shingle, repeated – climbing down, back up with packs until the end of the day. One side was shingled.
Proud was how I felt, capable and responsible, the way kids feel when they have worked hard, been given a good mission, gotten it done, and then– sweat wiped from under the ballcap – content. I was sure George would be pleased. George was a patient teacher, and he was on this day.
When he came around, as he tended to the end of the day, sweaty himself, he looked up at my roof. George was, as I said, a man of few words. He had been Navy in the Pacific, hell on earth, always seemed happy with life, glad for the dawn, happy with the sunset, no complaints, and a big bucktooth smile.
He gave my roof a long look and, never losing his quiet smile, came over and put his arm around me. He gave the roof another long look, then asked me, “What’a ya see up there, Bobby, lookin’ close at that roof?” I knew this was a bad sign when something deserved study and comment.
I looked closely at the roof. I had measured and snapped each chalk line with care, staggered the tabs with slits, cut off ends neatly when full shingles overshot the roofline, and finished the job.
“Look closely now, and tell me whatcha see up there …” George obviously saw something I did not. I wanted to see what he saw, show I was up to the job, good at it, able to see it, but I did not see it.
Then, all of a sudden, it hit me. There – subtly but definitely – working their way across the roof, compliments of the day’s heat, were my footprints. Barely visible, they were visible all the same. Rather than avoiding those hot shingles with my nimble feet, I had walked on them, leaving a trail.
George was not mad, did not seem mad. I do not think he was. He never got mad. He had seen too much hell on earth to think that anything this side of the war could ever be that important.
He just looked at me with that big, seemingly unchangeable, toothy smile, and said, “So tomorrow mornin’ when you get here, just up and tear them out, take ‘em all up and let’s do that again.” I nodded. He nodded. And off he went, to look into other things.
The next day, I got there early and did that, never forgot the lesson. It was the same reason he tossed warped boards, even if you could hammer them flat; same reason he used two-by-sixes where others used two-by-fours; same reason he looked closely. Do it right the first time, or not at all.
When that World War II veteran did a job, it was done right, every time. That was “George’s way,” and he got famous for that standard, not to please others but for himself. Worth pondering, if the world could only adopt “George’s way” and that happy mindset, I feel sure we would live in a better place.
Robert Charles is a former Assistant Secretary of State under Colin Powell, former Reagan and Bush 41 White House staffer, Maine attorney, ten-year naval intelligence officer (USNR), and 25-year businessman. He wrote “Narcotics and Terrorism” (2003), “Eagles and Evergreens” (North Country Press, 2018), and “Cherish America: Stories of Courage, Character, and Kindness” (Tower Publishing, 2024). He is the National Spokesman for AMAC. Today, he is running to be Maine’s next Governor (please visit BobbyforMaine.com to learn more)!
