Downtown was where the county had just opened a vocational training center, and I’d read in the paper they were short a teacher for the appliance and small-engine program. I walked in with my toolbox and asked for the director.
Turned out the manufacturer cutting parts to independents was the best thing that ever happened to me, though it didn’t feel like it that afternoon in my shop. The corporate chain the young rep worked for sent out kids with a tablet and a script — swap the whole board, charge four hundred dollars, tell the customer it wasn’t worth saving. Within a year folks were furious. A washer that needed a nine-dollar coupling was getting hauled to the curb.
So I taught. Two nights a week, then four, then a full class of young men and women who wanted to know how a thing actually works. I showed them how to read a fridge that won’t cool, how to test a motor before you condemn it, how to look a single mother in the eye and charge her only what you earned. A trade doesn’t die as long as somebody’s willing to teach it.
Three of my first students opened their own shops. One took over mine when my knees finally quit. The corporate chain closed its local branch two winters later — couldn’t keep help, couldn’t keep customers.
The young rep called me obsolete. I just went and made thirty more of me.