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Your Work is a Reflection of Who You Are

By Howie R.

 

I was born in the spring of 1952 in a small town, Duquesne, Pennsylvania, where life was simple, but values ran deep. My parents, John and Edith, were products of the Great Depression and World War II. They were both raised in households where hard work, loyalty, and integrity were paramount and they carried these principles into their own lives. Growing up in the aftermath of these monumental events meant that the values of sacrifice, service, and community were not just abstract ideals—they were lived experiences in our family.
My father was a steelworker, and my mother a homemaker. We didn’t have much but what we had was always enough, and more importantly, it was earned. My parents taught me early on that nothing in life would be handed to me. I remember my father telling me, “Son, you get out of life what you put into it. Don’t ever expect something for nothing.” Those words would echo through my mind for years. But it wasn’t until a summer day in 1967, when I was 15, that I fully understood their meaning.
That summer, I had been tasked with mowing lawns in the neighborhood to earn some spending money. My parents believed in the value of work and they weren’t about to let me sit idle for three months, no matter how much I wanted to. I’d managed to pick up a few regular customers, and one of them was old Mr. Baumann, who lived down the street. He was a widower in his late seventies and lived alone in a large, slightly run-down house. He was a quiet man, didn’t say much, and often sat on his porch watching the world go by. I never really paid him much attention, but he paid me a dollar for every mow, which in those days, was a decent bit of change.
One Saturday morning, I showed up at Mr. Baumann’s house, ready to get the job done. It was hot—so hot that the heat seemed to shimmer off the pavement. I was tired, sweaty, and had other places I wanted to be. Halfway through mowing his yard, the mower sputtered and ran out of gas. I was frustrated, hot, and annoyed. I looked over at Mr. Baumann who was sitting on his porch as usual, sipping a glass of iced tea. He waved at me, but I barely waved back. I just wanted to get out of there.
I debated walking home to get more gas or just calling it quits for the day. After all, I’d already done most of the yard, and Mr. Baumann probably wouldn’t even notice the part that wasn’t finished. The thought of lounging in my air-conditioned house was tempting, and the idea of putting in extra effort for a task that wasn’t really my problem felt unnecessary.
But as I stood there, weighing my options, my father’s voice echoed in my head: “You get out of life what you put into it. Don’t ever expect something for nothing.” I knew what he would say if I told him I didn’t finish the job. He’d tell me, disappointingly, that half-done work was no work at all. And he’d be right.
With a sigh, I walked the three blocks back to my house, grabbed the gas can, and returned to finish the job. When I was done, I knocked on Mr. Baumann’s door to let him know I’d finished. He shuffled to the door slowly, as he always did. But this time he invited me in. I didn’t want to be rude, so I followed him into his house.
Inside it was dark and cool with a faint smell of mothballs and old wood. He offered me a seat in his living room. And as I sat down, I noticed pictures on the walls—black and white photos of a young man in uniform, a wedding photo, and pictures of children who must have been his. It was the first time I’d really thought about Mr. Baumann’s life, about the fact that he had once been young, had once had a family, and that now he was alone.
We sat there in silence for a while, and then he said something I’ll never forget: “You know, boy, when I was your age, I worked on my father’s farm. We didn’t have much, but my dad always said that your work is a reflection of who you are. Do it right, or don’t do it at all.” He looked me square in the eyes, and I could tell he knew I’d almost walked away from his lawn half-mowed. He didn’t have to say anything more. The lesson was clear.
When I left his house that day I felt different—like I’d passed some invisible test, not just from Mr. Baumann but from myself. Walking back home, I realized that responsibility wasn’t just about doing what was asked of you. It was about doing what was right, even when no one was watching, even when it was hard, or inconvenient, or when you didn’t think it mattered.
That lesson would shape the man I became in more ways than I could have imagined at 15. A few years later when I was drafted into the Army during the Vietnam War, I thought often of Mr. Baumann’s words and my father’s advice. Serving in the military required a level of responsibility I hadn’t even begun to grasp as a teenager. The discipline, the loyalty to my fellow soldiers, and the commitment to something greater than myself—it all stemmed from that core lesson: responsibility is a reflection of who you are.
After my time in the service, when I married my high school sweetheart and started a family of my own, the lessons of that day guided how I raised my children. I taught them, as my parents taught me, that the value of hard work, integrity, and personal responsibility was not negotiable. There were times when my kids, like all kids, pushed back, wanting to take the easy road. But I always told them, “You get out of life what you put into it,” and I could see the truth of that lesson sink in with them over time, just as it had for me so many years before.
As I moved through different careers—first as a mechanic, then later running my own small business—I always held onto the belief that the quality of my work was a reflection of my character. Whether I was fixing an engine or managing a team of employees, I never took shortcuts. I never cut corners. And because of that, I earned the respect of those around me.
Now, as I sit here in the later years of my life, with children grown and grandchildren starting to ask me about life, I often think back to that sweltering summer day in 1967. It’s strange how one small moment can so profoundly influence your character in ways you don’t realize at the time. But looking back, I can see that day for what it was: a turning point. A moment when I learned that being a man isn’t about the size of your paycheck or the number of accolades you collect. It’s about how you show up in the small moments, the ones where no one is watching, and no one will know if you cut corners.
Because, in the end, your work—your life—is a reflection of who you are. And I wanted to be the kind of man who could look back on his life and know that he’d done it right.

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Published with permission by the author. 

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