by Jake Geuer
In 1999, I was a teenager who didn’t care much for school—a struggling student at ADHS.
That was until a co-op program came along—an opportunity to earn school credit.
I applied, and a certain teacher—we’ll call him Mr. Cool—obliged.
There were two basic rules: I’d work for credit, not cash. And I couldn’t work for a relative.
The following week, I started detailing cars at my great-uncle’s dealership, Almonte Motors, for $7 an hour.
Uncle Edgar taught me a few things. How to wax a car (most people back then learned from The Karate Kid). How to cut keys. How to pick a lock if needed. How using newspaper was the cheapest and best way to clean windows—plus, it gave me a chance to sneak a look at the latest Sunshine Girl in the Ottawa Sun. How to earn a buck.
Most importantly, he taught me how to treat people: with a firm handshake and a warm smile. Edgar was charming and honest.
Between detailing old Buicks and shining up Gamble’s fleet of Caddies for funerals, I’d wander upstairs to the office above the garage. Edgar would be sitting at his desk, across from his friend Mike—another great-uncle of mine. Mike was known to be so funny he could make a dog laugh.
I would keep a keen ear as they would reminisce, tell old stories, and keep a close eye on who was walking in and out of the Legion across the street. A dear friend, Leo, would often make his way over, hands stuffed in his pockets. Mike would joke that he was counting his change.
One day, while on a break, sipping a rum and Coke (for color), we heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A potential customer, we thought.
We were wrong.
At the top of the stairs, Mr. Cool appeared.
“I’m busted,” I thought to myself.
Right away, Uncle Edgar offered him a chair and a glass of rum.
Mr. Cool politely declined and got straight to business. “How’s he working out?”
“Great,” Edgar responded. “Worth every penny I pay him.”
Strike one. I slumped in my chair.
Mr. Cool frowned. “This is a co-op program. You don’t have to pay him.”
Edgar shrugged. “He’s my nephew. Of course I’m going to pay him.”
Strike two. I considered jumping out the window.
Then Mike, casually swirling his drink, said, “Well, this rum isn’t gonna drink itself.”
Mr. Cool declined again, shot me a look, and retreated down the stairs.
With the rules bent, I earned the credit—and a life lesson.
Not one from a textbook or a computer, but from getting my hands dirty. A lesson in street smarts, courtesy of my great uncles.
And a teacher who, thankfully, understood that some lessons aren’t learned in a classroom.
