Pride

I had a new dishwasher installed. The installer was a tiny man of Italian ancestry skinny and wiry with a Roman nose, far from young, a long faded navy tattoo on his arm. He was probably my height, and I probably outweigh him by a good 50 pounds.

In casual conversation he spoke of being in Okinawa when the decision was made to invade Japan in WWII, and how he and the other troops had no idea what was happening. And how he, at 18, thought a 23 year old pilot was an old man. I added up the years in my head. He must be about 77 now.

By himself he wrestled my old dishwasher out of it's hole onto hand-truck, down the couple of steps from kitchen to breezeway and out front. I knew better than to offer to do much more than hold the doors. He complained about how heavy the old models are and said he'd need to bring another guy by later to help load the machine into his van for removal.

When his back was turned I gave the machine a wiggle. Truly it was not very heavy, though perhaps heavier than the new on. I could probably lift the thing myself. So I said, carefully, "If you want, I THINK you and I together might be able to get it into the van"

Of course he refused.

A friend of mine later said that she was surprised I didn’t simply pop it into the van. “No” I said, “the man has his pride.”

I left after he was gone. On my return the old dishwasher was gone. My neighbor, who was cleaning his gutters, said that he had returned by himself and managed to haul it up into his van. My neighbor, who is a big guy, also made motions to offer to help, but quickly realized that help was not wanted, nor, in fact, truly needed.

Pride can be a problem. But this man takes pride in his work. He explained things I did not know about dishwashers and plumbing. One might think him not young meeting him, but not guess he was so old as 77. At this moment, his pride serves him well. Hopefully when he truly needs help, he will ask, and knowing his normal independence, people will jump in to assist.