My cousin, Gene, was a big brother to me. He was four years older, so he passed several of his discoveries on to me. When I was nine, he asked me if I still believed in Santa Claus. I did because I knew my mom and dad wouldn’t buy the things I received from Santa. But when he asked, I lied and said, “No”.
He played the accordion for a while, so I thought playing a musical instrument might be worth a try. I played the clarinet, until the rental period expired. Later, I took on the guitar, but stopped taking lessons when I was in the seventh grade. We had a house fire, so Mom cancelled my lessons while we were out of our house. I never started again. I still have the guitar, but the clarinet is long gone.
We grew up in a time when there were two distinct groups of teens, the greasers and the frats. While Gene and I never spoke of the two groups, he was more greaser than frat. He kept his hair slicked back, carried his cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve, and bought and sold cars faster than the State of Michigan could process the “pink slips”. He lived his late teen years running the fast side of life. He reminded me of Ed “Kookie” Burns from the TV show, Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip.
When I was in the ninth grade, Gene started styling my hair. He created a new look for me. I kept it for a couple years. Two of my “Walker girl” cousins, Liz and Ruth Ellen, lobbied the frat side of my brain. Crew cuts and Madras plaid were more their style. When the end of my junior year rolled around, I was sporting Madras and short hair.
Gene received a cool shoeshine kit one Christmas. We discussed becoming young entrepreneurs by shining shoes on the streets of Mt. Clemens. I didn’t have a “kit” so I built my own, knowing full well I’d be able to buy a new one once we hit it big. It wasn’t fancy, but it held all my supplies. I was twelve and he was sixteen when the business bug bit. He could drive, so he could take us to downtown Detroit to work our magic. We understood we’d have to work in the suburbs until we mastered our craft.
The only shoes I ever shined for cash belonged to my dad, my uncles and my Grandpa Barner. They gave me a quarter so I could practice my craft. I don’t know if Gene hit the streets with his, but I used my kit for the next sixty years. I gave it up when we sold our lake house and moved into our condo. It holds a place of honor on the wall above David’s fridge in the garage of his lake cottage. He uses it to store beer koozies.
I chalk the kits’ longevity up to my fine workmanship and the skills I learned in my seventh-grade woodshop class. While the top portion of the locking mechanism is gone, the pine boards have stood the test of time. The inspiration of its creation is among my fondest memories.