A DIFFERENT KIND OF LEGACY
by Joy Packard-Higgins
His hands were rough and dry, a testament to a lifetime of hard work. No matter how much lotion or hand cream he applied, the calluses remained, created by years of mopping floors, washing windows, scrubbing restroom fixtures, and unclogging drains. As a child, I saw him as just Grandpa—a tall man whose quiet presence filled my world with love. But as I grew, I began to see him differently: not just as my grandfather, but as a man who found pride in his work, no matter how menial it seemed to others. He carried himself with a humility that commanded respect.
Grandpa worked as a janitor at the local bank. Every morning, he rose before the sun, ate a bowl of cereal, drank a cup of black coffee, and left for the first part of his split-shift schedule. He wore a gray uniform with a white patch embroidered in red over the left shirt pocket that read “American National Bank, and on the left, another that said “Burton.”
Thanks to his efforts the night before, the lobby and offices were immaculate when the bank staff arrived. Yet, his work was far from done. He placed clean rubber mats at the entrances, hoisted the American flag on its pole, swept the sidewalks, and cleaned up debris from the parking lot. Inside, he brewed the first of several enormous urns of coffee that fueled the bank staff.
His morning was a mix of tasks, from fixing light switches to stopping dripping faucets. But at 8:20, his focus shifted. He unlocked the entrance doors and greeted the arriving staff warmly and sincerely. “Morning, Miz Damron. Looks like we’re going to have a fine day,” he’d say with a smile. His genuine interest in people made them feel valued.
Dean Damron, who had risen from a clerical position to bank vice president, was one of Grandpa’s favorites. He admired her for never putting on airs despite her lofty position. She was down to earth, a quality he deeply respected.
Before leaving at 10:30, Grandpa might unclog a toilet, retrieve boxes of supplies from the storage room, or clean up a coffee spill in the staff kitchen. He always checked the coffee urn and started another if needed. Then he’d head home for lunch with Grandma, read the newspaper, feed the dog, and take a two-hour nap.
Grandma worked the evening shift as Grandpa’s assistant. I loved the summer when I could tag along with them. They found little tasks for me, such as replenishing the deposit slips and other customer forms. One evening, as I helped dust the teller stations, I asked, “Grandpa, do you like being a janitor?”
He paused, leaning on his dust mop, and smiled at me. “Well, I like having a job. A man has to provide for his family, and this job lets me do that. The people here are good to me. It’s honest work.” Grinning, he added, “Did you know this bank couldn’t run without me?” Seeing my confusion, he explained, “If the bank isn’t clean, customers won’t want to come in. If something’s broken, the bankers can’t do their jobs. And if there’s no coffee, they might fall asleep at work.”
“I didn’t know being a janitor was so important, Grandpa.”
“Joylene,” he said gently, “every job is important. Without the tellers, people couldn’t deposit checks or withdraw money. The bigwigs couldn’t send letters or keep track of their papers without the secretaries. And customers couldn’t take out loans if Miz Damron didn’t do her job. It takes everyone to make this bank successful. I take pride in my work. Any job worth doing is worth doing well.”
This was a lengthy speech from Grandpa, usually a man of few words. His message stayed with me, even if I didn’t fully understand it then. Over time, I watched him treat every task with equal care—whether buffing a freshly waxed floor or weeding the bank’s flower beds. He never rushed, cut corners, or complained. Each day was another opportunity to do his best, even if no one noticed.
Grandpa also cleaned the small Baptist church where he and Grandma were members. Though the pay was modest, Grandpa saw it as service to God. Some of his finest work was done here, accompanied by the hymns he sang while mopping the floors. “Serve the Lord with Gladness” was a favorite—a perfect summary of his religious philosophy.
At 16, I landed my first job at Ken’s Dairy Boy and began understanding Grandpa’s lessons. I worked part-time after school, taking orders, making ice cream treats, cleaning sticky tables, and washing dishes. It was hard work for a princely wage of $1.00 per hour. A demanding boss and cranky customers sometimes made the job feel thankless. But when I felt unappreciated, I’d think of Grandpa and the pride he took in his work. I realized that dignity wasn’t about the type of work you did—it was about the attitude you brought to it.
One evening, at the end of a particularly tiring shift, I remembered Grandpa’s words: “It takes everyone to make this place successful. Take pride in your work. Any job worth doing is worth doing well.” Taking a deep breath, I tackled the unpleasant task of cleaning the ice cream machine. I wasn’t just cleaning but contributing to the business's success. That subtle shift in perspective made all the difference. My work was necessary, and I was doing it well. That was enough.
After Grandpa died at 91, I reflected on his life and the lessons he imparted. Society often undervalues many jobs, especially those that involve manual labor, yet these roles are essential, and those who do them deserve respect and recognition. There is dignity in all work. Part of our worth lies in how we treat those we encounter.
I’ll always carry this lesson with me, just as I carry the memory of Grandpa’s strong, capable hands.
JOY PACKARD-HIGGINS is a retired elementary school principal who rediscovered her love of writing through Story Circle Network. She resides in Illinois with her husband and is a proud mother and grandmother. She writes fiction, memoir, and the occasional poem.