My Hero

I don’t know what triggered it, but I got to thinking about Johnny Venesky last night. I hadn’t thought about him in many, many years, but somehow he popped into my head. Chances are great that you’ve never heard of Johnny Venesky. The truth is he lived and died and was, for the most part, unknown.
But, when I was about five years old, Johnny Venesky was my hero. I guess kids are always fascinated by uniforms. That’s probably why so many boys aspire to be policemen or firemen when they grow up.
Johnny Venesky wore a uniform. He worked for the government. He was also a neighbor of my grandmother’s, living two doors down with his wife, Mabel. Mabel was a large woman, always laughing (as I recall), always friendly to the kids in the neighborhood, and when I was a kid, I spent many hours at my grandmother’s home, and accompanying her on visits with her neighbors.
The thing I remember about Mabel Venesky is that she had a talking dog. Mabel swore the dog could talk, and my grandmother attested to the dog’s rather unique ability herself. My grandmother once told my mother, "That dog looked at me and said 'Good morning, Mrs. Carter.'"
"Carter," however was not my grandmother's name. She had remarried by this time. So my mother replied that Mabel's dog must be pretty stupid not to know that my grandmother's name had changed. My mother always knows just what to say.
In retrospect, trying to remember Mabel, I think she was probably a somewhat educated woman, but the years had apparently not always been so good to her. By the time I was old enough to understand such things, it was clear Mabel suffered from agoraphobia. At least, that was my diagnosis. For the last twenty years or so of her life, Mabel Venesky would venture no further than her front porch. Even when Johnny died, Mabel refused to go to the funeral home.
Whether Mabel was a good wife, or Johnny was a good husband was a subject that never entered my little kid head. At the time, I didn’t know much about happy marriages or miserable marriages. Mabel and Johnny just were.
As I said, Johnny was a government worker. He had a uniform. He had his equipment, unique to his particular job, and Johnny kept his equipment in spic and span shape. I can remember Johnny returning home from work, going into the back yard and spending hours (or so it seemed) cleaning his gear and getting ready for the next day’s work.
I didn’t fully understand just what Johnny did for the government, at the time, but I knew it must be intriguing. Even though my father was on the verge of graduating from MCV, and then setting up a medical practice, I had no desire to be a doctor. I wanted to be like Johnny Venesky.
Johnny was friendly. Johnny always seemed happy. I think he genuinely loved what he did. And, while I can’t prove that, he exuded so much pride in his work that I knew I wanted to walk in Johnny’s footsteps when I grew up.
And there were plenty of footsteps in which to walk. Johnny spent a lot of time on his feet. You see, Johnny Venesky was a street sweeper. Not just any street sweeper, but a Carytown Street Sweeper, although, I’m not sure they called it Carytown in the mid-fifties.
Johnny had his little cart, replete with trashcans, brooms, dustpans, a shovel, and, as I recall, other pieces of equipment to help him practice his profession. Johnny’s cart seemed to me to be the most exciting contraption I had ever seen. On those summer days, when I was at my grandmother’s house, I couldn’t wait for Johnny to come trudging down the alley, no doubt fatigued by a day of pushing his cart through the streets of (then) West End Richmond.
Looking back on the conversations I had with Johnny, the truth is he probably wasn’t the most brilliant man to ever walk the streets. But, through the years, I’ve learned time and again that brilliance doesn’t always lead to success or happiness. What Johnny lacked in mental prowess, he more than made up for in dedication to his job. He had a job to do, and my guess is that he did it well.
On those cold winter mornings, and remember, this was before global warming, when the winter mornings were often hovering around the zero mark, and I mean Fahrenheit and not Celsius, Johnny would be up and out the door, even before daybreak. He’d pick up his little cart and push it out the back gate, down the alley, and out into the city streets…streets just waiting for Johnny to work his magic.
I never accompanied Johnny on his journeys, as much as I would have liked to, but I can imagine the day was long and hard. My back hurts just sweeping the kitchen floor, and I’m probably, today, about the same age Johnny was at the time he was sweeping streets.
Johnny Venesky, I am sure, took pride in his work. If most folks today took the same pride in their work as did Johnny Venesky, I imagine I’d have a lot less things to complain about. So, I guess, from the standpoint of my having material about which to write, I’m glad there are so few Johnny Venesky’s today. I’m definitely not Johnny material. I whine and gripe and complain about every little obstacle, which I encounter in my day-to-day.
And, unlike Johnny, I never have to sweep up cigarette butts, discarded newspapers, and, a never-ending supply of dog manure. I never have to walk the streets from sunrise to sunset. I gripe if I can’t find a parking spot right in front of the store.
I realize that as much as I admired Johnny Venesky, I never thanked him for cleaning my street. I never told him that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. But, in reflecting on how proud Johnny was of his job…in reflecting on how happy it seemed to make him that I was so keenly interested in watching him organize his equipment each evening in preparation for the next morning, I think Johnny would have liked that.
That’s been a lifetime ago, but I think the next time I see a McDonald’s wrapper, or a discarded beer can lying on the road, I’ll stop and pick it up…just a little tip of my hat to Johnny Venesky.