Giving Thanks for the Little Things—In This Case The Details
A Reflection on an American Made “Detail” Oriented Work Ethic
By Maureen Steele
Special to the Boston Broadside
It was an ordinary Saturday when I spent the day in my eldest son’s Murphy’s garage. Working side by side as he meticulously polished and detailed the cars he rolled into his shop.
I watched him, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his brow, a buffer in his hands, coaxing a dull and neglected paint job back to its original luster.
He moved with the steady confidence of a man who not only knew his craft but took genuine pride in it. There was something about that scene—the simple devotion to a job well done, the reverence for even the smallest detail—that struck a chord deep within me.
We live in a time where pride in what we own and what we do seems to have faded, slipping through our fingers like sand through an hourglass. The old days, when people treated what they owned as treasures, almost like an extension of themselves, have been replaced by a culture that believes everything is disposable.
A car is no longer an enduring companion, a piece of family history that ages alongside us; it’s a quick fix, something to lease, replace, and then discard.
Gone are the times when a man might’ve held on to his car, polishing it as tenderly as if it were a precious heirloom, striving to keep it pristine for as long as possible. Now, it’s all too easy to toss things aside, whether it’s a car, a shirt, a toaster or even the intangible things—like pride.
Watching Murphy work, I saw the return of a pride I feared had been lost. He treated each car, each part of the process, with a care so rare, it felt almost nostalgic.
Every buff of the paint, each ceramic coat he applied, the precision with which he tinted the windows—it was his way of honoring something greater.
I realized he wasn’t just performing manual labor; he was paying homage to a forgotten ethic, a heritage we all once cherished as a nation. American Pride.
It made me think of how, in the past, people possessed so little, yet they treated those few things with the utmost respect.
If a man had only one shirt, it would be laundered and pressed with care. Pride was woven into the seams of everyday life, a quiet commitment to treat things with respect, as if by caring for what we own, we affirmed our place in the world.
My son, in that workshop, with his calloused hands and attentive eyes, reminded me of the pride in our nation that has slowly eroded. Because of that, I believe we have lost ourselves.
I think about how much America once embodied this pride—how it was like a thread in the national fabric, tying us together, making us resilient.
Our cars, our homes, our businesses were all reflections of who we were; testaments to our toughness and our respect for hard work. We were the ones who innovated, who saw the value in the long road, in endurance, in keeping and caring.
Where has that gone? Have we become so blinded by convenience and throwaway luxury that we’ve lost sight of what really matters? Heck, we throw away spouses and families now.
Spending that day with my son showed me that it’s not gone entirely, that some still understand the quiet beauty of maintaining, of keeping things close and taking pride in them.
As he worked on restoring the old finish of a car, rubbing out scratches, vacuuming the debris and stale remnants of hurried lives, I couldn’t help but see a metaphor for what America might need now.
We don’t need a shiny new replacement every time something gets a bit worn or weathered. We need to care for what we already have, find value in it, and breathe new life into it.
I am proud of my son, not just for his work, but for what his work represents. He’s reminding people of something forgotten; reviving a sense of ownership and pride that we could all stand to rediscover.
And if, like him, we can start to cherish what we have; to polish and restore, instead of abandon and replace, perhaps we’ll find that pride again—not just in our things, but in ourselves, and in our country.
America’s greatness has always been in our hands, in our willingness to work, to care, to keep going when the road gets hard. Maybe it’s time we remember that.… one polished surface at a time.
Maureen Steele’s passion for the written word is only matched by her love of the country she roams. Her descriptive style has promoted and chronicled national movements, and local heroes like her son Murphy. Watch for the next in her series of AMERICAN MADE essays celebrating those who live and breath freedom in their lives and work. Contact Maureen on X at @MaureenSteele_ or msteelepa@gmail.com
