My grandfather, Clarence Fieberg, was in the trades for all of his adult life. He worked up the ranks at McNulty Construction Company, eventually earning a role as a vice president.

This is my grandfather, whom we called “Pop-pop,” along with his wife, Gladys, her mother, Maud, my mom, and her six children. That’s me in front, threatening to shoot the photographer (my dad).

Among its projects, McNulty Construction helped build the Pentagon in the early 1940s. Pop-pop commuted by train for months as he worked on the Pentagon project.

One day, his boss told Pop-pop that the firm had won another large project bid in the Washington, D.C. area, and that it would be a multi-year commitment. Pop-pop talked things over with my grandmother, and they decided to move to Washington so that they would be together.

They went ahead with a few suitcases, leaving the rest of their belongings to be loaded onto a moving truck. They had barely arrived in Washington when Pop-pop was offered a kickback from someone related to the new project. He refused it, and when he was told, “that’s the way things work around here,” he reported the incident to his boss at McNulty. “McNulty Construction doesn’t take bribes,” his boss affirmed.

Pop-pop called the movers back in Chicago and told them to stop loading the truck. McNulty Construction pulled out of the project, and Pop-pop returned home.

I remember feeling very proud of Pop-pop years ago when he told that true story to me and my siblings. He spoke matter-of-factly, as though it was understood that honesty was not something to compromise.

I wish that I remained forever unsoiled by the attitude that “it’s the way that things are done around here.” But I eventually became jaded growing up in Chicago, and reading numerous newspaper accounts of widespread graft, favoritism and an apparent lack of accountability for wrongdoing. It wasn’t just in the newspapers, it was in companies where I worked, among people who worked alongside me, or were in management positions.

The attitude that “right doesn’t matter, getting your way does,” even reared its ugly head in the youth sports in which I coached and in which my kids participated. Many people had a great perspective–that sports was a way to teach the values of honest work, determination, and discipline. But it seemed like there would always be a few coaches or parents on the sidelines, dragging down the team with ways to “play the system” or complain about fair calls that didn’t go their way.

Anyway, I thought about Pop-pop and McNulty Construction recently when I shooed the dishonest tradesman out of my home (read Part One of this post for the background). I’m not “Ivory Soap pure” by any stretch of the imagination, but every once in a while, I can do the hard thing, the right thing, that let’s me feel good about looking at myself in the mirror.

Sometimes, I guess I see part of Pop-pop looking back.

I hope to complete some minor repair work today to my family room ceiling. An overflowing second-story toilet led to me drilling holes in the family room ceiling to drain the water that had begun to impact the ceiling drywall and taped seams.

The day after the overflow, I contacted my homeowners insurance company to see about options for repairing the damage. My brief interaction with two tradesmen who came to provide repair estimates, and a third who talked with me by phone, reminded me of the sharp differences in integrity that you see within the trades. It also reminded me of a true story that involved my grandfather and the construction company for which he worked.

First, here’s a summary of my recent experiences with local tradesmen. The day after I contacted my insurance company, an employee of the insurance company called my home and spoke with my wife. The employee said that her husband was in construction, and he could come over to provide an estimate. Kim called me at work, and I agreed to ask for a half-day’s vacation so that I could be there to talk with the construction worker.

Have you ever gotten a sense that a conversation was going to become uncomfortable just before it did? That happened to me when the husband of the insurance company employee took a brief glance at my family room ceiling, and said, “What’s your deductible…$500?”

I confirmed that, and was about to say that the deductible had nothing to do with his estimate…but then, with a wink, he let me know how it had everything to do with his estimate.

“Yeah, this will be about $500,” he said, studying my face. “But there’s no need for you to have to pay the deductible. We can tell the insurance company that it’ll be $1,200, and that’ll cover my cost, your deductible and the cost of your painter.”

My son, who had joined us just after the contractor had begun his “inspection,” looked at me with a “what’s going on?” expression. I felt like telling the contractor off for suggesting that we agree on insurance fraud, but I guess I was too hardened by seeing it and hearing about it as I grew up in Chicago. I just wanted him out of my house.

As I closed the door and looked at my son, he blurted out, “What a creep!” I nodded in agreement, and silently thanked God for a son who understands the difference between right and wrong.

I then called a second contractor to talk about the ceiling repair. He was a referral from a neighbor. As I was scheduling time for him to come over to give me an estimate, this second contractor also asked about the deductible. I later told him not to bother coming.

Contrast that with a neighborhood “handy man” who was a referral from another neighbor. This person was honest and straightforward, and said that he was better at electrical work and plumbing than drywall taping and mudding. “I usually put on the first coat of mud, and then pay someone else to finish it off,” he said. He also said that the ceiling seemed to have dried quickly, with minimal damage. I wouldn’t need to have the extensive repair that the “professional” contractor recommended.

Over the past couple of days, with the help of my brother, Scott, I’ve repaired the ceiling. All that’s left to do is to sand it for the final time, and wait for the painter. As I was laying on the final coat of mud, I thought about a true story that my mom and grandmother told me about my grandfather, Clarence Fieberg. It was a story about the integrity of my grandfather and the construction company for which he worked.

I’ll tell that story in Part Two of this post. I may email it to the dishonest contractors who work around here.