The Power of Lazy
A lesson from a 1988 autobody shop that still shapes how I work today. This Ramble explores why “lazy” workers — the ones who slow down, pay attention, and do the job right the first time — often produce the smartest, cleanest, and most reliable work. From a Canadian‑built Pontiac restoration to the early days of learning craft, this is the story of how lazy became my most valuable skill.
Read Time: 4 minutes
It was a warm day, the kind where the wind whipped dust clouds off parched gravel roads and bare fields. Fallen leaves were getting tossed around on city streets. Despite the wind, the smell of harvest hung thick in the air, and the rhythm of combines cutting wheat, barley, and canola hummed in the countryside. Geese were congregating in fields and parks, terrorizing anyone who strayed too close. I was waiting at the end of our driveway for the school bus to pick me up, my long frizzy hair swishing in the gusts over my jean jacket. When the bus finally rolled up the gravel road, it arrived with a cloud of dust that got into my nose, mouth, and eyes. Another first day back to school off to a good start.
1966 Pontiac Parisienne — A Canadian Classic Built Right
My 1966 Pontiac Parisienne Custom Sport — a Canadian‑built GM model that most Americans have never seen. This was my autobody project in Mr. Smith’s class: a full body‑off frame restoration over four semesters, complete with an engine rebuild and every panel done properly. Canadian Pontiacs were their own thing — unique trim, unique lines, and a character all their own. This car taught me the lesson Mr. Smith drilled into us: lazy workers do the job right the first time.
First days were always the worst. This was a new school, and I felt lost and didn’t know anyone. It was the biggest school I’d ever been to — and honestly, the most amazing. I was there for three years, and the number of classes I skipped during that time was legendary. I was so good at forging my dad’s signature on sick notes that it became my regular signature to this day. It was a vocational school with a great carpentry program, and the carpentry shop was loaded with all the tools a woodworker could dream of. So naturally, I signed up for Autobody and graduated from it three years later. I had a thing for old cars, and they taught us in metric. Carpentry was in inches and feet; I wasn’t learning that backwards stuff.
After a few days of settling into the routine, our autobody teacher, Mr. Smith, had us standing in the shop while he explained how dangerous everything could get. He wasn’t wrong — he was a smart guy. His lecture kept rolling along until he suddenly stopped and looked at us. “Who here is lazy?” he asked. We stood in silence. “None of you? Really? That’s too bad,” he said with disappointment. “I’m lazy. I was hoping some of you were too. That’s disappointing.” We could feel the pride in his voice and instantly regretted our silence. But we were confused.
“You guys like working hard then? If you’re not lazy, I can expect you to be working all the time, right?” he said, again with that strange pride. The class agreed with grunts and nods. Mr. Smith furrowed his bushy eyebrows and pushed his glasses up.
1966 Pontiac Parisienne — The Car I Sold to Build My Future
A Canadian‑built 1966 Pontiac Parisienne Custom Sport — the car I restored in high school, and the one I eventually sold so I could afford college and clear space for my first woodworking shop. Four semesters of body‑off frame work, an engine rebuild, and every panel done properly. This car taught me Mr. Smith’s lesson about “lazy” workers doing things right the first time, and selling it became the first real step toward the craft and career I have today.
“You guys agreed to something you don’t understand. I’m lazy, and I want you all to be just as lazy — but none of you asked why before agreeing to work hard.” His stance was confident, and we were leaning into every word.
“You assume lazy is bad, but it’s obvious that’s not the case here, is it?” He paused again, letting the idea settle. “Lazy workers are smart. They do the job right the first time. Hard workers get it right the second or third time. So I’ll ask again: who here is lazy?”
This time we were much more animated in our grunts and nods. The message landed. Mr. Smith smiled — we must have had that ah‑ha look on our faces. “Lazy doesn’t mean sitting around,” he said. “It means not cutting corners and regretting it later. Fixing what you’ve done wrong is harder than most repairs — it’s just wasted time.”
The energy in the room felt lighter, as if we understood each other a little more. A few minutes later the bell rang, and we moved on to math or English — whatever our schedules said. I had science as my last class of the day. I skipped.
That was 1988, and I can’t stop myself from thinking that it was a long time ago. I’m not doing the math to put a number to the age of that memory. But it never left me, and I’ve always considered myself a lazy guy thanks to Mr. Smith.
As for learning inches and feet, I did eventually — even though it’s all messy and not metric. That frizzy long ’80s hair is long gone, and my signature has been perfected. Dad asked about it once. He wasn’t impressed.
The Railway Museum Car
This old car at the Winnipeg Railway Museum reminded me exactly why Mr. Smith’s lesson stuck. I didn’t know the make or model, and it didn’t matter — the worn curves, the tired metal, the quiet scars of time were enough. Back in autobody, being “lazy” meant slowing down, paying attention, and taking things apart the right way the first time. You learned more from a rusty seam than from rushing to the next step. Standing in front of this car years later, I felt that same instinct: look closely, notice everything, let the details teach you. Lazy isn’t about doing less — it’s about doing it right.
SHARE
To continue the story read:
Knotty Dave’s Fine Woodworking
If you’d like to hear from me only when something big is happening — a launch, a milestone, or a major project — you can join the mailing list below.
Written by David Flather, Red Seal cabinetmaker and founder of Knotty Dave’s Fine Woodworking — a Manitoba shop rooted in heritage restoration, storytelling, and real craft.
All photos shot by David Flather — in the shop, on the road, and in the places where craft and story meet.
Related stories: HOW TO ARRIVE AT PERFECT
Return to: Shop Rambles
