Keating Competition 2022

Sydney Byerly

The first fall of snow makes people do all sorts of things from grabbing their hats, gloves and heavy coats to hanging up lights—the latter an activity that electrical workers have been doing at Monument Circle since 1962.

One of the workers goes by the name Santa Claus, also known as Kris Kringle. Or Father Christmas. But his friends know him as John Burchyett.

“I have a lot of aliases, what can I say?” he said.

With a salt-and-pepper beard that goes down past his shoulders but doesn’t quite tickle his belly button, it’s not hard to tell why he got the job of wearing the red suit just a little more than three years ago.

“‘When COVID started I said why am I shaving? I’m at home.’ And I haven’t shaved since,” Burchyett said. “And then I started looking like Santa Claus and next thing you know I bought some Santa suits and here we are.”

Burchyett paused to wave at some children looking at him with awe and gave a bellowing “Ho! Ho! Ho!” to the onlookers peddling their way around the circle in a trolley.

The workers embody that holiday spirit by going back and forth with jokes about prank calls waking Rudolph up or eating one too many Christmas cookies, the laughter keeping them warm in the cold.

“I’m going to get it to stop snowing as soon as they get the lights up, I just wanted some extra Christmas spirit,” Burchyett joked about using the power of Christmas, that only the real Santa would have, to make it snow. “And then we’ll bring it back when they actually light them.”

Thinking the lighting at this year’s celebration will mean more in a post-pandemic world, Andre Grocox is excited to be bringing the holiday spirit back with an in-person Circle of Lights celebration once more.

“In COVID, it was just different because we were able to do it but there were so many restrictions with the masks and the distancing… they didn’t have the big lighting celebration, they just filmed it. It just didn’t feel quite the same,” Grocox said. “It’s good to kind of get back to a sense of normalcy, [COVID] didn’t keep us from putting it out, but it was an altered feel.”

Grocox, the training director for the Electrical Training Institute, said he’s been with the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local 481 union for 23 years and boasts that he’s only missed the event 7 times.

“So of the 46 times that I’ve had to either put them up or take them down, I’ve been here 39 times,” he said.

Grocox said the Institute gets their new employees involved with the project early on “to try to set the tone of giving back to Central Indiana by putting this up.”

“This is a gift to Central Indiana which will signify the holiday season when we light them up on the Friday after Thanksgiving,” he said.

Grocox said the lights are the gift that keeps on giving because it “...probably touches the hundreds of thousands if not millions of people that see this.”

The holiday spirit and the Circle of Lights celebration are alive and well, he said.

“It’s something I’ve been proud to be part of for all those years,” Grocox said. “And it’s a tradition I know we’ll continue to do—we are not going to slow down anytime soon.”

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Cate Charron

In the center of Indianapolis sits a hallway of gates, tarps and glass. The spotted grey, white and tan tile stretches across Maryland Street, as traffic bellows below. It isn’t 11 yet.

Each side is bookmarked with two massage chairs and a table between them with a lamp and a built-in outlet. The scrapes on the stickered-on wood, the stained lampshade and the cracked leather’s seams show its age.

Separated by just over 500 feet, a dozen empty storefronts and dozens of neon-colored percent signs, two men sit opposite of each other, on a throne of faux luxury — waiting.

Lacey Jones sits hunched over with his elbows on his knees while his feet lay just outside the confines of his chair’s worn pillowy grasp. He would have to find a few singles in his pocket — or use a credit card for the $5 for 14-minute special — to experience such mechanical bliss.

He stares forward as the morning sun peaks through what looks like ocean waves of snow on the mall’s archway ceiling of paneled glass windows. It illuminates the corridor of yet-to-be or may-never-to-be opened storefronts.

He’s serenaded with the echoey and barely audible pop hits of the mid-2010s along with a looping escalator and the two children’s indoor rides mimicking the whooshes of rollercoaster and a police car’s sirens — sounding just too close to the emergency vehicles running underneath the mall’s bridge.

A few times a week, Jones hops on the bus for about 45 minutes, walks through Circle Centre Mall’s sliding glass doors and up the sometimes-turned-on escalator to assume his seat in the massage chair between the jeweler and the Forever 21 to charge his phone.
Right now, he’s a manager at the Arby’s on North Michigan Road, and before that, he worked at Amazon, to which he described both as “alright.” He’s here on his day off.

When asked if there is anything about himself that’s special in nature, he chuckles and thinks for a second.
“Not really,” he said but then considers the act of being a dad. “You can say that — a role model.”
His kids, Malshabia and Mikaelya, and “his girl” are at home.

"People walk around usually around this time during the day, so I’ll come watch people,”

Jones checks his phone plugged into the table beside him — 25%. He resumed his people-watching for another 20 minutes. Couples holding hands, workers branded with company logos walking briskly to their 10 a.m. shift and snow-covered families looking to get their little ones out of the elements. Women’s winter boots clack, while tennis shoes squelch.

The mall is busier now, especially on the other side where the food court is, but nothing is open yet. Ken Deeneesten sits with his glasses on his nose, looking down at his phone.

Ken and his wife Ann are from around Grand Rapids and are visiting Indianapolis for their anniversary — what he calls “30 happy years.” They’d been to the city before for something he can’t really remember but remembered it was nice enough to come back. While his wife is window shopping, he’s scrolling on his phone while she looks around.

They got in last night and stayed at the La Quinta hotel. He and his wife wanted a break from work stress for the weekend. He works for a company that makes plastic parts, and she’s in retail.

“I'm a regular guy making his way through life,” he said and shrugs.

Both the men eventually leave their posts — to go to a friend’s house or possibly to a Pacers game, respectively. They are followed up shortly after by a few couples planning their day, another man frustratedly trying to charge his phone in a port that doesn’t work and teenagers giggling with their friends.

Dozens of people will sit in those chairs waiting and maybe charging and scrolling on their phones. Dual thrones filled by unknowing people, trying to get out of the snow, taking a moment to themselves or finding comfort in waiting.

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Isaac Gleitz

Christian Cummings chats with some construction workers while he waits for his chance to run the compactor. He wonders how drug addiction led him to standing on this cold, snowy dirt pile on the side of an interstate.

He figures anything would be better than nearly losing his life to drugs several times.

Cummings is a reflection of a nation in crisis. The number of people who die from drug overdose in the U.S. has been rising for decades. In 2000, the figure was about 20,000—in 2020 the tally had grown to about 92,000. Communities and families across the nation are being forced to cope with the fact that drug addiction is stealing their kids.

The deaths are systemic and are the result of untreated disease. 20.4 million people were diagnosed with Substance Use Disorder last year. That’s over double the number of Hoosiers.

But the warning signs never broke through to Cummings. His friend told him that meth would ruin his life, but Cummings didn’t believe him. He thought it would be no bigger of a deal that cocaine.

“I should have known,” he said.

In 2014, his brother died, and he dropped out of high school. He started working in trucking but was fired when supervisors found out he was addicted to cocaine.

“I shut everyone out,” he said.

He didn’t talk: Not even to his mom. She was always too drunk to understand his pain anyway, he said.

He got a job repairing telephone towers.

“I liked climbing towers and getting 200 feet in the air. For me, it was the view.”

He lost the job and worked in roofing for a while. That took some of the pressure off because he never got drug tested on that job.

After several redirections and dead ends, he is now working at Rieth-Riley Construction. He and several other men, padded down in Carhart jackets, were contracted to work on a bridge east of the Indianapolis city center on a bleak Saturday.

Cummings is wearing an orange hard hat and safety glasses. His nose is laced with fine scratches. He remembers when he started using meth regularly. He never turned back.

“Everything started falling apart. I lost my job because I didn’t show up,” he said.

His girlfriend Kendra didn’t want to leave him, but she wanted their kids out of his sight.

And one day in Bloomington he tried some heroin that “tasted like soap.”

Kendra’s father found him passed out at 5 am in his driveway. He thought he was a discarded trash bag until he got closer.

Cummings shakes his head, as if to dismiss the memory.

Next to him, Luke Stiles sits in a red pickup truck with dusty trousers and a yellow vest. There’s a table saw in the back seat and a Wendy’s soda in the cupholder.

“I’ve tried to help lead him in the right way,” Stiles said.

The other workers think Cummings is a joke. They laugh at him, not with him. Stiles had to explain that to him.

It doesn’t help that he used to wear a sticker on his hat that said ‘Dopee.’ Stiles said that was a grave mistake.

“You don’t want that nickname. When you have a name like that, nobody’s going to respect you,” dlkfjs said. “After you build a name like that for yourself it takes a long time to get rid of it.”

Stiles said Cummings is just like a lot of other lost young men he knows.

“This country is getting so addicted to drugs,” Stiles said. “A lot of youth today are so entrapped in drugs and that lifestyle. And they’re not doing anything to get out of it.”

The windshield wipers creak, the heater whirs. Stiles cracks the window, discarding a cigarette.

Cummings starts the story again…

He was in the hospital for two weeks.

“If I would have went back to where I was living before, I would have died.”

He said he got better for a while, but he recently spent a couple of weeks in jail when he overdosed on 2nd Street.

“It was like déjà vu.”

For now, he is content. All his bills paid, and he’s going to go out to eat with his family this weekend.

But in the long term, his most important goal is paying off what he owes on his house… And staying in the house.

He has four kids. When he goes home after work, he knows what to expect.

“Hi Daddy,” his daughter Ali always says. And Bentlee and Paislee tell him about their school day.

Kanon, 4, follows him around through the house like a shadow, studying his movements.

“He’s just a wild man,” he said about his son.

When the boy asks the next morning if he can come with his dad to work that day, Cummings had to take a deep breath and tell him no.

“He’s gonna be a worker.”

Later today, he plans to drag them around on their sled with his lawnmower.

“I just want to be a good dad,” Cummings said. “I want my kids to look up to me as a good person… They think I’m God. They’re young enough that they didn’t understand any of it.”

But Stiles said they’ll figure it out soon. They’ll figure out what drug addiction means.

Snow is clinging to tips of his hair as he stands outside the truck and makes eye contact with the young Cummings.

It’s silent for a few seconds.

“Let’s go home,” Stiles says.

The truck pulls away and white powder continues to fall on the ground silently.

Nearby, a rope clangs against a flagpole.

The exhaust trail fades and the worksite exhales a breath of relief.

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Elissa Maudlin

It was another morning on Meridian Street. Snow dropped graciously without signs of stopping, while people bundled for the cold traveled through its white-covered glory. Alongside the road, Nicole Parsi would soon be starting her workday.

She stood behind the counter of Qdoba, back toward the door. With an earpiece in one year and a turn, she said, “We’re closed.”

Unlike the bundled strangers who passed through Meridian, she was in the safety of a heated food franchise building. Yet, she wasn’t much different from them.

She’d been working there, preparing and serving food behind that counter, for a year. With her black visor atop her brown curls tucked in a bun, she said this was one of two jobs she worked.

Yet, she said being behind that counter and working at Qdoba “was a blessing in disguise.” The biggest moment in her life was getting hired.

Qdoba and her other job at the fourth floor of the mall at Tilt Studios arcade are places she said she’s actually happy, unlike the other jobs she’s worked previously where she struggled to maintain employment.

“I’ve been going from job to job, you know, get hired, get fired, get hired, get fired,” she said.” It just, like, always goes back and forth. So this job has been actually the longest job I’ve ever had in my whole life.”

She attempted to go to college but struggled with funding. She rides a bus as her main transportation and currently lives with a roommate but is planning on moving back in with her mom whom she’s lived with before.

However, despite everything, Parsi remained hopeful. As she stood by the tabletop and thought about her experiences, her tone remained relaxed and almost optimistic.

“I’ve just been like anybody else, trying to find jobs, trying to find, you know, a stable lifestyle that works for me,” she said, “and … when I’m on my deathbed, [I can] be like, ‘I regret nothing.’”

Parsi didn’t just want to survive, she said. She wanted to live. She wanted to be able to roller skate and go to the bowling alley.

Yet, on Nov. 12, she would still be working behind that counter for her shift, which didn’t involve roller skating or bowling. Instead, it involved conversing and serving food for the other strangers walking down Meridian Street.

“Sorry to cut this short, but [Parsi], we open in twenty minutes,” Parsi’s manager abruptly said from behind the counter where Parsi would soon begin her workday.

Just outside of the Qdoba on Meridian Street, Georg Dremonas sits crossed legged, covered by construction that hovered over the sidewalk. With gloves and a gray beard protecting him from the snow falling on the streets of downtown, he stayed quiet as people passed.

Dremonas wasn’t always part of society, sitting on Meridian Street during snowfall. For those passing through without talking with him, they’d never know his story. They wouldn’t know he had been in and out of prison for most of his life for robbery, theft and other crimes, he said, never having gone to high school and starting drugs at 13 years old.

They wouldn’t know it all changed when he found the Lord, which he said was an “[in]describable feeling.”

“[He] just brought a lot of joy and happiness in my life … Whether you have anything or not, he makes you happy,” he said.

Dremonas’ father is the one who introduced him to the Lord by bringing a spiritual leader to talk to him in prison, and he viewed his father as his best friend, a person he hung out with and who “always cared about [him].” His father died four years ago.

“He loved me so much,” Dremonas said, “and I believe he gave me the best gift of all: Jesus.”

Jesus is who made Dremonas want to live in society and not go back to prison.

People pass Dremonas as they walk on Meridian Street to whatever destination they are heading towards. But when he sees these people, he doesn’t judge them.

“I believe there’s a lot of good people out there,” he said.

But when Dremonas fades out of view, he seems like the other strangers, partially hidden behind flecks of snowflakes.

A little past Dremonas, Krista and Marie Wade stroll down Meridian Street and turn the corner. They wear big coats, Krista in a pink hat with a puff ball at the top, blonde hair near her shoulders and Marie with gloves hiding her fingers.

They were in search of the Bands of America competition, where Krista’s niece and nephew — Marie’s grandchildren —were performing. One played an instrument and another was in the Color Guard.

When the two performers would look up in the crowd to see their family Krista and Marie, there would be one person missing: their mother who passed away unexpectedly in August.

“We’re here to support them as much as possible,” Marie said.

The mother’s name was Tammy, and Krista said she was very involved with the band. Not only were her two children, as well as Krista and Marie missing her, but other people at the competition would be missing her, Krista said, due to her involvement.

Krista has known her since she was 13 years old. To Krista, Tammy was her sister-in-law who had a happy spirit and tried to make others happy. She was never sad, Krista said.

To Marie, who was Tammy’s step-mom, Tammy “embraced [her].”

“She taught us how to accept people,” Marie said, smiling a solemn smile when thinking about Tammy’s impact.

As Krista and Marie watch Bands of America, they hope to bring Tammy’s legacy with them. For minutes, her story was shared, entering the vast and open square.

But then the moment was gone. When they turned back toward the statue in the center of the circle, they took their place again as strangers on Meridian Street. Others bundled in coats, hats and gloves took their place passing by, as snow flooded the road.

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Mary Claire Molloy

John Burchyett knows that Santa Claus must have a real beard. He’s been growing his own since the start of the coronavirus pandemic.

The 56-year-old stands out as a plump red figure of Christmas cheer among hundreds of volunteers putting up lights on Monument Circle. Burchyett brushes off the snowflakes accumulating on his beard and jokes he’s ordered this weather.

“It’s just for when we put up the lights,” he says. “After that, I’ll stop it.”

Electrical workers from the local union have lit up the Soldiers & Sailors Monument in downtown Indianapolis for nearly 60 years. It’s up to them to secure 52 strands of colored lights around the old war memorial, keeping its numerous cannons and statues intact. The day after Thanksgiving, a crowd of thousands will reap the fruits of their labor. The Circle City shines.

Burchyett, who works for ERMCO, Inc., has been volunteering for Circle of Lights since 1999. He started donning the Santa suit three years ago. He wears a blue version to Colts games and finds himself featured on the stadium jumbotron. His wife isn’t so sure about the Santa Claus school he wants to attend in Michigan, but the promise of meeting real-life reindeer entices him.

And why wouldn’t he go? Men in trucks honk at him. Teenage girls scream in delight. Parents want pictures, while little kids avert their eyes shyly. He’s the man with the list, the all-knowing god of America’s favorite holiday. Some of his fellow volunteers don’t know him outside of the costume.

“What’s his name?” Donald Livesay, 64, whispers. “He’s only Santa to us.”

Once, a little boy asked him for a Ferrari. “And not a toy one either!” Burchyett says with a grin. But it’s much easier to hand out the peppermint candy canes hooked on his gold belt.

He, too, was once a child. A skeptical one, leaping into Santa’s lap to pull on his beard. This was the test he and his sister Bonnie came up with to root out the frauds.

Burchyett’s beard is real. And when he puts on the suit, he’s somebody.

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Gabi Morando

A navy jacket, two flannels buttoned up to his chin and a dark green sweater covered 87-year-old Richard Collins. Hunched under the weight of his clothes and years of life experience, he sat in his usual corner of Panera on W Washington Street with a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, and a napkin saturated with the ink of horse racing predictions.

“I’m all alone,” he said.

Collins sat in a booth fit for four as a result of a marriage that did not last and a baby boy who passed two days after he was born. Memories from generations ago, he kept his eyes down, focused on his callused hands that rested on the yellow table.

His almost nine decades spent in Indiana have seen war come and go, and the state continue to evolve around his stagnant, simple life. Amidst the lack of factory jobs and new politicians that bother Collins, he found frustration in the relative ease of younger generations.

“Well, [young people] didn't have to face the depression and what I went through,'' Collins said. “The greatest generation this country had was the one that fought World War II.

“I was six and I remember December 7, 1941 as well as anything. We were down in my grandpa's house in Monrovia, Indiana and we were having a little family get together before Christmas, all the Collins family, and the news broke out that Japan bombed Pearl Harbor that Suday, December 7, 1941.”

Collins’ dad, who worked as a bottle maker, was able to defer from the war, but Collins vividly described how he would watch his mom turn on the radio at 3:00 p.m. everyday to listen to the news of the war.

Even though Collins’ family was able to escape serving in the bloody battle, Collins, himself, served in the Indiana National Guard for eight years.

Mirroring where Collins sat by himself, Nelson Robinson, 55, was on the exact opposite side of the restaurant with three friends — each of them grasping a cup of hot water.

One of the men with Robinson had a military backpack placed to the left of his tattered boots. An unlit cigarette grew soggy in his mouth as he slumped back against the wall, his eyes barely visible under his hat.

Robinson and his friends are homeless.

“This is my family that sprung up, these guys here,” he said looking around the table.

“I’ve been out here before. I’ve done 15 years out here [on the streets] … But we're all good friends. We watch each other's backs.”

The men call Robinson “Uncle” for how he took both of them in when they had nowhere else to turn.

Robinson motioned to the African American man across from him in a wheelchair as he recalled how the two met. The man, a hungry stranger at the time, found Robinson who gave him a full meal out of his bag.

The other man, still sitting with the military backpack at his feet, was just a kid when Robinson found him on the streets.

“He [was] 16-years-old when I took him under my wing to help him out,” Robinson said as he looked to the man.

“There’s a lot of other homeless people I helped out here, over 100 homeless people I help out.”

Before the men could finish their drinks, two police officers reminded the men that 10:00 a.m. marked their time to leave. As 10:04 a.m. popped up on Robinson’s phone, the officers watched the group gather their suitcases and collection of gray plastic bags.

Collins, who sat on the other side of the restaurant, was still jotting down numbers on his napkin.

Robinson and his “family” were no longer welcome, however, and made their way back onto the snowy street corner.

“We have a terrible homeless problem,” Collins said.

The “terrible” problem Collins referred to neglected to see the good in the situation, however.

Even though a number of factors present ongoing challenges for Robinson, he said he feels blessed to be with his so-called family. Robinson smiled like a proud parent as he looked around the corner his group filled in the restaurant.

He said being together with his family, even at the mercy of the world, is better than being alone.

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Augusta Nafziger

A fight breaks out behind the counter of Three Dog Bakery. Lucky and Bambi surge forward for a fallen treat at the same time — Bambi emerges, treat between her teeth and tail wagging as Lucky snarls in defeat.

Jennifer Lyons glances up at the sound before waving a hand in dismissal: “They love each other.”

Lyons has been the manager of Three Dog Bakery on Massachusetts Avenue for just over a year. She’s a full-time kindergarten teacher at Crooked Creek Elementary, as well, but chooses to balance her busy school days with after-school shifts at the bakery.

“I wanted something on the side that I could bring my dog to so I didn’t have to leave her even more than I already leave her,” she said.

Her dog, Lucky, is constantly on Lyons’ heels, never too far behind her as she shelves products and moves around the store.

“My husband jokes that we should have named her shadow, because she just follows me everywhere,” Lyons said.

Three Dog Bakery offers a variety of dog products, including collars, official NFL team pet wear (only the Cubs and the Colts are featured), beds, paw ointments and more. At this time of year, some of the merchandise has begun to venture into holiday territory, with reindeer stuffed toys and a treat case full of “turkey leg pupcakes” and “mashed pawtato and grravy treats.”

The shop attracts many customers — Lyons says around 75 owners and dogs visit per day. Some people browse the shelves in hopes of waiting out the snow, while others are more intent on purchasing the perfect treat for their dog. One owner places two dog toys on the floor and encourages their goldendoodle to pick one. Another tests dogs beds by resting their head on each one for a few seconds.

“You never know who you’re going to get,” Lyons said. “I mean, we’re downtown. So we get a lot of random people in here, a lot of foot traffic. And we’ve got so many regulars that come in; they just get a treat and they leave.”

Heaven Castillo, a sociology graduate student at the University of Indianapolis, has worked at Three Dog Bakery for seven months. She has two pitbulls: Blue and China.

“I bring China to work,” she said. “Not Blue. Blue’s a little too extra.”

Castillo enjoys working with other dog lovers and meeting new dogs during her work days.

“I think that everyone that comes in here is automatically happy,” she said. “We don’t usually have people who come in here having a bad day or anything. They’re like — automatically, everything’s better.”

While many businesses struggled during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, Three Dogs Bakery stayed open throughout and expanded their store space. About one in five households nationwide acquired a dog or cat during the pandemic, according to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA), and Lyons says she has noticed this trend locally, as well; more and more customers have been bringing dogs into the store since the start of the pandemic.

“We’ve exponentially gotten a lot more busy,” she said.

There’s a sign in the shop window with images of dogs available for adoption at IndyHumane, an animal welfare organization in Indianapolis. Baxter is a seven year-old pitbull who is “spunky for his age.” Orion is a two year-old German shepherd and a “sensitive soul.” The sign also advertises ways to donate food to local animal shelters.

It’s a reminder of the many dogs who have been forgotten post-pandemic.

“It’s hard,” Lyons said. “That’s why we’ve got this [sign] outside this door. And we donate a bunch of food; we donate food every time we’ve got it here in the store. We’re trying to do our part.”

As COVID-19 restrictions have lessened significantly since the beginning of the pandemic, many people who adopted dogs during the pandemic have returned to in-person work and given up their pets to rescue centers.

“I think it makes sense,” Castillo said. “People were alone and they figured a pet’s always going to be by your side, so they went and got a pet.”

“We don’t deserve dogs,” Lyons said. “They’re just so loving and loyal. We don’t deserve that.”

Julie Vihanic stops in at Three Dog Bakery about once or twice a month. She’s a physician assistant student in Indianapolis — and a new dog mother to the Labrador puppy chewing on a bone in the corner of the store.
“Stella is four months old,” she said. “My boyfriend and I… found her at a breeder like an hour away. It was very spontaneous.”

As someone who adopted during the pandemic, Vihanic is frustrated by the number of people who have given up their dogs in the past few months.

“We’re people who did our research,” she said. “If you expect your dog to be acting perfectly then, you know, you’re gonna have a hard time.”

Vihanic has been lucky in her own adopting experience; she and her boyfriend live in a dog-friendly apartment with a dog park nearby.

“It’s constant company,” she said. “If you’re hanging out on Friday night alone, you’re never really alone; you always have someone to hang out with. We’ve met so many more people by having her. She’ll be chewing on other people’s dogs and then we’ll meet them.”

Stella skids across the store, dragging her owner away from a collar display and toward a basket of beef sticks. Vihanic holds on tight to her leash.

“She’s very loving!”

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Nadia Scharf

On a brisk, freezing day in Indianapolis, snowflakes waltz down from cloudy skies onto the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in Monument Circle. The flakes land on ropes and false garlands held in gloved hands, in long beards and on unicorn-hatted heads, the fall making every color a little less bright.

Workers lean over the ropes to talk, and laughter echoes around the circle as they trudge along. Suddenly, they stop. Every gloved hand heaves at once. The snow shakes off the garland as it jerkily rises higher in the sky, all eyes watching, to join the others in the point of an abstract Christmas tree.

For the past 60 years, electricians from the International Bureau of Electrical Workers 481 have kicked off the holiday season in Indianapolis with the Circle of Lights event. Stringing up 4,784 LED lights and 52 garland strands, they pull and hoist up garlands for hours in the cold and snow.

And the kicker? They’re not required to be there. This year, on Nov. 12, approximately 200 IBEW electricians and their families — around 390 people in all, according to union member Andre Grocox — volunteered to spend their Saturday using freezing fingers to bring the holiday spirit into Indianapolis.

“I take great pride in knowing that I played a part in it,” Grocox said. “The reason they exist is because I showed up and volunteered my time.”

Lighting Monument Circle is one of Grocox’s favorite moments of the year, he said. He’s been in the union for 32 years which, between putting up the lights and taking them down, has given him 64 opportunities to volunteer. He’s only missed seven of those chances; that’s not even four full years.

Volunteering is a big part of being in IBEW, Grocox said. Throughout the year, the union is involved in volunteering projects with Rebuilding Together, Habitat for Humanity and their own canned soup drives.

It’s important to give back, he said. They don’t do it for the notoriety; enough people know, Grocox said, snow cresting his “IBEW” winter hat. To him, lighting the circle is a gift to Indianapolis.

“We should just try to be kind to one another,” Grocox said. “The holiday season just represents time to reflect on your own life, to be thankful for all the things and people you have in your life, and that’s what this is to me. A nice kickoff.”

Grocox, an assistant training director and instructor for the union’s apprenticeship program, said he and the other members like to instill that same volunteer spirit early in their five-year apprenticeship program. For that reason, first-year union electrician apprentices “are volun-told” to help string up the lights, meaning they’re obligated to come.

But apprentices Corey Bowen and Jacob Bish would have volunteered either way.

Dressed in fluorescent green vests to show their apprentice status, they’re both in their first year of apprenticeship, meaning they work with instructors and train on-the-job. They said a huge part of being in IBEW is the comradery that comes with union membership. While they may be obligated to be here, the other half of the workers are union members they admire who are actively choosing to light the Circle because of their dedication to the community, Bowen said.

“481 is an Indiana Union,” Bish said. “So we like Indiana. We want to do stuff for Indiana.”
Bowen nodded, snow speckling his black beard. “By all means.”

Beyond the brotherhood, lighting Monument Circle is what you think of when you picture Indianapolis in winter, they said. To Bish, it’s an opportunity to make family history.

“This is older than my parents,” Bish said. “My grandma, when she was a little girl. she saw the lights. I told my parents, ‘don’t tell her!’ because I want it to be a surprise for her.”

While Bish is bringing back old family traditions, Bowen is making new ones. Last winter, he brought his then-three-year-old son to see Monument Circle lit up. Now that he’s in the electrical field himself, he gets to tell his son he lit the Circle.

Now, his son wears the construction hat he got last Christmas and tells his dad he wants to be a construction worker.

Some parents brought their kids with them to help string up the lights: bundled up snug in mittens and hot pink puffer jackets, they trudge along the garland line like workers in miniature. When the snow got to be too much, mothers and fathers ushered children inside the Network Indiana building, where a station was set up for the workers to warm up with coffee and hot chocolate.

Huddles of electricians gathered to catch up, hands wrapped around steaming cups as their kids ran around their ankles. One of those kids, six-year-old Zane Longworth, stopped to cling to his father’s ankle as cold air from outside rushed in. He got to help last year, father and IBEW union worker Nathan Longworth said, but he didn’t stay outside for long this time.

“He was so excited, but it didn’t last,” Melissa Longworth, Zane’s mother and Nathan’s wife, said.

Nathan laughed. “He chickened out a little bit.”

The Longworths come down to the Circle of Lights every year. Zane likes to go up to the base of the monument, inside the “tree,” and look up from the heart of it.

Nathan’s been a part of the union for six years, and he’s helped light the Circle every year. Doing something like this makes him feel like part of something bigger than himself, he said.

“You get to see how many people enjoy it,” Nathan said. “They may not know that Nathan helped, or Randy or whoever else helped, but they see that people came together as one.”

Back outside, the snow is still coming down. The union volunteers are finishing up the lights. Cheeks red, breath fogging, they move a little slower than they did when they started as the snow blusters around them, their hours of work, and the sign on one side of Monument Circle:

“Thank You IBEW 481 Volunteers.”

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Lauren Ulrich

When city goers walk past the man in a navy Carhartt jacket and yellow work gloves, they see another construction worker in a sea of neon vests.

But when Grocox looks inside himself, he sees the Vatican.

He sees art and beauty and wonder. He sees lights peeking through the hundreds of snow-covering windows of the Indianapolis skyline. He sees the buildings he keeps lit — the sharp angles of metal and curves of stone.

He wonders if Vatican City looks similar.

His eyes turn toward the mass of stone that is the iconic Solders & Sailors Monument. He sees the marble locks of Lady Liberty’s hair and soft stone feathers of an angel’s wing.

“The Grand Canyon is just a big fuckin’ pothole,” he says, nodding in his conviction. “But this here was harvested and created by the ingenuity of man.”

He blinks past snow flurries pelting his face as he stares at the monument.

“Look at that thing,” he says. “Put your pen down, kid, and look.”

The 47-year-old electrician with an art history degree doesn’t give a damn what an electrician is supposed to look like. He doesn’t care if awe sparks in his eyes when he looks at the statue.

Grocox loves monuments. He also loves oil painting and Pearl Jam and Oysters Rockefeller. He’s going to retire soon with enough money to see the Vatican. And before he quits, he’s on a mission to bring some personality into the trade sector.

Groxoc and his electrical co-workers are transforming the Circle Center monument into a Christmas tree, an annual tradition for the Indiana Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. Groxoc is one of over 200 electricians volunteering to put up Christmas lights on the Soldiers & Sailors Monument in the heart of Downtown Indianapolis. The electrical union volunteers each year to set up lights for the city’s annual Circle of Lights display.

Groxoc’s snow boots slop through the gray snow sludge as he supervises the Christmas light operation.

“Well, that’s cute,” he says, chuckling at a small snowman nestled in a pair of gloved hands. He moves along, checking on a woman whose hands are shivering against her hot cocoa mug.

Everyone in the crowd of electricians seems to know Grocox. They’ll happily chat about their leader’s quirks and poke fun at his Burberry wallet.

“He plays in a rock band,” a union member named Chris Madden said with a grin. “You gotta’ meet him.”

Another worker pulls out his phone. It’s a flier for Andy’s band, he says. Swirling pink font reads: “The Salacious Sounds of Sgt. Slim Simmons & The Swizzle Sticks.”

The notorious “Slim Simmons” is an unexpected leader of Indiana’s largest electrical union. He directs 570 apprentices enrolled in training courses with the Indiana Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. He hopes they’ll make a livable wage and help fill needed jobs in the electrical sector. Trade workers are getting older and retiring, he said.

Filling their spots will mean inspiring young people to go to trade school. And also pushing back against stereotypes of who can be an electrician.

“When people think of construction, they instantly think we’re all Neanderthals, but I can’t even count all the bachelor’s degrees out here,” he said, surveying the crowd before him.

His coworkers come from all walks of life and cultural backgrounds, Groxoc said. Many of the workers that Indianapolis residents see fixing their light fixtures have a background in higher education. Groxoc, for example, got an art degree before pursuing a successful career in the electrical sector.

Grocox said keeping Indianapolis lights on also means supporting diversity within the electrical sector, such as by empowering female apprentices in a traditionally male-dominated industry.

Nicole Layton, a 33 year old single mom, is one such apprentice training under Grotox. Layton said he’s helped her feel accepted in the trade. On one of her first day of classes, he gave a lecture on stopping sexual harassment in the industry.

She hopes showing up in the industry will inspire others to follow her lead.

“I’m not trying to be a hero or nothin’, but having a female face out here is encouraging,” Layton said.

Groxoc pauses again to look at the Christmas tree-shaped light strings taking shape. When he supervises the crowd of yellow vests, he’s not just thinking about wiring and extension cables. He thinks about how his union, the Indiana Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, is kind of like a symbol of the nation.

“The United States is a union,” he says. “It’s like how differences can exist while we also exist.”

His workers are diverse, just like the country they come from. The union’s strength, Groxoc said, is allowing people to exist together as a community while also existing as their unique selves.

When he says “exist”, Groxoc means really existing. Existing like ticking off his bucket list to listen to Pearl Jam at Madison Square Garden. Existing like feeling paint on his calloused fingers when he comes home after work to practice his oil paintings nin his house plastered with 39 Pearl Jam concert posters.

Grocox takes off a glove to pull up a picture of one of his most recent art pieces. It’s a collage of newspaper clippings that he painted over. “Grab a spoonful of American bliss,” a red heart says. A pair of woman’s lips bite into a cherry.

The painting is a story of how Groxoc grew up searching for what he calls “American bliss”. He grew up hoping to be rich and famous like every other American child, he said. But really he was on a search to uncover his own individuality.

Grotox doesn’t care about being rich anymore. He’s not defined by being an electrician.

“I love myself,” he said with a smile extending to his gray-bearded chin.

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Maya Wilkins

Guerino Cento would rather work in the back of his shop than talk to customers — he doesn’t like to talk. Or maybe that’s just what his father would have wanted him to say.

“My old man used to always say, ‘No talking, you need to work,’” Guerino said.

Even though his father, Paul Cento, died nearly 20 years ago, Guerino still follows the directions he gave him.

Nestled between Merchants Parking Garage and Morrison Opera Place, Guerino works in the back of Cento Shoes — his family’s business, which has stayed at 33 S. Meridian St. since the 1970s. While he works in the back, his wife, Jennifer Cento, is in charge of talking to customers.

Cento Shoes is in its 53rd year of business, and because the shop hasn't moved, the couple said most of their business comes from repeat customers.

“We’ve been here such a long time that people have been coming here since they were 17,” Jennifer said. “But people who live downtown will come in and say, ‘What is it that you guys do? I walk by it all the time and I’ve never seen it.’”

Guerino said his family has always been in shoe repair. He’s a fifth-generation cobbler, who learned from his father, an immigrant to the U.S. from Italy.

“My father was actually voted the best shoe cobbler in all of Europe,” he said. “He made shoes for the popes, for all the famous movie stars. He’s had all kinds of awards that were given to him.”

At 10 years old, Guerino was working alongside his father, learning to become a better cobbler. He also translated for both his parents, because his mother, Lisa, worked up front at Cento Shoes.

“It was tough,” he said. “There were a lot of times that my mom needed me — as a young kid — to be the translator and explain things, but it was just something we did.”

Guerino also worked at the shop with his brother, Tony Cento, who “did it all,” but he worked up front most. Once their father died, Guerino said he and his brother took over the shop, before Tony died by suicide on May 5, 2021, at the Meridian Street store.

The Centos learned Tony had bipolar disorder and had not been taking his medication. Guerino believes that, combined with the stress of running a business during the COVID-19 pandemic, is what led to his death.

“Our business fell from the top to the bottom — we were almost done,” Guerino said. “It caused my brother to get very upset … I went from having the best partners in the world, and now I’m here by myself.”

The day Tony died, Jennifer took over his role in the front of the store, which she said has been “big shoes to fill.”

“People come in and ask for him a lot,” Jennifer said, “because he had such great relationships with our customers. Sometimes I have to tell them what happened, and that can be challenging.”

Now, sitting in the front by the countertop, the couple has built a shrine for Paul and Tony, which includes photos and mementos for customers to remember them.

Prior to working at her husband’s business, Jennifer worked as a director of education at a technology firm. She said it was a big transition when she switched jobs, and the one she has now is nothing like her old one.

The couple had talked about Jennifer working at Cento Shoes to give Tony time to take a vacation, so when he died, it made sense for her to step into his role. She said her favorite part of the job is interacting with customers.

“It’s nice to see some of the same repeat customers who come in,” she said. “I have some customers who come in to bring me flowers or who just come to see Tony’s shrine.”

The couple both work every day the shop is open, Tuesday through Saturday, from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Jennifer said she stays later on Saturdays, and Guerino works 60-65 hours a week, sometimes sleeping at the store to get his work done.

Guerino said the shoe industry has changed drastically, going from “shoe repair to shoe put-back-together,” with the quality of shoes decreasing as well. When he first started, most shoes were made with leather, and now they’re made with plastic, which require different products.

He also said more people are throwing away shoes instead of repairing them, which, on top of challenges still seen from the pandemic, is detrimental to the shoe repair industry. At one point, there were 100,000 shoe repair stores in the U.S., Guerino said, and now there are only 4,000.

“I’ve got four sons, and no one wants to learn the trade,” he said. “It’s a dying trade … fathers, like mine, are dying, and their kids aren’t learning. I’ve tried, but I can’t be mad that my kids don’t want to learn.”

Even though his children don’t want to enter the trade, Guerino still has high hopes for the future. He recently hired a man named Taylor, who works part-time repairing shoes after he told Guerino he learned how to make his own.

“I told him that I would love to teach him enough for him to take over this shop one day,” Guerino said. “I can’t ever imagine coming downtown and our store not being here.”

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