Whether sweeping chimneys or fighting the Covenant, Robert Westerfield Jr. looks the part BY ALEX PICKETT Published 12.20.06
Product Description
When Robert Westerfield Jr. dresses for work, he dresses for work: in a wool pea coat (when weather permits) and an 8-inch top hat. He's a chimney sweep, and although others in his field forgo the traditional 19th-century uniform, Westerfield likes to keep the traditions alive.
"I love history," he says. "I love playing dress-up. The old people love it because that's how they remember a chimney sweep. The kids love it because of Mary Poppins."
Florida may not seem like a likely place to make a living cleaning chimneys. But these days, between the fireplaces in restored 1920s bungalows and the ones in newer suburban homes, Westerfield keeps pretty busy. And at Christmastime, whether due to the weather or Santa-conscious parents, he cleans about 10 flues a day. You could even say "flue" season is in full swing, but that pun makes Westerfield grimace.
It's been six years since Westerfield, 41, made a deal with a Pinellas County chimney sweep: Teach me the science of cleaning chimneys and I'll teach you the art of armor-making. Lucky for Westerfield, who was living a "starving artist" life as a blacksmith, the experienced chimney sweep agreed.
Now Westerfield is the owner and sole employee of Chimney Sweep of Florida. He makes a regular paycheck working five or six hours a day cleaning fireplaces in Hillsborough and Manatee counties (he avoids Pinellas out of professional respect for his chimney mentor) and has the time and money to pursue his true passion: crafting metal and plastic armor.
Because a top hat may look cool, but it's nothing compared to a full suit of Human Spartan armor.
It's a brisk Florida morning when Westerfield arrives at a home in the Northdale section of Tampa in his large white van. He pops out of the van wearing a dirty grey shirt, black shorts and, of course, a top hat. He reaches in the van and takes out a 4-foot-long black bag, much like one that would hold a pool cue.
The chimney sweep is considered to be one of the oldest professions, along with carpenter and prostitute. In the last few centuries, as European cities grew denser, sweeps were needed to prevent fires that could level whole towns. In these days of central heating, there are fewer sweeps but stricter regulations. Many carry respirators and go through an extensive, and expensive, certification process that also allows them to clean dryer vents.
When homeowner Heather Hingson opens her door and invites Westerfield in, he knows exactly where to find the fireplace. After peering up the flue with a flashlight, he deduces this chimney, barely used by the Hingsons, will just need the standard sweep to clear out any creosote -- a byproduct of wood burning -- that might have formed.
"Creosote is a huge health hazard," he warns. "It clogs up the chimneys and causes smoke to come back into the house. And it can ignite and burn the house down."
Westerfield opens the black bag and removes his bristly chimney-cleaning tool, which looks like an oversized toilet bowl brush. Fully extended, this tool can reach up two stories, so Westerfield screws in each 3-foot extension as he's running it up the chimney, never fully taking it out of the bag. Once it nears the top, he gives the brush a quick clockwise twist and brings it back down again, disassembling it as he slips it back into the bag.
It takes less than five minutes for him to clean this chimney, and before he leaves, he'll have a $99 check in his pocket.
"It's one of the jobs I feel good about doing," he tells me on the way out. "A plumber is fixing a leak. I'm keeping you alive."
After finishing his last job, Westerfield heads back to his studio, a storefront tucked into a rundown business park off Ulmerton Road in Largo. With an oven and molding press he built himself, Westerfield recreates medieval and futuristic armor inside the shop. Since starting as a metal blacksmith in 1980, he's since branched off into supplying authentic-looking dress to Star Wars fan clubs, pirate festivals and war reenactments (like the annual D-Day reenactments at Fort De Soto Park). He regularly makes appearances at Tyrone Mall when a new sci-fi game is released (that was him in the full suit of Halo armor two weeks ago) and he also provides props for local films and plays. One of his Halo creations ended up on a national commercial, and his suits of stainless steel armor have made it to the De Soto Memorial Museum in Sarasota.
"If there's a sci-fi drama and it's cool, we're there," he says, except for Star Trek conventions -- those gatherings are reserved for "uber-geeks."
"Wearing armor and carrying a machine gun is cool," he clarifies. "Wearing spandex and carrying a plastic pistol is not so cool."
A walk through his tightly-packed 2-story shop reveals a substantial cache of collector's items: U.S. Army helmets both recent (Iraq) and vintage (World War I), a Monopoly game with a Jack the Ripper theme (Ripper-opoly), a chastity belt (lock and all), PVC and foam swords and lances, an air cannon with accompanying stunt doll, and a re-created R2D2. His favorite collector's piece is an authentic heavy machine gun from World War II.
Westerfield's goal is to establish the premiere medieval and sci-fi costume shop in Florida -- no small task.
"Because there is not much of a [film] industry down here, breaking into what little industry there is here is a rough trip," he says. "But as small as Florida is, it's a dynamic place to be. My future is definitely in the Tampa bay area."
Before I'm tempted into dueling with a 7-foot long lance inside a R2D2 suit, I bid farewell to Westerfield. He has a lot of work to do anyway -- Halo 3 is set to be available in March, and he wants to have plenty of armor available for the release date. But before I leave, I pinch him on the arm.
Westerfield says it's long been considered good luck to pinch a chimney sweep. But even luckier, he says, is the legend surrounding chimney sweeps and weddings.
"It's good luck for a bride to be kissed accidentally on her wedding day by a chimney sweep," Westerfield says, beaming.
He is usually hired by the bride or groom's parents to bump into the bride at some point before or after the ceremony and give her a peck on the cheek.
The legend's origins are unclear, but Westerfield thinks it might have started with the dirty, smelly chimney sweeps themselves.
Or maybe it's just another confirmation of something Westerfield knows from experience: Whether wearing a top hat or a visor, there's something about a man in a uniform.
Creative Loafing Tampa 810 N. Howard Ave. Tampa, FL 33606
"I love history," he says. "I love playing dress-up. The old people love it because that's how they remember a chimney sweep. The kids love it because of Mary Poppins."
Florida may not seem like a likely place to make a living cleaning chimneys. But these days, between the fireplaces in restored 1920s bungalows and the ones in newer suburban homes, Westerfield keeps pretty busy. And at Christmastime, whether due to the weather or Santa-conscious parents, he cleans about 10 flues a day. You could even say "flue" season is in full swing, but that pun makes Westerfield grimace.
It's been six years since Westerfield, 41, made a deal with a Pinellas County chimney sweep: Teach me the science of cleaning chimneys and I'll teach you the art of armor-making. Lucky for Westerfield, who was living a "starving artist" life as a blacksmith, the experienced chimney sweep agreed.
Now Westerfield is the owner and sole employee of Chimney Sweep of Florida. He makes a regular paycheck working five or six hours a day cleaning fireplaces in Hillsborough and Manatee counties (he avoids Pinellas out of professional respect for his chimney mentor) and has the time and money to pursue his true passion: crafting metal and plastic armor.
Because a top hat may look cool, but it's nothing compared to a full suit of Human Spartan armor.
It's a brisk Florida morning when Westerfield arrives at a home in the Northdale section of Tampa in his large white van. He pops out of the van wearing a dirty grey shirt, black shorts and, of course, a top hat. He reaches in the van and takes out a 4-foot-long black bag, much like one that would hold a pool cue.
The chimney sweep is considered to be one of the oldest professions, along with carpenter and prostitute. In the last few centuries, as European cities grew denser, sweeps were needed to prevent fires that could level whole towns. In these days of central heating, there are fewer sweeps but stricter regulations. Many carry respirators and go through an extensive, and expensive, certification process that also allows them to clean dryer vents.
When homeowner Heather Hingson opens her door and invites Westerfield in, he knows exactly where to find the fireplace. After peering up the flue with a flashlight, he deduces this chimney, barely used by the Hingsons, will just need the standard sweep to clear out any creosote -- a byproduct of wood burning -- that might have formed.
"Creosote is a huge health hazard," he warns. "It clogs up the chimneys and causes smoke to come back into the house. And it can ignite and burn the house down."
Westerfield opens the black bag and removes his bristly chimney-cleaning tool, which looks like an oversized toilet bowl brush. Fully extended, this tool can reach up two stories, so Westerfield screws in each 3-foot extension as he's running it up the chimney, never fully taking it out of the bag. Once it nears the top, he gives the brush a quick clockwise twist and brings it back down again, disassembling it as he slips it back into the bag.
It takes less than five minutes for him to clean this chimney, and before he leaves, he'll have a $99 check in his pocket.
"It's one of the jobs I feel good about doing," he tells me on the way out. "A plumber is fixing a leak. I'm keeping you alive."
After finishing his last job, Westerfield heads back to his studio, a storefront tucked into a rundown business park off Ulmerton Road in Largo. With an oven and molding press he built himself, Westerfield recreates medieval and futuristic armor inside the shop. Since starting as a metal blacksmith in 1980, he's since branched off into supplying authentic-looking dress to Star Wars fan clubs, pirate festivals and war reenactments (like the annual D-Day reenactments at Fort De Soto Park). He regularly makes appearances at Tyrone Mall when a new sci-fi game is released (that was him in the full suit of Halo armor two weeks ago) and he also provides props for local films and plays. One of his Halo creations ended up on a national commercial, and his suits of stainless steel armor have made it to the De Soto Memorial Museum in Sarasota.
"If there's a sci-fi drama and it's cool, we're there," he says, except for Star Trek conventions -- those gatherings are reserved for "uber-geeks."
"Wearing armor and carrying a machine gun is cool," he clarifies. "Wearing spandex and carrying a plastic pistol is not so cool."
A walk through his tightly-packed 2-story shop reveals a substantial cache of collector's items: U.S. Army helmets both recent (Iraq) and vintage (World War I), a Monopoly game with a Jack the Ripper theme (Ripper-opoly), a chastity belt (lock and all), PVC and foam swords and lances, an air cannon with accompanying stunt doll, and a re-created R2D2. His favorite collector's piece is an authentic heavy machine gun from World War II.
Westerfield's goal is to establish the premiere medieval and sci-fi costume shop in Florida -- no small task.
"Because there is not much of a [film] industry down here, breaking into what little industry there is here is a rough trip," he says. "But as small as Florida is, it's a dynamic place to be. My future is definitely in the Tampa bay area."
Before I'm tempted into dueling with a 7-foot long lance inside a R2D2 suit, I bid farewell to Westerfield. He has a lot of work to do anyway -- Halo 3 is set to be available in March, and he wants to have plenty of armor available for the release date. But before I leave, I pinch him on the arm.
Westerfield says it's long been considered good luck to pinch a chimney sweep. But even luckier, he says, is the legend surrounding chimney sweeps and weddings.
"It's good luck for a bride to be kissed accidentally on her wedding day by a chimney sweep," Westerfield says, beaming.
He is usually hired by the bride or groom's parents to bump into the bride at some point before or after the ceremony and give her a peck on the cheek.
The legend's origins are unclear, but Westerfield thinks it might have started with the dirty, smelly chimney sweeps themselves.
Or maybe it's just another confirmation of something Westerfield knows from experience: Whether wearing a top hat or a visor, there's something about a man in a uniform.
Creative Loafing Tampa 810 N. Howard Ave. Tampa, FL 33606
