Taking care of one’s home, one’s boat, one’s car, appliance, and hobby devices improves the manner and cost of living and supposedly leaves a sense of accomplishment every time a task is tackled and accomplished. For most of my adult years, I have tried to do most of the things it takes to make my house, apartment, and boat function correctly and safely. Now in my anecdotage, I must get others to do almost anything significant and anything that relies on figuring out what needs to be done and how to do it safely.
I have written before that my grandfather and father were master carpenters who made their livings building and expanding homes, stores, schools, and factories. After the stresses of the depression in the 1930s, my father concluded that he did not want me to follow his pattern. Even so, he involved me with some of his jobs, giving me the roughest and most stressful tasks. In those days, concrete had to be mixed at building sites. The sand, gravel, and cement were delivered and some of the workers had to mix up concrete for foundations, driveways, sidewalks, and patios and mix up mortar for the bricklayers. When it came to laying or replacing a roof, I carried bales of shingles up a ladder so that the carpenters could nail them in place. My father impressed me with his conviction that he should not do any of the electric wiring or plumbing, tasks that demanded separate skills. He did not paint, though he assigned me to painting the roof and eaves of our home.
Off I went to college, majored in journalism and history, got jobs on the campus and wrote all of the freelance material I could possibly peddle. When I got married, we bought a house. It was about 35 years old and the previous owner had let things fade away. So there were chores to be done and I started doing things. The first things I did was to have a new kitchen area replaced with cabinets and utensils. To save money, I laid a new tile floor and painted everything. The painting spread throughout the interior of the house, around the basement and the outside trims. Some of the mortars on the brick surfaces had crumbled and I retucked them, including the chimney. The tiles in the major bathroom needed replacing and I stripped them off, put in a new cabinet sink, helped the tile installer put in new tiles and then put wallpaper on the upper walls and ceiling. When our son flushed his diaper down the toilet, I got a plumber to cope. When the furnace, previously converted from coal to oil, began to leak the hot water fittings, we tore it out and a contractor installed a new gas-fired heater. With more nerve than skills, I replaced some of the lamps—and they worked safely.
Then, we moved to Washington and bought a fairly new house. After I bought it, the seller admitted that he had skimped on insulation in the walls and attic. Gas for the furnace was cheaper than insulation, he admitted. Without tearing out the interior or exterior walls, I could not add anything there. But I installed storm windows and climbed up in the attic and dumped in an extra foot of insulation. I put in an attic fan to exhaust hot air in the summer and got my tennis partner to help me wire it in place. The outside of the house was two stories high and in the back, as the yard sloped, three stories. I could still climb and do the priming and painting. My wife wanted wallpaper in the halls and kitchen, so I did that twice. Three of the four bedrooms were repainted by me, newly carpeted (not by me) and shelves were hung on the walls. I built shelves for the basement and garage. We decided to build a back porch on the paved patio. I laid bricks for the short walls, filled in flower beds and hired a contractor to put up the framework and roof. Then, with help, electricity was run and I added a ceiling and painted everything.
A couple of decades ago, I realized I could no longer climb up to paint the eaves or touch up the chimney. I contracted for a new roof. We made friends with Dennis, the plumber, Charlie, an electrician, and Harry’s lawn mower service. When I began working at home and charging for my time, I realized that I could make more money pounding the computer than I had to pay Dennis or Charlie or Harry.
I can still change light bulbs, replace a washer in a faucet, push the snow blower, and hang another picture on the wall. My son is also a writer by trade. When he got married and bought an old house, I was amazed and proud of his skills in doing the things I had done. He can do them much better than I can. Must have inherited those skills from his grandfather.