Unca Walt
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But then:
The Fabled PC, my bride of more than a half-a-century past, recently stumbled across some old letters she had written to her mother early in our marriage. Cussing daintily and rubbing her bumped knee, she first asked why I had laid the bundle of letters in the dimly lit hallway right where she would be sure to fall over them.
"Oh, those?" I observed brightly, glancing down nervously from my shaky perch on the stepladder, "They were in the way, laying over the junction box in the attic. I just kind of tossed them aside... musta fell through the hole."
She looked past me to the square thing in the hallway ceiling.
"But the hole to the attic is closed--how could they fall out?"
"Ahh, uh..."
She nailed me with about a Number Six withering glance. She knows that any time that I find myself beginning a statement with "Ahh, uh..." -- I'm in trouble again.
“What!"
PC can make that word speak volumes. She laid a cold, hard eye on me (which feels just as disgusting as it sounds), and waited.
"...The new hole. It's in the bedroom. Where my foot slipped when I was in the attic. Working on the junction box." I added lamely.
But she was gone; past me and my rickety perch, and into the bedroom.
"AARRRGH!"
I got her calmed down by encouraging her to read the old letters. The very first one was a gushing account of how her brilliant husband had successfully opened a stuck window in the $69 a month, furnished apartment we were renting in Abilene, Texas. I remember the achievement fondly: We had cool breezes in our bedroom from that time on. Even, it turned out, during the following winter. I never did figure out how to get it closed again. With the supreme flexibility of youth, we thought the poncho taped over the opening looked chic.
She was reading the old letters in the bedroom, as the light was better there. The hallway was still pretty dim, considering the two lights in it were still both out. That was why I had been trying to get into the junction box... why they make those things so difficult to open I will never understand--you'd think they were trying to keep people from fixing what had to be wiring errors.
"Look, Walt, here's the letter I wrote Mom when you got shocked when you were fixing the toaster."
"Really? Hey, I remember that! Well, I remember most of the events leading up to that…I think. I may have gotten a little sting, but the toaster never worked better, did it?" I felt it was time to get a few points in, before she took a really good look at the ceiling over the bed.
"Well, ye-es... but after that, we always had to stand over it to pop the toast out before it got really blackened--and we could never have any other appliance on at the same time."
"A mere formality."
"And you were in the hospital four days."
"I could have gone home in two. Ha! And I think I've got the hall lights fixed."
PC smiled happily, patted my manly cheek, then walked into the hallway and flicked the switch.
We got the fire out in pretty short order, but the fire extinguisher was one of those white-powder things that really make a mess. A quick trip to the Superduper Hardware Emporium got me the replacement for the fire extinguisher, a new replacement switch, and some other goodies.
When I got back, she was just finishing up a conversation with our doctor, and she was expressing her sincere disappointment in him that he would not prescribe her any Valium. She had obviously gotten that really good look at the ceiling.
I figured that I ought to go about this handyman stuff systematically. So I started at the first step, which I will call Step 1. I got out the brand new trowel I'd just purchased, and the plaster mix for the hole. As the hole was directly over our waterbed, it was obvious that I would have to lean a little on the stepladder to reach all of it. That turned out not to be too difficult at all.
The hard part came when the ladder went over, and the trowel harpooned the waterbed. The bag of plaster mix got pretty thoroughly wet, and was clearly ruined. Fortunately, I could see that the rug might still be saved if I hosed it quickly.
So I went to Step 1-minus.
Unfortunately, PC came in while the hosing job was just being completed, and didn't fully understand the logic of the whole situation right away.
While she went off to the Superduper Hardware Emporium to rent a rug-cleaning gadget to suck up all the water, and to make a side trip to the waterbed place for a new waterbed mattress (when I started to repair the cut, the comforter and sheets kind of got glued to the old one pretty well), I decided to save a little time and let some common tradesman do a few of the simpler tasks ahead of me.
There's a local fixit store here in town, run by John H. -- a really nice guy. Whenever I have a problem or a job that just doesn't seem worth doing by myself, I call him. I think he must really like me, because strangely, his fancy boat is named after me.
He stood there surveying the hallway and bedroom.
"What Step were you on when you called me?" John and I talk the same language.
"Step 4-minus." It is important to be honest in these matters.
"Oh, my. This is gonna be a tough one."
But John had things pretty much in order by the time PC returned. I saw no reason to mention that he had been here again, and kind of, well, let it be thought that I had fixed everything up by myself.
I even gallantly volunteered to do the rug-slurping job with the machine, but PC wouldn't let me touch it. She's funny that way, sometimes, after I've been doing handyman things around the house.
She looked up at the plaster job drying neatly in the ceiling. Then she took a break from slurping, and worked the switches in the hallway. The lights went on and off. Both of them. Her eyebrows lifted.
"So... what was wrong with the lights?"
"Bulbsburntout." I mumbled casually.
She stiffened immediately.
"John was here, wasn't he!"
"Ahh, uh..."
"My God! What did it cost this time?
"Ahh, uh..."
A Home Handyman Confesses
© Walt C. Snedeker
© Walt C. Snedeker
The Fabled PC, my bride of more than a half-a-century past, recently stumbled across some old letters she had written to her mother early in our marriage. Cussing daintily and rubbing her bumped knee, she first asked why I had laid the bundle of letters in the dimly lit hallway right where she would be sure to fall over them.
"Oh, those?" I observed brightly, glancing down nervously from my shaky perch on the stepladder, "They were in the way, laying over the junction box in the attic. I just kind of tossed them aside... musta fell through the hole."
She looked past me to the square thing in the hallway ceiling.
"But the hole to the attic is closed--how could they fall out?"
"Ahh, uh..."
She nailed me with about a Number Six withering glance. She knows that any time that I find myself beginning a statement with "Ahh, uh..." -- I'm in trouble again.
“What!"
PC can make that word speak volumes. She laid a cold, hard eye on me (which feels just as disgusting as it sounds), and waited.
"...The new hole. It's in the bedroom. Where my foot slipped when I was in the attic. Working on the junction box." I added lamely.
But she was gone; past me and my rickety perch, and into the bedroom.
"AARRRGH!"
I got her calmed down by encouraging her to read the old letters. The very first one was a gushing account of how her brilliant husband had successfully opened a stuck window in the $69 a month, furnished apartment we were renting in Abilene, Texas. I remember the achievement fondly: We had cool breezes in our bedroom from that time on. Even, it turned out, during the following winter. I never did figure out how to get it closed again. With the supreme flexibility of youth, we thought the poncho taped over the opening looked chic.
She was reading the old letters in the bedroom, as the light was better there. The hallway was still pretty dim, considering the two lights in it were still both out. That was why I had been trying to get into the junction box... why they make those things so difficult to open I will never understand--you'd think they were trying to keep people from fixing what had to be wiring errors.
"Look, Walt, here's the letter I wrote Mom when you got shocked when you were fixing the toaster."
"Really? Hey, I remember that! Well, I remember most of the events leading up to that…I think. I may have gotten a little sting, but the toaster never worked better, did it?" I felt it was time to get a few points in, before she took a really good look at the ceiling over the bed.
"Well, ye-es... but after that, we always had to stand over it to pop the toast out before it got really blackened--and we could never have any other appliance on at the same time."
"A mere formality."
"And you were in the hospital four days."
"I could have gone home in two. Ha! And I think I've got the hall lights fixed."
PC smiled happily, patted my manly cheek, then walked into the hallway and flicked the switch.
We got the fire out in pretty short order, but the fire extinguisher was one of those white-powder things that really make a mess. A quick trip to the Superduper Hardware Emporium got me the replacement for the fire extinguisher, a new replacement switch, and some other goodies.
When I got back, she was just finishing up a conversation with our doctor, and she was expressing her sincere disappointment in him that he would not prescribe her any Valium. She had obviously gotten that really good look at the ceiling.
I figured that I ought to go about this handyman stuff systematically. So I started at the first step, which I will call Step 1. I got out the brand new trowel I'd just purchased, and the plaster mix for the hole. As the hole was directly over our waterbed, it was obvious that I would have to lean a little on the stepladder to reach all of it. That turned out not to be too difficult at all.
The hard part came when the ladder went over, and the trowel harpooned the waterbed. The bag of plaster mix got pretty thoroughly wet, and was clearly ruined. Fortunately, I could see that the rug might still be saved if I hosed it quickly.
So I went to Step 1-minus.
Unfortunately, PC came in while the hosing job was just being completed, and didn't fully understand the logic of the whole situation right away.
While she went off to the Superduper Hardware Emporium to rent a rug-cleaning gadget to suck up all the water, and to make a side trip to the waterbed place for a new waterbed mattress (when I started to repair the cut, the comforter and sheets kind of got glued to the old one pretty well), I decided to save a little time and let some common tradesman do a few of the simpler tasks ahead of me.
There's a local fixit store here in town, run by John H. -- a really nice guy. Whenever I have a problem or a job that just doesn't seem worth doing by myself, I call him. I think he must really like me, because strangely, his fancy boat is named after me.
He stood there surveying the hallway and bedroom.
"What Step were you on when you called me?" John and I talk the same language.
"Step 4-minus." It is important to be honest in these matters.
"Oh, my. This is gonna be a tough one."
But John had things pretty much in order by the time PC returned. I saw no reason to mention that he had been here again, and kind of, well, let it be thought that I had fixed everything up by myself.
I even gallantly volunteered to do the rug-slurping job with the machine, but PC wouldn't let me touch it. She's funny that way, sometimes, after I've been doing handyman things around the house.
She looked up at the plaster job drying neatly in the ceiling. Then she took a break from slurping, and worked the switches in the hallway. The lights went on and off. Both of them. Her eyebrows lifted.
"So... what was wrong with the lights?"
"Bulbsburntout." I mumbled casually.
She stiffened immediately.
"John was here, wasn't he!"
"Ahh, uh..."
"My God! What did it cost this time?
"Ahh, uh..."
