To Do or Not to Do

 My father was a doer. In the middle of one project, he'd be planning the next. We always had a bunch of cars he'd buy for a song and fix up. He was a model of industry; I watched him paint, wallpaper, and knock down walls. Once, he raised the roofline of my house. More than that, though, he was an innovator. Tired of the redundancy of emptying the kitchen trash, he cut a hole in the floor under the sink so it would drop directly into the large trash barrel he'd wheel out to the curb. His one criterion for buying a property would be its potential. Could he add a porch or bathroom or turn those unused rooms into a rental? He did all that and more. 

When I was a teenager, I always got a jump on my tan because of the penthouse patio he made atop our Mansard roof. After adding a fishpond to his flower garden, he got so into digging that he single-handedly carved out a lap pool that he swam in daily. Having your dad teach you how to sail might be expected. In addition to that, I watched my father build our boat from scratch—watched as he stretched and sealed canvas over the framework to render it seaworthy. That was noteworthy, but even more impressive was that he also made the sail. I can still see him sitting behind Mom's Singer sewing machine, smiling as the machine strained through needle after needle. Full disclosure must include that he broke down once and hired a kid to put a roof on the house. A day or two into the project, he didn't like what he saw, so he fired the roofer and finished the job himself. He was 80. 

Throughout the years, his energy for creative projects continued. Towards the end, when his eyesight failed, he asked me to decorate his glasses with colorful trinkets. They are emblems of the creative life force he was known for and exuded. He loved and embodied Eleanor Roosevelt's injunction: Do something every day that scares you. That was my father: a confident, capable, self-taught guy who reveled as he stepped out of his comfort zone with each new project he undertook.  

Like Dad, over the years, I've stripped furniture, painted rooms, and used to hang a decent wall of paper. If seat belts get jammed, I unstick them. I'm the one in the family who details the cars, snake drains, and replaces elements in the stove. I once stretched a kitchen disposal's life by ten years by propping it up with a sawed-off broom handle and sealing the rim with Shoo Goo. I've worked all sorts of wonders with that stuff. Jim says I'm my father's daughter when it comes to being handy. 

I wish. 

Last week, we faced an onerous pile-up of things to do. Broken shades had begun to levy insults. Grout started to shoot accusing glances. Too high, burned-out light bulbs cried out in the dark. Bush branches begged for a trim. I'm busy and can be pretty laid-back when it comes to practicals. I take seriously the biblical idea that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. High-order concerns; low-order concerns. That idea allows me to look past tasks that others might find pressing. Given my high tolerance for putting things off, when I get bothered by our to-do list, I know it's at the perfect stage of ripeness and it's time to get started. 

The problem is that intentions to get things done only sometimes equate with skills. I have to face it: we are getting old. We know the photinia needs to be topped, but we can't reach that high. The disposal is still stuck, and we still can't get it to work. We are overdue to replace the guest room shower head. Shades look easy to install, but we wouldn't even dare. Somebody needs to add pavers alongside the driveway, and we are clueless. My father spoiled me with his capabilities, and a wishful part of me would like him to appear from the wings. 

Given that impossibility, enter Joe. No, not Chairman Joe, and not Word Wednesday Joe. 

Presenting: Joe, our new handyman. Joe, the sweet, skillful jack of all trades, who, within an hour and a half, whittled our indoor list down to nothing and handily completed the outside tasks a couple of hours later. My father would never need such assistance and would scoff at the very idea for himself. (As would you Minnesotans who build outbuildings, disk firebreaks to prevent fires, and what all else you sturdy folks do). Still, he would be proud. I took a bold step out of my comfort zone, accepted the scary fact of what I couldn't possibly do, and put myself out of my misery by hiring Joe.

Rest in Peace
Larry Langton
08/28/1021-05/02/2007