It was a Saturday morning, maybe a couple of months ago. Tess was standing in the kitchen, looking up at the ceiling.
“Uh-Oh,” I thought.
I had seen this look before.
“I have an idea,” she said.
I looked at the ceiling. It appeared to be a perfectly fine ceiling, no leaks or anything.
“I want to bead-board the ceiling and stain it,” she said.
“I know a guy …” I started to say.
“We can do this ourselves,” she insisted.
And so another project begins. Plans will be made. Materials will be purchased (we live in the Home Improvement Triangle of Lowe’s, Military Hardware and New Home Building Stores). Then, bright and early on another Saturday morning the work will begin. As will the cussing (that along with lifting heavy things being my primary contribution).
When we bought our little old house on 10th Avenue North 2 ½ years ago, I estimated it would require much work. It had been vacant and vandalized for two years and was in pretty sorry shape. Tess and I had only been together for about a year at that point, so there were still mysteries to be revealed. So, I naturally assumed we would hire a contractor.
I was mistaken.
Tess likes to do stuff herself. She is an expert cook; she sews; she refinishes furniture like a pro. Her natural instinct when faced with any new challenge it to “figure it out.”
She loves to learn new things.
My make-up is somewhat different. New things confuse and frustrate me. As a result, when it comes to my status as a “handy man,” I’m about as far down the rung as you can get. I have — or I should say, I had — no skills. The only thing I could make was a phone call.
I’ve always been like that. It’s not that I never tried. But usually, I’d fiddle around with it for 10 minutes or so, then give up and call somebody who knows what they are doing.
That’s changing, now that I have met Tess.
Our first project followed a predictable pattern with me trying to figure out how to do it, which generally lasted about 10 minutes before announcing, soberly, “It is obviously not God’s Will for me to know how to hang sheet-rock,” before heading to my recliner.
At that point, Tess — who had been watching silently — took over. She studied the situation, tried something. Saw how that went. Tried something else. She had endless patience. If she couldn’t figure it out, she downloaded instructions from the Internet or watched YouTube videos and took notes.
She was perfectly willing to do things I would not dream of doing — like reading instructions. I’d rather be water-boarded than read instructions. It was pretty clear from the start that the only thing Tess would NOT do is give up.
Now, a guy can only sulk on the recliner for so long under such conditions. So after about 10 minutes, I was shamed back into action.
Over the past two years, we’ve done dozens of projects — everything but plumbing and electrical work, which we leave to professionals.
Along the way, we’ve required a pretty good assortment of tools, saws, power equipment, etc., and I am slowly acquiring the basic skill set you would associated with a normal man. It’s kind of cool to learn how to do stuff and when a project is completed there’s a real sense of achievement.
Soon we will be installing a bead-board ceiling in the kitchen.
I never really know when a project will start.
Saturday morning, Tess was on the step-ladder with a hammer and a small pry-bar, pulling down crown molding, so I suspect the project is officially under way.
I can only hide in my office, pretending not to notice, for so long.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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