HOUSE WEAR
Just after we moved from an apartment to our own home, I developed something of an identity crises. Upon discovering a leaky faucet, my first thought was to call the building superintendent, but then I realized, hey, I'm the building superintendent. I didn't know anything about maintaining a house. Prior to owning one I remember having to set aside a good portion of a weekend just to hang a picture.
The tools I possessed were just not adequate: a Swiss army knife, a pair of scissors and a toenail clipper. I could've had more if my wife hadn't been so stubborn about her eyebrow tweezers.
Somehow, the hardware man knew I was a babe in the woods.
"So," he repeated my request, "you're looking for a leaky-faucet fixer?"
Since then, I've become his best customer. My wife thinks I spend more time tool shopping than she does food shopping. The plain truth is, although you buy a house for more comfort and space, the house believes you're there only to keep it groomed and in good repair. Your living room is really a waiting room--a place where you sit until your furnace stops, or the paint on the walls begins to look drab. You don't have to look for things to fix--you hear water pipes gurgling when they should be quiet, or you don't hear down spouts that are quiet when they should be gurgling.
My wife, on the other hand, looks for trouble. She combs the house not unlike a wary scout just before the Custer fiasco. Her eagle eyes can spot a loose wall panel nail at 20 paces. Most times she saves her findings until we're in bed. "Honey, what does a termite look like?"
After a while I realized that my wife and I--like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers--were not on the same side. I used to think that it was just the two of us pitted against the house's demands, but then one day she asked, "Don't you think we should make the kitchen bigger?" That's when it hit me: She's on the house's side.
The seasons passed: winter caulking, spring painting, summer screening, fall raking. In no time I had accumulated many tools--so many that my hardware man called me when his stock got low.
Although we were still slaves to the house, there came a time when it did not totally overwhelm us, and we were able to squeeze in some moments of leisure. Unfortunately, those flashes of freedom must've made us lightheaded--we decided to buy a bigger house.
Before we bought the new house, however, we needed to sell the old one. We dressed the exterior with two coats of robin's egg blue paint. All squeaks in the house were either nailed mute or Three-In-Oned to death. Our grass was pampered into a lush blue green, and so closely cropped and manicured that an ant on its hind legs could see every blade tip in the front yard.
In no time, a young couple was smitten--lucky for us; for one more day of house grooming would've had the grim reaper at our newly stained front door. At the closing, I gave the house away with tears running down my cheeks, caused by irritated eyes from installing Fiberglas insulation.
It turned out that the new owners had been apartment dwellers. As far as being prepared to nurture a house, they were clueless--and tool-less. I wisely didn't include any of my tools as part of the house purchase. Since we were moving into an even bigger house I'd have to add to my existing stores.
On the day we moved, the new owners were at the house measuring rooms, their shiny ruler still sporting a price tag. As they sat on the living room floor they appeared flushed with thoughts of a happy, comforting future. I wanted to set them straight, but didn't have the heart.
Halting one of the movers struggling with one of my tool boxes, I extracted an adjustable wrench and quietly placed it next to the kitchen faucet. With that done, my wife and I drove off, ready to serve our new master.
- END -
Published in America West Magazine (Copyrighted)
The tools I possessed were just not adequate: a Swiss army knife, a pair of scissors and a toenail clipper. I could've had more if my wife hadn't been so stubborn about her eyebrow tweezers.
Somehow, the hardware man knew I was a babe in the woods.
"So," he repeated my request, "you're looking for a leaky-faucet fixer?"
Since then, I've become his best customer. My wife thinks I spend more time tool shopping than she does food shopping. The plain truth is, although you buy a house for more comfort and space, the house believes you're there only to keep it groomed and in good repair. Your living room is really a waiting room--a place where you sit until your furnace stops, or the paint on the walls begins to look drab. You don't have to look for things to fix--you hear water pipes gurgling when they should be quiet, or you don't hear down spouts that are quiet when they should be gurgling.
My wife, on the other hand, looks for trouble. She combs the house not unlike a wary scout just before the Custer fiasco. Her eagle eyes can spot a loose wall panel nail at 20 paces. Most times she saves her findings until we're in bed. "Honey, what does a termite look like?"
After a while I realized that my wife and I--like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers--were not on the same side. I used to think that it was just the two of us pitted against the house's demands, but then one day she asked, "Don't you think we should make the kitchen bigger?" That's when it hit me: She's on the house's side.
The seasons passed: winter caulking, spring painting, summer screening, fall raking. In no time I had accumulated many tools--so many that my hardware man called me when his stock got low.
Although we were still slaves to the house, there came a time when it did not totally overwhelm us, and we were able to squeeze in some moments of leisure. Unfortunately, those flashes of freedom must've made us lightheaded--we decided to buy a bigger house.
Before we bought the new house, however, we needed to sell the old one. We dressed the exterior with two coats of robin's egg blue paint. All squeaks in the house were either nailed mute or Three-In-Oned to death. Our grass was pampered into a lush blue green, and so closely cropped and manicured that an ant on its hind legs could see every blade tip in the front yard.
In no time, a young couple was smitten--lucky for us; for one more day of house grooming would've had the grim reaper at our newly stained front door. At the closing, I gave the house away with tears running down my cheeks, caused by irritated eyes from installing Fiberglas insulation.
It turned out that the new owners had been apartment dwellers. As far as being prepared to nurture a house, they were clueless--and tool-less. I wisely didn't include any of my tools as part of the house purchase. Since we were moving into an even bigger house I'd have to add to my existing stores.
On the day we moved, the new owners were at the house measuring rooms, their shiny ruler still sporting a price tag. As they sat on the living room floor they appeared flushed with thoughts of a happy, comforting future. I wanted to set them straight, but didn't have the heart.
Halting one of the movers struggling with one of my tool boxes, I extracted an adjustable wrench and quietly placed it next to the kitchen faucet. With that done, my wife and I drove off, ready to serve our new master.
- END -
Published in America West Magazine (Copyrighted)
posted by rich at 2:58 AM
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