Now that Marshall Farmers Co-op has opened its ACE Hardware dealership, I look forward to eager throngs of do-it-yourselfers; but, let’s face it, not everyone is cut out to be a handyman.
For instance, the lady who wanted fence wire for constructing a dog pen. When I asked how much she needed, she replied that it was being built along the property line. She then asked in all innocence, “How long is a property line, anyway?” I was tempted to answer, “That depends on whether it’s winter or the seashore.” but I didn’t want to add to the confusion.
Then there are the types who ask legitimate questions but don’t place much urgency in the answer. They’ll ask, “This lacquer I just bought – if I store it in a hot shed, is there a danger of it spontaneously combusting and burning down the entire neighborhood?” When I offer to run and get more expert advice, they drawl, “Naaahh… I’ll just wait and ask next month when I come back.” I hope they’re more decisive when the fireman orders them to jump into the net.
I’ll never forget the couple that drove away with a 25-foot utility pole strapped underneath a passenger vehicle. I’m sure they had calculated wind resistance, calculated traffic patterns, and, most importantly, calculated how much Jack Daniel remained in their thermos.
We have employees who really know their stuff about hardware, but I’m afraid it would be the blind leading the blind if anyone expected any technical knowledge from me. Some people are dangerous with power tools; my insurance policy has this rider about paper clips. In my spare time I’m writing the Great American Novel: “Our Friend The Tetanus Shot.” I count my blessings – right after I count my fingers. Yes, “ACE is the place” – but the emergency room is a close second.
Still, that ineptness fits right in with my complacency about home repair. Some slackers merely keep the same wallpaper or learn to tolerate cement cracks. I think I could live with the boards still containing acorns and woodpeckers.
Okay, I do have fond memories of painting Gideon’s nursery (several years before his birth), but the project with the insulation blower from Home Depot still gives me nightmares. It wasn’t until we started dragging the contraption in and out of the van and up the steps that we realized we had been honored with the Celebrity Model, which apparently had Anna Nicole Smith and Kirstie Alley stowing away inside.
So there I was in the bedroom feeding bag after bag of insulation into the machine while poor Melissa was in the attic with the hose, deftly putting equal amounts of insulation into the floor and into her lungs. At least this helps with parties. I just tell a joke that gets Melissa started coughing, and we have instant confetti.
I guess I would think more highly of the insulation experience if we weren’t in a losing battle against our drafty old house. After hiring someone to put on vinyl siding, after hiring someone else to floor the attic, after doing our own caulking, we still see minimal results.
I get the idea that if I bought a do-it-yourself rocket kit from ACE and plunged the house into the fiery heart of the sun, the propane truck driver would come around the next month and announce, “Wow! You used three percent less propane this month!”
Next week, I’ll be writing about…Naaahhh. I’ll worry about next week’s deadline in June.
