I’m at the age where people ask me what I will do after I retire. When I tell them I have no idea, they say, “Well, you’ll have more time to fix things around the house.” That’s when my wife begins laughing uncontrollably.
I’ve been called many things, but “handyman” is not one of them.
When I was growing up, a handyman existed only to help little old ladies who didn’t have a man around the house. Any home with a “real man” had no reason to employ someone to fix the plumbing, the roof, or the electricity. I forfeited my real man card long ago.
My dad could repair anything. When he got bored, he would take something apart so he could put it back together. Cars, televisions, clocks, you name it. While he was off fixing something, I was at the store, operating the cash register. To this day, I can give you the correct change without using a calculator. Oddly, there isn’t much demand for that today.
On the bright side, I believe that my lack of fix-it skills is why I still have all of my limbs and fingers. In my youth, I would occasionally climb up on a roof, or attempt to chop down a tree, or try to replace an electrical outlet. No more. If the repair can’t be done by watching a two-minute YouTube video, I’m calling Mr. Handyman.
The fact that my1970s-era house still stands is a tribute to my legion of fix-it guys. In the midst of a storm in 2010, a tree fell on a portion of our roof. I immediately called my friend Gilbert, who heroically climbed up and attached a massive tarp to prevent further damage. Left to my own devices, that hole on the roof would now be old enough to get a driver’s license.
I have frequently asked plumbers to make my toilets flush like the ones I use at some public places. Those toilets send the bad stuff away with the force of an EF-1 porcelain tornado. Meanwhile, at home, I’m still a low-flow double-flusher. The plumbers tell me there’s nothing they can do. “It’s the law,” they say. I reply, “I’ve lived here for 37 years, and the sheriff has never charged me with flushing fraud.” The plumber then hands me an invoice, and goes off to some restaurant where the toilet flush could propel a jet engine into the next dimension.
As soon as I vow to never call the plumber again, I’m plagued by water leaks and clogged pipes. For a brief moment, I consider doing the work myself. But then I think back to that classic comedy where the Three Stooges are mistaken for plumbers at a fancy mansion. Curly gets trapped in a network of pipes, and when the rich folks turn on their new television set, a flood of water rushes through the screen. I know that’s physically impossible, but I don’t want to take that chance.
I definitely don’t want to mess with electricity. For the past several years, a small branch from a tree has found a home, perfectly balanced on the power line outside our back window.
It has survived storm after storm. It rides the line, with the wind blowing it 30 feet away, until the next storm blows it right back toward the house. It’s an eyesore, but I’m sure it will outlast me. I refuse to ask anyone for help. The last thing I need is this headline: “TV news guy fries handyman trying to do good deed.”
I’m even afraid of the small chores. About ten years ago, my wife bought a modern “touchless” can opener that cleanly slices around the rim of a can, avoiding any sharp edges. I had used an old-timey can opener since I was a kid, but my wife got rid of it. I only use the new contraption about once a year, and I still have to watch a YouTube video to figure out how to open a can of chili.
I can’t predict how I will die, but you can bet on this. My obituary headline will not be “TV news guy falls off roof.”
