From Necessity to Nirvana

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From Necessity to Nirvana

I came by it honestly: my grandfather, although not a carpenter by trade, built a home for his family in Wisconsin. When I was twelve, my uncle, the architect, designed an addition to my family’s home which my father, the banker, and my grandfather, the non-carpenter, transformed into a study and a fourth bedroom.

I remember that summer vividly, the pulse-quickening way the rough wooden forms bulged dangerously when the cement foundation was poured, the afternoon the skill saw jumped out of my grandfather’s hand and neatly clipped off the tip of his pinky finger, the arrhythmic pounding of several dueling hammers, the creaminess of drywall mud, the softly astringent smell of new lumber. I remember my mother refreshing iced tea glasses caked with sawdust; driving yet again to the hardware store for yet another heavy box of 16p galvanized nails; and, when she was released from gofer duties, taping, texturing, and painting brand new walls. I remember my grandfather ribbing my dad for bending too many nails and then when my father sacrificed speed for care, scolding him for taking too long to drive a nail home. In essence, I apprenticed myself that summer. Although I never got to do much more than sweep up or, when my mother was at the hardware store, fetch iced tea, I studied as much of the process as I could.

As soon as the project ended and I moved into the new bedroom, my fascination went dormant. It lay dormant until just a few years ago when a need exceeded my budget: although I was desperate for a screen door, the landlord wouldn’t finance this “luxury,” and as a starving student, I couldn’t afford to purchase a customized door for the oversized doorway. Then, as I watched the flie...

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... Because oxidation had welded the original plumbing beyond coaxing or threat, I had to cut through copper pipe, pull the sink off the wall, and chisel the old fixture from the basin’s top.

I am now convinced that if I watch enough home-improvement shows, talk to enough experts, and give myself enough time, I can do almost anything. That conviction, though, can make me a bit egotistical. When I complained about my plumbing struggles, a well-meaning friend once offered the services of her handyman. I must have bristled visibly because her voice gave out in the middle of a sentence. I didn’t mean to be rude, but she hit a nerve: I hate to be bailed out. I frequently ask for advice and, sometimes, for help, but I am heartily offended when others assume that I need to be rescued, that I can’t do anything I set my mind to. Haven’t they seen my tool collection?

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