D.I.Y.

I grew up in an era when most dads could fix anything. My father could paint and paper, cut the grass and trim the edges, install windows, fix the water heater, or change a flat tire. I have not-so-fond memories of being made to stand and watch him paint an entire room. He had us there to hand him his tools as he needed them. (Note: I cannot fathom this thinking as I was happy to send my own kids outside to play while I painted!)
At an early age, the idea was planted that anyone could fix anything - D.I.Y. Now, I simply refuse to accept the idea that I cannot fix something.

I am reminded of my Delaware landscaping phase. I just didn't see the sense in paying someone to trim 40 year old azaleas. It was a warm afternoon, the kids were playing outside, and the garage door was open. I swear the saw was calling my name. Before it was time to make dinner, pine trees were pruned, ivy was clipped, and my azaleas looked like giant green, branchy bowls. H#1 was not amused and my neighbors began to refer to me as "the happy landscaper".

Take my Pepto Bismal pink toilet, circa 1949.


Days, weeks, months, a year of a touchy toilet - I was determined to fix. I took its parts to the local hardware store. Phil, in plumbing, patiently explained things to me, showed me what to do. I would go home and make the attempt. It would work ... but eventually and inevitably, I would end up back at Rolliers Hardware looking for more parts. To Phil's chagrin, I never had the broken piece with me so he had to endure my pitiful attempts at explaining just what the part looked like. The potty situation was so bad that if you had to flush, you had to remove the toilet lid and pull on the chain yourself. I refused to let the toilet beat me. This went on for weeks, months even. H#2 even made a repair but it didn't last (ironically, neither did H#2)!
Last fall, I surrendered and had Ray, my favorite plumber, install a new one.

Recently, the oven challenged me. It was Christmas day (of course). The potatoes were baked and cooling. The rib roast went in. Funny thing, though, after about 45 minutes, I didn't smell anything and I didn't hear it sizzling. The oven refused to heat past 175 degrees.

The grill came to the rescue - but only for about a half hour when it ran out of gas. Thank goodness the 7-11 was not only open but carried propane gas.

Back to my oven. So the next day, I take a look and I decide the heating element needs to be replaced. Good friends direct me to a place that sells appliance parts and I drive out to pick one up. The screws come out easily but it appears the heating element is not only plugged in but wired. I look around, and grab the nearest thing - pruning shears. One snip and it was disconnected. Then we lost electricity. After an hour or so, I went out to run some errands. I got back after dark and noticed that lights were on up and down the street. Yes! We're back in business. Um, not exactly. My house was still dark.

Then a light went on in my head. I probably tripped a circuit breaker.

Needless to say, my idea didn't work and I couldn't figure out how to reconnect the heating element to the oven. I took the plug (lesson learned from the pink toilet) up to Rolliers and John in electrics is my teacher. I tell him the story and he shakes his head and says, "Pruning shears?!" We find the part, he shows me what to do, I make the purchase and go home.

I just simply couldn't get the stripper to work. So I grabbed - not the pruning shears - but a paring knife. You know, to trim the rubber away from the wires. Whew - what a spark! Not one to give up easily, I repeated my effort. That spark caused me to drop the knife... and slip downstairs to turn off the electricity.

Melvin the handy man came a few days later, and fixed the burnt out wires behind the oven. Oops.

Today, it was IKEA. I don't think like a Swede. I don't even look like one. The shelving unit Expedite almost got the better of me, but I prevailed with a little help from my neighbour, Alan. I ask you: Who invented the Allen wrench?! Further, who invented the Swedish Allen wrench? And, more importantly, why oh why isn't there a drill bit shaped like the IKEA Allen wrench? I would buy it. Seriously.

* Not my house, but it is my shelf.