A House Unfinished

Our house on Hart Street seemed to be in a perpetual state of construction. My father always had the best intention of finishing the work, but there was always another project to consider. He did finish the areas that were actually lived in, but if there was a major project to be done, like when “we” built the addition (cue whatever music you imagine that accompanies the entrance of able-bodied contractors), it was time to call the professionals.

He did complete the rec room, furnished with the most ‘70s fashionable bold floral carpeting, that crawled up the walls of the bar and storage couch—think chocolate brown, orange and yellow, with matching cushions.

The spare bedroom in the basement, with serviceable en suite, was also completed, albeit with similar, and almost matching wood paneling.

So too was the new rec room and sauna under the addition. It was good, even great when it was complete, if you could stand the burnt orange carpeting, again, all the rage in the late ‘70s; my friends and I thought it all very cool there, so that’s where we hung out. The sauna was a thing of beauty, the shower outside the sauna sturdy enough to support the living room fireplace above it, if need be. Sadly, the cast iron tube next to the shower was painted the same colour as the carpet, but that’s just paint. The plumbing was sound, after two or three fits; the lights worked. What else could one ask for?

The utility room, where my mother spent more than enough time doing laundry, was another thing. It was never completed, the walls never dressed with wall board, the electrical wiring exposed for all to see for as long as we lived there.

What can be said about my dad was that he tried. He sometimes succeeded, he mostly succeeded, and the finished work was alright, when he applied himself; but patience was never his strong suit. One cannot spend one’s week on the road, living the life of the travelling Molson Brewery rep, and then spend the night out with one’s friends when one comes home, and be endowed with patience when attempting finished carpentry, electrical work, or plumbing.

Once I was old enough to “help,” I was drafted. You’d think that was a good thing. But I was only used as the jack-of-all-trades helper, useful for fetching, carrying, and holding in place. I was never really instructed in the use of electrical tools, just hand tools, but never actually trusted to do anything with them, not often, anyways. I was to learn through osmosis, I suppose. On more than one occasion, I was instructed to come help, which I always did when asked, but not without trepidation, because whenever I did, somehow, things did not come off right. Depends on what we were doing, though. Some things went swimmingly, others not. Say we'd work on the plumbing for the shower and sauna, and I’d be expected to hold the copper pipe immobile while my father soldered the joints; but I’d have to hold it all in place above my head while he readied the soldering tools, not an easy thing back in those days when my arms could never be mistaken for those of a bodybuilder’s (FYI, they still aren’t, as I’ve not seen the inside of a gym in some years). The soldering complete (but not before I’d heard “hold it straight” a number of times), we’d test the work by turning on the tap. There may or may not be a drip. We’d drain the pipe, and begin again. The joints would be pulled apart, dried, replaced and re-soldered. We’d turn on the tap, and there may or may not be a drip. After a few repetitions of this, my dad’s patience was a thin skin at best. He may or may not yell at me, although the first was more likely than the second. How this was my fault was beyond me, so after a few repetitions, my patience may or may not have been a thin skin, too. After being yelled at three times, I’d drop the pipe and walk away.

As you can imagine, I’ve never developed many home improvement skills. I hate it. The mere thought of doing construction work and repairs sets my teeth on edge. A nervous fear of failure rises up into my chest.

If I have to work on the house, I can feel my father rising up in me. His language, too.

Christmas, Part 2

One year I was enthralled with a racetrack toy I’d seen on TV. I’d watched as the cars rounded corners at breakneck speed, and knew I had to have one; I don’t know why, I’d never owned a tracked set of any sort, trains or otherwise. I must have harassed my parents about it, because they bought it for me. I have no clue how expensive it was. It couldn’t have been cheap. Christmas morning came, I dug into my gifts, and there it was, that same racetrack set I’d seen on TV. I couldn’t wait to play with it. My father helped me set it up in the rec room. I recall thinking it was much smaller than I thought it would be. There was a controller for each car, with only a speed lever on each. Thumb off, stop, thumb pressed full on, full blast. Simple. We made a trial run, and both tracks, both cars worked. Then I pushed my car to its speed limit and it flew off the track as it rounded its first corner. I reset it and it flew off again. My father’s car went happily round and round, if at a much slower pace. Dad told me to control my speed, but I wanted the cars to fly around the track like they did on the commercial. I thought his track might be better, so we switched. His new car, my old car, went happily round and round, so did mine, until I pushed my lever to the end, and my car hit his, taking both off the track. I was an impatient child, I threw a fit, and stormed away from the set, never to play with it again. I’m thinking I was a bit of a brat. But I did learn an important lesson that day: sometimes commercials do not present things as they truly are.

A Birthday Party

I haven’t had many birthday parties. What I had were birthday celebrations, dinners, the like. Mostly just with family. But actual parties? None that I haven't thrown myself.

My first that I remember was in Timmins. I was in my early grades at Pinecrest, but after I’d been held back, because I remember that it was those boys who came: Larry and Tony and Leslie and Mark. David Miller, too. David was my neighbour, my first friend in Timmins.

I was excited. I’d never had a party where school friends were in attendance. In fact, I can’t remember my ever having a birthday party before, at all. So, excited is an understatement. I was bouncing off the walls. I would check the street about every minute or so, regardless how much time remained until the guests were set to arrive.

In time, they did. I recall not being sure what my role was. Host? My mother certainly instructed me to greet all my guests at the door. Man of the hour? Prince? I think my mother may have told me I was the host of the party, but I would not have understood what that meant, at that age. What did a host do? They entertained their guests, my mother said. Me, entertain them? I thought it was my day. Wasn’t it?

I can’t say what was for dinner. Hot dogs? Most likely. I was a kid, not terribly fond of most meats at the time, so hot dogs must have been on the menu (in later years, the standard was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas; how that came about I'm not sure; I suppose it was deemed my favourite meal, and it came to be a tradition; but my favourite meal was spaghetti and meatballs, but I suppose that might have been deemed either too messy, or too pedestrian for a birthday celebration). There was cake. Of course there was cake. That’s what a wound-up kid needs, more sugar.

I was a bit of a tyrant, I think. Actually, I know I was a bit of a tyrant. I wanted to be the center of attention. I wanted to play with every toy. I took toys away from the other kids. I had a tantrum. My mother was having none of it.
She demanded that I behave. She demanded that I let my guests play with the toys, too. I had a fit. They were my toys!

I ended up getting a spanking and being sent to my room for a time.
Did I deserve it? You bet I did.