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.
