For almost a year, the only thing that separated our bathroom from the kitchen was black plastic nailed over the 2X4 framing. Dad was a do-it-yourselfer, not because he had skills but because he couldn’t afford to hire work done. As a result, any home improvements took months and months to complete—if ever.
Dad had a great sense of humor and never took himself too seriously. Like many men raised in the 1920’s and 30’s, Dad was a smoker. He was also a coffee drinker. Cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other, he’d point out to my frustrated mother that he could only do two things at once—swinging a hammer would have to wait.
He was tall and lanky, and moved with the grace of an athlete with no wasted motion. I took for granted that I’d grow up tall, handsome and with a full head of pepper gray hair just like him. Mom was short and stout, and, as Dad often mused, “Like a little tea pot, she would spout.” She bustled about, always busy, the quintessential dynamo. On the other hand, dad glided about, smiling, an observer of life.
I idolized Dad, but as it turns out, I’m more like my mom. I failed to notice I had my mom’s eyes and brown hair until the day I blinked back in amazement at the short, stout, bald guy in the mirror. I did inherit his do-it-yourselfer gene, but like my dear mother, I’m a compulsive perfectionist. As a result, I get a lot done but I drive everyone around me crazy in the process. Dad, on the other hand, got very little done which, ironically, drove Mom crazy.
I loved being around Dad, particularly on his days off. I’d listen to his grand ideas as enjoyed one of many coffee breaks. Dad had a firm grasp on the art of a slow pace. He may not have accomplished a lot with his hands, but his mind was awash with great plans. He spent more time elucidating his ideas than executing them.
On project days, we’d mosey about the farm gathering hand tools and then we’d sit down. Stirring his coffee with the tea spoon he always kept in the cup and lighting a fresh Winston (a freshly struck match against new tobacco still reminds me of him), he’d gesture with the lit cigarette cradled between his index and forefingers, and say something like, “Now, normally, a good carpenter would carefully measure and draw up what he’s about to build, but I like to just start building. That allows room for creativity. Like, see here? We could put the door to your mother’s glorious new bathroom right here… but if we wait and come up short on 2X4’s we have the option to put the door here, closer to the refrigerator. Now that makes a lot sense if you think about it. When a man’s a shavin’ early in the morning and he needs just a touch more cream in his coffee… whaddya know, the fridge is just outside the bathroom door! You see, boy, that’s engineering!”
It took him a year to hang drywall over the framing; it took another year for him to finish the drywall so mom could hang the floral wallpaper she had optimistically purchased when the project began.
Over the years I figured out that Dad’s do-it-yourself projects were done out of love for my mother—he would have been quite happy living in a barn.
“Instruct them to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is life indeed.” 1 Timothy 6:18-19 NASB
Some children inherit riches, others inherit richness. Dad left me wealthy in the latter, and I look forward to thanking him one day. I’m older than my dad was when he passed away. Each time his memory crosses my scanner, it’s always in smooth, soothing bleeps—no alarms or spastic jerks, just a calm serenity I believe helped shape my personality. I’m so grateful for that inheritance.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.