I used to think that being married to a self-employed carpenter would provide unlimited free labor. If he could build entire houses, I thought, imagine how handy he’ll be just doing little jobs around our place. When my mother warned me “the shoemaker’s children go barefoot,” I laughed. He wasn’t a shoemaker, after all. He was a carpenter.
Eight years ago, we kicked off our marriage with the purchase of a handyman’s dream, a rambling, 150-year-old farmhouse, in grave disrepair but possessing three elements we found irresistible: a front porch, a back staircase to the kitchen, and a spacious pantry. Unfortunately, the house lacked three other elements that many people consider equally irresistible: electricity, hot water, and a septic system.
Once we had taken care of these problems—at great expense—I expected the rest of the house to be remodeled within weeks. I pictured myself turning away tourists, who would say apologetically, “But we could have sworn this was a bed and breakfast.” Alas, things didn’t happen that way.
The joyous peal of wedding bells was soon drowned out by a new noise, the sound of our dream house decaying around us. I was not prepared for what I heard: chunks of plaster falling from the ceiling, strips of brittle wallpaper sliding to the living room floor, and even the plip-plop of raindrops on our bed in the middle of the night.
It was then that the meaning of my mother’s adage hit me hard. My beloved “shoemaker” was busy fixing other people’s shoes.
“I have to work weekends. How else will be get the extra money we need to fix up our house?” he would say, kissing me and sailing out the door for another 10-hour day. But when he returned at night, check in hand, he’d doze off on the couch before his supper had even settled. Meanwhile, the plaster fell, the wallpaper slid, and the rain plip-plopped.
Normal people (meaning non-carpenters) don’t have these kinds of problems. When a repair is needed, they call someone to fix it. We couldn’t do that. If word got out that someone else had worked on our house, my husband’s reputation—and ego—would be shot. After months of listening to the words, “I can fix that in no time,” and gradually learning that his being able to fix something and his actually having time to fix it were two different things, I reached a conclusion: I would have to do the work myself.
The main problem with my new plan was that I knew nothing about construction. Oh sure, when I went to the home supply store, I would throw out words like “soffit” and “fascia,” but the employees seemed to sense that I was bluffing. I knew I couldn’t put down a new roof or put up trim around the windows and doors, but I figured I could at least paint the walls, hang some pictures, and put up curtains.
Or so I thought.
Embarking on my first project, I discovered with dismay that the junk drawer, where I kept the tools I had acquired in my single days, was empty. My husband’s habit of using these tools for household jobs and then storing them permanently in his van highlighted another irony of being a carpenter’s wife: You never have any tools in your house.
Despite various short-lived efforts to replenish my humble but essential stock of tools, I finally realized I would have to make do without them. It took longer than planned—and the results lacked professional touches, such as symmetry—but I did manage to accomplish at least a little cosmetic work around the house with no other implements than a butter knife, a nutcracker, and the heel of a black suede pump.
Naturally, this kind of effort exacts a toll on one’s good nature. Months of resentment had been building inside me, and one day I caught my husband in an act that unleashed my wrath. He was sitting at the kitchen table, adjusting something on his circular saw—with the 3-inch long screwdriver from my sewing machine repair kit.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled. “You’ve got to be kidding. You own more tools than anyone we know. Your van is overflowing with wrenches and hammers and reciprocal saws and planers and soffits and facsia, and here you are using my only screwdriver. It’s pink, for heaven’s sake. You’re not supposed to have taken all the tools out of the house. You’re supposed to be bringing them in so we can get something done around here. I’m just thankful you aren’t a grocer, or we’d have starved to death by now. I’m glad you’re not an electrician, or we’d be sitting in the dark. Good thing you’re not a—a shoemaker!”
He looked up from his work and smiled indulgently. “Oh, honey, I told you this house would be beautiful someday, but you know it isn’t going to happen overnight. Now don’t be mad. Maybe in a couple of weeks I could take some time off and patch that roof. You’ll see. Everything’s gonna be great.” He touched my hand.
I sighed. He had a point. I was frustrated because our house lacked the amenities that other people’s had—like faucets that shut off all the way and windows that stayed open without a stick wedged under the sash. But as I looked into his mesmerizing blue eyes, I softened. Someday everything really would be great.
He stood up and wrapped the cord around his saw. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work. See you tonight.” Touching my face, he gave me one of those long, loving, newlywed kisses that made me wish he would come home early.
It wasn’t until his van pulled out of the driveway that I noticed he had pocketed my pink screwdriver.
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