“This water is too cold.”
Immediately, he darted for the basement. The fact that the water flowing from the kitchen sink was cold might appear a plus to a layperson, but to the trained lips, something was amiss.
Sure enough a hose on the washing machine had sprung a leak. My father’s intuition saved us from a massive, damaging flood. Some people are tuned into the rhythms of nature. They can sense a season change in the way the wind blows. Others feel the ebb and flow of the sea. They know when to take warning and when to delight. My father was tuned into the house, always reading the fingerprint of chaos, staying one step ahead of calamity.
My training began early on. When I was eleven, my father came home with a new lock for the front door. Planning on installing it the following weekend, he left it on the kitchen table at my usual seat. Over bowls of Captain Crunch as the week wore on, I studied the lock. By mid week, I had it out of the box. On Friday I started disassembling the lock on the front door. I found that I had to modify the hole a bit. We never had any real tools, just what my father bought to do the current job. I unearthed a circular file on a shelf in the basement which I used to elongate the hole. The lock was installed by dinner time on Friday, freeing my father to putter around in his victory garden all weekend. He was delighted. In retrospect, my dad probably was hoping I would take the reins and start my journey as his DIY protege.
My father often bragged that he "wired up the whole basement." The problem was most of the outlets eventually quit working. As kids playing in the cellar, we all knew which plugs worked and which ones didn't. When I was twelve, I pulled the fuse to the circuit in the fuse box then removed the plates on the disabled outlets. I traced the wiring until I found a disconnect. The fix was simple. Back then, I tested for voltage on a circuit by touching the leads to a makeshift socket and bulb I wired up. I never shocked myself in my youth which in itself was quite an achievement since back then we didn't own a voltmeter.
When my wife, Christine, and I purchased our first home, I continued my apprenticeship as a home improvement guy. My extensive trial by fire education in the fine art of do it yourself included everything from bathroom and kitchen renovations to roofing and building stone walls. I constructed a deck, hung drywall, and wired 3-way switch circuits. There was nothing I wouldn’t take on. When we moved to our current house, the plan was to purchase a new home which was mostly complete so I didn’t have to endlessly toil on the house. Somehow that didn’t work out even though our current house was new construction. After all these years like my father, I’ve become a house whisperer.
Once, I got up from bed because I smelled something odd. It turned out that it was food discarded in the trash cans instead of the compost bin. I never put perishables in the landfill. They always go into the compost which reduces our waste by a third. As I climbed into bed, I reminded Christine not to put food in the trash.
“You can smell that in the garage from here?” she asked.
I cocked my head then answered, "Broccoli, eggshells and some cheese. Wensleydale I believe."
The other day over breakfast, Christine asked me if the sprinkler shut off.
“Ten minutes ago,” I answered.
“How do you know that? You’ve been sitting here for an hour.”
“I heard it,” I explained.
When the valve closes, a slight increase in flow noise can be detected. It's just shy of a water hammer. I’m tuned into the symphony of sounds associated with toilet flushes. There is a distinct pattern of notes one comes to expect when the loo is purged. Knowing the proper song of a flushing toilet saves on a runaway crapper flooding the leaching field. My father knew the noises of his furnace. Each sound during the fire up and light off was familiar to him so that an errant reverb meant something was awry. We have a geothermal heating system that makes very little noise. Instead I can tell all is well by sampling the air emitted from the register. Once when the compressor motor was going south, I detected an odd odor similar to the smell of a Lionel train transformer. Sure enough, the motor was burning up.
I’ve become one with my house like Tony Stark and the iron man suit. That’s because every job site around here contains a testable amount of blood from misfired hammer strikes or wayward projectiles emanating from power tools. It wouldn’t be hard for the district attorney to link me to a crime I committed due to the amount of blood evidence absorbed by my home.
Some of my friends have asked me to fix problems with their houses, mostly poorly wired circuits. Even though in my town I’m not allowed to port my skill set to a house other than my own, I’ve straightened out gaffed up wiring many times. Once I fixed an inoperable emergency furnace shutoff and fire cut out in my friend's house. I’m sure the initial installation was never tested by the building inspector. Even though the law doesn't allow me to fiddle with the wiring in another person's home due to my lack of licensing, his house would have certainly burned to the ground without the safety equipment properly installed.
When my wife, Christine, and I purchased our first home, I continued my apprenticeship as a home improvement guy. My extensive trial by fire education in the fine art of do it yourself included everything from bathroom and kitchen renovations to roofing and building stone walls. I constructed a deck, hung drywall, and wired 3-way switch circuits. There was nothing I wouldn’t take on. When we moved to our current house, the plan was to purchase a new home which was mostly complete so I didn’t have to endlessly toil on the house. Somehow that didn’t work out even though our current house was new construction. After all these years like my father, I’ve become a house whisperer.
Once, I got up from bed because I smelled something odd. It turned out that it was food discarded in the trash cans instead of the compost bin. I never put perishables in the landfill. They always go into the compost which reduces our waste by a third. As I climbed into bed, I reminded Christine not to put food in the trash.
“You can smell that in the garage from here?” she asked.
I cocked my head then answered, "Broccoli, eggshells and some cheese. Wensleydale I believe."
The other day over breakfast, Christine asked me if the sprinkler shut off.
“Ten minutes ago,” I answered.
“How do you know that? You’ve been sitting here for an hour.”
“I heard it,” I explained.
When the valve closes, a slight increase in flow noise can be detected. It's just shy of a water hammer. I’m tuned into the symphony of sounds associated with toilet flushes. There is a distinct pattern of notes one comes to expect when the loo is purged. Knowing the proper song of a flushing toilet saves on a runaway crapper flooding the leaching field. My father knew the noises of his furnace. Each sound during the fire up and light off was familiar to him so that an errant reverb meant something was awry. We have a geothermal heating system that makes very little noise. Instead I can tell all is well by sampling the air emitted from the register. Once when the compressor motor was going south, I detected an odd odor similar to the smell of a Lionel train transformer. Sure enough, the motor was burning up.
I’ve become one with my house like Tony Stark and the iron man suit. That’s because every job site around here contains a testable amount of blood from misfired hammer strikes or wayward projectiles emanating from power tools. It wouldn’t be hard for the district attorney to link me to a crime I committed due to the amount of blood evidence absorbed by my home.
Some of my friends have asked me to fix problems with their houses, mostly poorly wired circuits. Even though in my town I’m not allowed to port my skill set to a house other than my own, I’ve straightened out gaffed up wiring many times. Once I fixed an inoperable emergency furnace shutoff and fire cut out in my friend's house. I’m sure the initial installation was never tested by the building inspector. Even though the law doesn't allow me to fiddle with the wiring in another person's home due to my lack of licensing, his house would have certainly burned to the ground without the safety equipment properly installed.
My oldest son, Aidan, is not interested in home improvement. I once asked him what he is going to do when he buys his first house and discovers something is broken. He said,
"I'm gonna inherit our house. Everything in it is already fixed."
I didn't explain to him that it doesn't work that way. Things that are operable today, break tomorrow, but he'll learn the hard way. Besides, he can inherit only half of his childhood home ever since his younger brother was born.
William is more interested in fixing things. He likes to go to the hardware store with me. He asks questions now and then like "where does our electricity come from," and "where does water go when it drains from the tub." I suppose with his brother I was too hands off. I'm installing a new thermostat right now.
Maybe I'll leave it on the kitchen table next to Willy's cornflakes.
Editor's Note: Originally published on July 17, 2018.
Editor's Note: Originally published on July 17, 2018.
No comments:
Post a Comment