It just so happens that both Stacey and I were reared by lifelong newspapermen. My dad worked at The Washington Post for nearly 40 years and as an editor of the newspaper’s book section since its inception. Wonderful with words and impractical ideas, my dad is pretty darn bad at home repair projects that involve tools other than a pen. If I want something that’s almost broken to be broken beyond repair, he’s the man to call.
When a bat found itself trapped in our dining room years ago, my father donned a getup suitable for space travel, attached several pillowcases to a coat hanger and went after the creature of the night. When our family’s oven ceased to work, he purchased several top-notch freestanding ovens to avoid having ours fixed. And to this day, my mother’s curtains lean drastically to the left because my dad was positive he could hang them better than any “overpriced professional.”
Over the years, I have come to appreciate his desire to right the wrongs with his own hands before crying for help. Sure embracing this life lesson means I have been crushed by air conditioning units and almost sawed off my arm taking down a pesky dogwood, but heck. God gave me two hands and just like my Dad, I am going to accidentally break things with them.