As I’ve explained before, our house used to be one of those little drive-through huts where you could buy smokes and gum. Then it briefly became a photo drop-off booth, till digital ate up that entire universe.
Over the years, with grit and determination, my wife and I have managed to turn the little place into a very comfortable family home.
Gone are the mounds of Marlboros. In their place is a stunning three-bedroom ranch with a hole in the roof and a garage door opener that will not open. The kitchen cabinet underlighting won’t light, and something is devouring the back porch at night – might be raccoons, may be poltergeists.
In short, our house is like a practical joke. Its soul is made of spackle.
It is a running gag among the kids how I make a repair, then have to repair my repairs.
When the doorknob to the kitchen door sheared off, it took me three tries. There was additional pressure on me, since the door leads to the garage, where we keep the second refrigerator, which is where we store our money and the emergency Chardonnay.
By the second day, Posh was pretty panicked. Her nerves were so frayed, she could barely hold her favorite shot glass.
Not to get too technical over door knobs, but the innards of all metal components are now made of pudding. Stumped, I considered pulling the door off the hinges, or maybe dynamiting it as you would an old bridge.
Patience triumphed, as it always does in home repair. Within eight days I had it working just fine again, thank…