home repairs, prayers and the grateful dead...

Today was given over to a variety of small carpentry repairs: a few door frames

needed to have the rot chiseled out, small inserts added along with a bit of plastic wood and then repainted in anticipation of autumn and winter. The same was true for two steps on the front staircase that needed to be replaced. Working with the old wood on our house in various degrees of well-being gave me a new appreciation for a good chisel. And a descent electric chop saw. After a few hours, I think we're ready for the seasons to change. I came upon this poem by Scott Matthews this evening that, at day's end, resonated on a number of levels.

They come,
Seeking answers
To scratch paper sketches;
Porches, playrooms
Pantries and problems;
Resultant conundrums of a material world.

Expecting-
High pressure tactics,
Pushy sales person
Running up tickets,
And, of course, technical expertise.

What they don’t expect,
Is a Home Depot holy man.
An orange apron-ed mystic,
Offering solutions to drywall dilemmas.

Who studies the cracks in foundations,
Listens to camouflage
overlying faint cries of despair.
And hears-

How do I build a stairway of sincerity?
Tall as a tower, shining steps rising
Above the crippling contrariness of my life?

What manner of steel is so stain-less,
To weather the corrosion of my debaucheries,
To anchor my heals in righteous construction,
So Heaven someday may be within reach?

What padding can be so resilient,
To keep disappointment from scorching my ass,
Dragged through the coals of work-a-day world?
Flat on my bum, one foot entangled,
Eternally caught in the crux
Of life’s bottom rung?

And

Where do I find the cheapest fix,
To patch this hole in my heart,
Out through which my humanity bleeds?

Welcome to the Depot, he replies.
Mirrors, aisle seven.

I didn't grow up in a home with either a "handy man" or "handy woman" present. My dad was a closet intellectual who liked the independence he found in real estate sales. My mom was his Irish high school sweetheart who wanted lots of children and kept a fine house. She was a great cook, too who sometimes moonlit at Woolworths or later Giant to make ends meet or to give her six children a special Christmas. But home repair? No, for that her brother, Malcolm, and later her brother-in-law Ed were the experts. So, I never really learned to use a hammer. Or a saw. And power tools? Forget about it! Over the years, I have been blessed with loving handy people in the various congregations I've served - remembering Roger in particular. He was an angel - and a good friend, too.

For a number of years here in Western Massachusetts, however, the world was different. This wasn't a working class church. And there were not many skilled trades people in it unless you count teachers, nurses, and doctors - which I do - but it turns out only one knew how to do home repairs. He became a friend long before I knew his carpentry skills. But once discovered, we worked on our deck numerous times over the past 13 years. He taught me how to really work a chop saw. He insisted that I purchase a good crow bar, too for those times when a plank needed to be taught a lesson. And don't forget the magic of a chisel. Jon was a master at getting part of a plank out and replacing it with a small insert. We did this on the deck. He did it on the trim of the roof when a squirrel decided to try to take up residence in our attic. And it was his wizardry that I applied today on the front steps. (NOTE: the whole front deck and stairs needs to come down next spring, but that's another story.)

As I was doing these small repairs - and applying touch up paint - I found myself returning thanks to God for Roger and Jon who set the stage for this year's adventures in solo home repair. Not only did they train me, but also gave me the confidence to try it myself. I gave thanks, too for: my mom who taught me to cook (along with Frank Loeberbaum of the Our Daily Bread restaurant on Delmar in St. Louis), my dad who passed on a love of music and books to me (and my children) in spades, as well as Sam and Ray and Adolfo who guided me in my quest to pray, and Martha who turned me on to great literature, poetry and film. As I was washing up the paint brush and throwing away the discarded wood, I couldn't help but think of the way Bobby and Phil put it back in the day: what a long, strange (and grateful) trip its been.