THEY WON’T LET YOU DIY
An Old Handyman Goes Into The Home
Dad needed a recliner and coffee table. He wanted a work bench and jigsaw.
To those who know I write satires and humor, this is the rare occasion when I’ve written something serious. If you prefer to read my humor, skip this piece and await the next.
The year was 2000, Dad was a rickety eighty-two, yet he’d been dithering for a dog’s age about moving to a retirement home. Our family wasn’t surprised. When he was twenty-one, Dad frequently talked about touring Europe. But it took World War II and the U. S. Army to get his ass in gear.
Dad was certainly qualified to be in “assisted living.” It was on account of the choices he’d made during the run-up to being a geezer.
Choice #1: Use it or lose it
Dad had opted to lose it. He did only two workouts a day. The first was to get out of bed, ease himself down the stairs, have breakfast and read the morning paper at the kitchen table, then settle in the living room BarcaLounger® to watch home improvement shows on TV.
The second set was the reverse of the first after dinner.
Choice #2: Steer clear of diabetes
Dad stayed the course. His doctor had warned him he was a candidate. He’d told him to dial up the exercise. And dial back the intake. The sausages and syrup-soaked pancakes for breakfast. The brats and kraut for lunch. The chicken-fried steak and smashed taters for dinner. And the tween-meal snacks of Oreos®, donut holes, pudding cups, and potato chips.
But Dad didn’t take the doctor’s advice seriously. Sure enough, he got “the sugars.”
Consequently, Dad was obese. He took insulin for his diabetes, an ACE inhibitor for his high blood pressure, an anti-coagulant to reduce the risk of stroke, and an anti-androgen for his enlarged prostate. He’d lost most of his upper and lower body strength. It took him a while to reach the bathroom when Nature called. If he was slow out of the gate, Nature hung up and went ahead without him.
Despite all that, Dad saw no need to move into what he called the “the Grayboy Mansion.” He had a home health aide. Someone who cooked his meals. Did the dishes. Laundered his clothes. Vacuumed the floors. Shopped for groceries and picked up his prescriptions. In short, Dad had Mom.
Trouble was, if Mom had applied to Comfort Keepers® to be an aide, she’d have failed the physical. Like Dad, she was way past chubby. She’d avoided exercise like it was her in-laws. She was six-years younger than Dad, but a couple mastectomies had aged her.
She’d beaten the cancer. But fluids slowly seeped from her radiation-scarred lungs. Over time, she’d develop shortness of breath. She got a break twice a year when her doctor inserted a needle and drained off the fluid. But her lungs would continue to weep. After a couple months, even light exertion exhausted her.
Nonetheless, Dad counted on Mom to be there for him. And she was — until she wasn’t.
I took care of the funeral arrangements.
Dad was up to it emotionally, but he wasn’t accustomed to handling details. Once upon a time, he’d been a civil engineer with the county road commission. He’d been methodical, meticulous, and thorough. But those skills withered after he put in his papers and put away his slide rule.
Since then, he’d puttered around the house. He considered himself handy. In fact, his home improvements usually weren’t plumb, level, or square. They were rarely up to spec. Sometimes they weren’t up to code.
He and Mom couldn’t afford to be as slipshod with their finances. So Mom had managed them. She’d paid the bills, done the taxes, tithed the church, and slipped the dollar bills into the grandkids’ birthday cards.
Nonetheless, Dad wanted to tackle the next project: moving into a retirement home. Not right away, of course.
Dad asserted he could live in the house alone. He’d already done his own laundry, for instance. He’d run out of detergent, but that was no problem. After he threw his soiled pants in the machine, he tossed a bar of Ivory® soap in after them. Within days the house smelled ripe. But Dad still believed he could manage on his own.
Then he had an epiphany.
It happened while Dad was tottering around the kitchen the day before the funeral. He lost his balance, toppled over against a wall, and slid down to the floor. He wasn’t injured. But his legs and arms lacked the strength to get to his feet. When that had happened in the past, Mom dialed 9–1–1 and asked the township EMTs swing by and help Dad up. But Mom wasn’t there anymore. And the phone on the wall above him was out of reach. Dad lay there for three hours until a church lady discovered him while dropping off a casserole.
So the day after Mom’s funeral, Dad arranged to move into a retirement home. It was a no-frills one-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette. It was clean, affordable, the staff had a good reputation, and there’d be plenty of familiar faces; the old folks at church tended to end up there.
I drove Dad to the home, then sat in while he met with the director. Before signing the papers, however, there was a box to be checked: Dad needed to designate someone as having power of attorney. He demurred. Dad preferred to handle his own affairs.
“But it’s a requirement for staying here,” said the director. “If a health problem prevents you from speaking for yourself, we want to know who’s authorized to speak for you. Besides, you’ll like it. Think of all administrivia you’ll avoid. The doctor bills. The prescription drug invoices. The Medicare summaries. The checking account statements. The paperwork which needs keeping for your tax returns. You can dump all that onto whomever you give PofA.”
Dad struggled with the idea. He didn’t want someone else writing his checks for him. Then it occurred to him: he hadn’t cut a check in decades. Mom had handled the checkbook; he didn’t even know where it was. “You’re right,” said Dad, “that power-of-attorney thing’s a good idea. Let’s delegate it to my baby girl here.”
People say it was shocking when the Titanic sank. When the Berlin Wall fell. When the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. Pish-tush. The most shocking event in modern history was when my dad gave one of his adult kids permission to poke their nose into his financial affairs. I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d been told I regained my virginity.
That’s because Mom and Dad were old-school parents. And the most old-school thing about them was what they didn’t do in front of the kids: argue, cuss, air the family’s dirty laundry, and discuss the family’s finances. The only time their façade cracked was when I was a senior in high school. My oldest brother had just graduated from college. The next boy was still working on his degree. Their tuition, room and board had bled the parents’ savings account dry. They still urged me to apply to schools. They assured me they could cover the cost. But I knew they were strapped. Which was why I joined the Navy seven days out of high school.
Anyway, the director filled out a form, a couple staffers were called in to be witnesses, Dad signed it, then the director notarized it. Just like that, I had power-of-attorney. I’d have thought there’d be more to it. That I’d kneel before someone, they’d tap my shoulders with a sword, then pronounce me “Dame Catherine, Privy Counsellor and Power of Attorney.” The least someone could have done is give me a tiara.
Mind you, I was happy to help Dad out any way I could. But why me? Why hadn’t this responsibility been bestowed on the eldest child, my brother Steve? Or the next one down, James?
Dad explained why after we got back to his house. I was the natural choice, he said. I’m a woman: it’s in my nature to care for people. To be there when needed, and attend to their needs. The boys don’t have the time; they had families of their own. I was a hen with neither rooster nor chicks.
My aunt subsequently offered a down-to-earth explanation. Dad didn’t want his eldest to have access to his money. Steve had a history of making poor financial decisions. He’d be tempted to tap the Bank of Dad whenever he got in a jam. James wasn’t good at making decisions. He was a chronic vacillator. Even he knew it.
James once admitted that “Indecision may or may not be my problem.” “Your dad knows tough decisions are in the offing,” said my aunt. “You’re the one to make ’em. As everyone knows, you’re the hard-ass of the family.”
A hard-ass was exactly what I didn’t want to be. Not when assisting Dad through this difficult transition. He’d already been through enough. His partner of fifty years had died. He’d lost some of his height, most of his strength, and all of his vigor. He spoke slowly, and his uptake was slower. He couldn’t even clutch his mud. Now his home was gonna be put on the block, and he was headed for quarters a third the size. I wanted him to feel like he was at least in charge of that. That he’d call the shots and I’d get ’em done.
My first chance to test this theory was when Dad and I gathered at his kitchen table to decide which household goods would go to the apartment. This was no small challenge. Dad was going from 2,500 square foot of this…
…To 700 square feet of that.
Dad needed furnishings which would make the place comfy and familiar, but only those which could fit into a living room and a bedroom.
So with legal pad and pencil in hand, I said “Dad, let’s begin with the bathroom. What do you want in there?” I figured this was an easy place to start. He’d want his toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. His safety razor, a couple packs of spare blades, his Barbasol® shaving cream, his Aqua Velva® aftershave, and his English Leather® cologne. And the antique gold-colored soap dish, toothbrush holder, and cups that had belonged to his parents.
Dad agreed that was a start. Then he added some things:
- His fuzzy avocado-green toilet seat cover, tank cover, and rug. Also the orange pumpkin set for Halloween and the green and red Santa set for Christmas.
- The pink flamingo shower curtain.
- The framed wall poster opposite the privy — an old-timey advertisement for six-proof “Whiskey Tooth Paste” (“Why fight oral hygiene — enjoy it!”).
- “I’ll need the little bookcase next to the commode where I keep my bathroom readin’,” he said. “Bring the John Grisham novels. The Clive Cussler thrillers. Your mom’s bodice rippers and her copies of Valley of the Dolls, Portnoy’s Complaint, and The Happy Hooker. Go to Jim’s old bedroom and grab the Playboys he tucked behind the Lord of the Rings trilogy on his book shelf. And grab the box of Trojans™ Steve stashed behind his James Bond books. True, I’ve got a big belly, a boney ass, and there’s no lead in my pencil. But there’s a lotta widows where I’m goin’, and they may not be too particular.”
“One more thing,” said Dad. “Ya never know when your plumbing will seize up on you. I know what you’re thinkin’; I‘m talkin’ about the nursing home’s. After all, I occasionally take a ginormous dump. So grab my plumber’s helper. And the twenty-foot pipe snake beside it. I’ll need the four-foot pipe wrench; you’ll find it in the linen closet. Also the plumber’s torch and spare propane bottle. A hacksaw, a set of pliers, and a couple rolls of pipe thread tape. There’s no sense leaving the bales of toilet paper I just bought at Walmart, so bring those, too.”
I didn’t contradict Dad. I didn’t point out that the retirement home didn’t want residents doing their own plumbing. I just jotted those things down and moved on.
“What about the bedroom,” I asked. “You’ll need the queen-size bed, a couple night stands and lamps, and the dresser.”
“You’re right,” Dad agreed. “And that’ll leave plenty of space for my auto supplies. I’m not ready to part with the Buick LeSabre. But the ol’ gal’s an oil-burner. So grab the three cases of 10w40 oil in the garage, the box of oil filters, the filter wrench, and the drain pan. We can shove that stuff under the bed.
“There’s six gallon-jugs of windshield washer fluid in the garage. We can stow those in the bedroom closet. Bring the cases of brake and transmission fluid; we’ll squeeze them in there, too.
“You needn’t bring all of my auto stuff up to the bedroom,” he said. “The tire pressure gauge stays in the glove box. The jumper cables go in the trunk. But I may have uses in the apartment for the air compressor. Yeah, it makes a hellacious roar. But I’ll tell my neighbors to turn off their hearing aids before I use it.
“I’ll need my tools, of course,” said Dad. “Those can go in the dresser. Put the socket wrenches in the sock drawer, the blowguns under my boxers, the pliers with the polo shirts, and the Allen wrenches with that athleisure crap you gave me for my birthday.
“As for my torque wrenches, hang ’em in the closet on the tie rack. And put the pine tree-shaped car fresheners on the floor. Maybe those’ll smother the stench from my diabetic sneakers with the velcro straps.”
Judging by how things had gone so far, I was reluctant to bring up the living room. But there was nothing to do but press on. I suggested furnishing it with the following:
- The BarcaLounger® recliner and a lamp table beside it. On the opposite wall, we could put the entertainment center with the TV, eight-track tape player, turntable and speakers. The bottom shelves could hold Dad’s VHS cartridges with classic movies and vinyl records of Broadway musicals.
- The etagere’ with Mom’s collections of Depression glass and Lladró porcelain figurines, and the Hummels Dad acquired while serving in occupied Germany after the war.
- The cherry secretary containing office supplies.
- A pair of upholstered armchairs for the use of guests.
- The brace of green torchère lamps.
- On the walls, Dad’s reproductions of Charles Vickery paintings and pastels of Leelanau peninsula scenery.
- And in the L-shaped kitchen, four sets of Ironstone dishes, mugs, and flatware.
“That works for me,“ said Dad. “But bring plenty of power cords, too. I’ll need ’em to run my table saw. Bring along the jigsaw, power drill and belt sander — they’re buried somewhere in the basement. And the reciprocating saw; it’ll come in handy if I want to cut openings in the drywall. We can put the rolling tool chest in the kitchen. And lean some scrap lumber against the fridge. Don’t forget the Maxwell House® coffee cans containing my nails and screws. And the shop-vac. It’ll blow most of the sawdust up into the air, but that’s better than nothin’.”
That’s when I had to push back. “There’s no need to stash plumbing stuff in your bathroom,” I said. “If ya got a leaky faucet, Maintenance will fix it. It says so in the lease agreement. The same goes for a running toilet. And they’ll unclog your biffy no matter how many times you stop it up with brontoturds and toilet paper.
“Likewise, you can’t cache your auto crap in the bedroom. The place is freshly carpeted and painted; that stuff’ll make it look like a grungy auto shop. And what if you slip on an oil spot and break a hip. You won’t be able to fix it your usual way: slather it with Bondo® and buff it out.
“As for doing carpentry in the living room, fuggedaboudit. The sawdust will stop up your neighbors’ oxygen tubes. The racket will make them lose what little hearing they have left. And face it, Dad, you’re unsteady on your feet. If you fire up your reciprocating saw, you’ll be lucky if you amputate just the legs on your walker.”
Dad didn’t like receiving tough love from his daughter. So I scheduled a “come to Jesus” meeting with the home’s director. That’s where we came up with a compromise.
He couldn’t stow his grimy tools and rusty pipes in the bathroom. But he didn’t have to give them up either. I’d store his plumbing stuff in my basement so it’d be available if he needed it.
He couldn’t put his greasy auto parts and leaking lubricants in the bedroom. Instead, I’d keep the whole kit and caboodle in my garage.
Carpentry was strictly prohibited in the living room. Dad went along with it. But I knew what he was thinking: Mom had set the same rule, but he’d ignored it whenever he felt like it. So he acquiesced. In exchange, I’d exclude his tools from the living estate sale and keep them at my house.
There was one more compromise. Dad was bound to tinker with stuff in his apartment. His DNA contained a Civil Engineer gene, and it couldn’t be turned off. So the director and I made a bargain with him. If Dad saw something which needed fixing, he could MacGyver¹ it. But he could only use MacGyver tools to do it. Consequently, he’d be permitted to keep the following items in his kitchen tool drawer:
- A dozen paper clips.
- A dozen bobby pins.
- A can of WD-40®.
- A roll of duct tape.
- Four pieces of Bazooka® bubble gum.
- And a Swiss Army knife.
“Son of a biscuit,” sputtered Dad, “why don’t ya pull the lead out of my mechanical pencils while you’re at it?” But then he pulled himself up short. “Never mind,” he said with a rueful smile. “Like Lou Gehrig said in The Pride of the Yankees, ‘All the arguing in the world can’t change the decision of the umpire’.”²
I knew Dad was feigning surrender. He’d push the envelope at some point. Indeed, it happened a week after he’d settled into the apartment. He’d had me buy him a new toilet seat. I left it in the bathroom; he said he’d ask maintenance to install it.
Instead, he MacGyvered it. This was the result.
[1]: “The Ultimate MacGyver Gear Guide: Must-Have Tools for Every Situation”, Ask, https://www.ask.com/culture/ultimate-macgyver-gear-guide-tools-every-situation
[2]: “The Pride of the Yankees”, Classic Movie Hub, https://www.classicmoviehub.com/quotes/film/the-pride-of-the-yankees-1942/page/1/#google_vignette
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