Dad's Helper

Dad was handy. He was not a craftsman furniture builder.

(Lacking the tools to do precision work even if he aspired to it, he would often curse at something that went wrong and say, “That's what happens when you don't have the right tool!” I don't remember when nor if he got a real chisel; I remember the years when he used a screwdriver ground to a sharp-but-narrow blade.)

He did carpentry inside and out, concrete work from a walk in the backyard to a basement floor, fence removal and installation, porch jacking-up, stair construction, window cord replacement, glass repair. And he did it not only at home but for friends and relatives, including building a garage for his mother when she returned to Minnesota from Joliett, Illinois with her second husband Charlie (My grandfather had died before I was born.)

On most projects, I was his “helper.” I put that in quotes because, through most of it, I was too young to be a true helper. It was more that holding a tool or retrieving nails and other small tasks kept me from getting bored.

Dad seemed to enjoy my companionship, and, if I was of little help, he never complained that I was doing too little or doing it poorly. I guess that means that at whatever age I was performing my job as listener and helper in an age-adequate way.

As I write, several projects come to mind. I pick up a few because the stick in my mind and heart. On two, I am proud that I actually saw a solution, communicated it to Dad, and he readily accepted and implemented it. Those are still a source of pride and a bit of amazement. The other is still an embarrassment to me. I start with it, because I think it happened first.

Incident of embarrassing shyness forever embarrasses me.

I doubt I was more than five or six years old. At least, I hope I was no older.

Dad talked as he fixed the side door. I was on the other side listening and holding tools. As, I recall he used a plane to take off those beautiful curls of wood that a plane produces and, in the process, stop the door from binding. This also requires removing and adjusting some hardware. He was into this slow, latter stage. Dad could concentrate and tell a story at the same time. Both require a mental discipline that, for him, seemed complementary. I do not remember of what he spoke. I do know he spoke at length of something about which he had thought a lot. I, being his only son, was his principal listener when he was not working with his partners on the riptrack at the Northern Pacific railway.

Because of the door, the narrow walk, and the neighbor's hedge and could not see me. He spoke through the door. My assistance in holding the door was no longer needed. I was just standing there listen when a friend walked up behind me. He too was invisible to Dad.

My friend did not want to interrupt Dad so he just indicated his interest in going somewhere to play. Nor did did I have the courage to interrupt Dad. Or, perhaps it is just that I did not know how. It was a beautiful day. Dad was in a good mood. I have no doubt, had no doubt, that he would approve of my running off with a friend, but I didn't know how to ask in this circumstance. I believe I did the classic back and forth head swivel between the door and my friend. Then I just shrugged my shoulders and went off with my friend.

Dad made no mention of this at dinner. Guilty and embarrassed, I had to see if I had upset or embarrassed him. Somehow I managed to mentioned it. Dad just said, “Ya, I noticed you had disappeared and wondered where you went.” He was not upset with what I had done. That seemed to be the end of it.

Yet, I still feel guilty for my failure to overcome the shyness that left my father alone talking to a door.

I said, “Why don't you put in two posts to replace the one,” and he did. 

I have a picture of a gathering in our remodeled basement to
celebrate Mom and Dad's 20th wedding anniversary in February, 1955. I believe it was over the two year before that that Dad converted in the basement into a useful space. I had been a dark dank place. In the end, it would have a waterproofing product on the inside of the cement block walls, useful cabinets, an imperfect ping-pong table made by Dad, and a concrete floor throughout. It was before the floor went in that I mad my contribution. Let's guess 1954 when I was 11.

The smaller furnace opened up space. Dad then removed the fruit cellar in the opposite corner leaving the basement open enough for the huge effort to pour a concrete over dirt floor—a 20-hour marathon project for my dad and a couple of other men who helped him for several hours. This story, however, comes before the floor.

The house had one post to support the center beam of the floor above. It was obvious to Dad that that post would come right in the middle of the smaller space and passage from the stairway into the open east side of the basement. He acknowledged the problem as an unfortunate something he had to accept.

I wondered aloud if he could not substitute two posts for the one. One of the two could be the corner of the new furnace, laundry, fruit-cellar, utility space. The other could be near the cabinets he intended to build along the south wall. The result would be to open up the passage between the two spaces. Dad thought about it for a moment and said, “Yes, I suppose I could do that.” And he did.I remember this tiny incident for my immediate surprise, immense pleasure, and lingering pride that my father so readily accepted my suggestion and implemented it. I don't remember that I was of much help beyond making the suggestion.

I said, “Why don't you cut them in half and. ...” and he did.”

Dad took out the large west facing window in the kitchen so he could put a counter and cabinets along that wall. Looking at old photographs I can see it happened sometime before 1960 and after Dad's 45th Birthday in 1957. I'll take a guess at summer of 1958 through spring of 1959 and put myself at age 15. After Dad finished the main part of the project, which also included moving the sink and stove he had to do something with the old, open pantry-and-stove and back-door area at the north end of the kitchen. The west side had the house's original cabinets and counter while the east side had cabinets above where the stove had been. Apparently we had enough new cabinets that we could do without the latter, but not those on the west .

… which included my favorite, the flour bin, which tilted outand hold a large bag of “Hungarian” flour. It also held a sack ofstale bread that Mom crumbled for breading and broke into pieces forTurkey stuffing. I raided this bag to feed birds in the winter andtry without success to set traps for them in the summer. The newly installed cabinets had “modern” smooth doors that had stood out slightly from the cabinet surface and had a lip on all sides that hid the crack between the door and the cabinet framework. The original cabinet doors were inset and were also narrow and almost twice as tall as the new cabinet doors.

What to do--to match new with old? I looked at it an suggested he cut the doors in half and make new fronts for them to match the new cabinets. He said, “yes, good idea.” I believe that may be when he went to Montgomery Wards to buy the small table saw he used for the rest of his life. With it he could cut plywood to size, and make the lip to match (better than he even imagined ) the new cabinets.

Again, I remember this tiny incident for my immediate surprise, immense pleasure, and lingering pride that my father so readily accepted my suggestion and implemented it. I don't remember that I was of much help beyond making the suggestion. I like to believe that in later years I did tell Dad how his show of faith helped his son. I believe I did, but I do not remember.