When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
Tis the season...
In those long ago Christmases – before wife and kids – it was my car that always received the best (and most expensive) gifts. The old clunker would purr along like a fat tabby until about the time you flipped the calendar page to December. Then it would start making the kinds of noises you associate with massive repair bills. This festive gift giving became such a ritual I decided to get the heap its own stocking. One year I filled it with a new radiator; in another it was a lovely set of brakes; and the next year it was a shiny new engine. It wasn’t even the same vehicle. It’s like they know.
In this new era of leasing and warranties, the four wheels no longer get all the good presents. In fact, even the used Sunfire is content to burble along with a weekly tank of gas and the odd spray wash. In exchange, another member of the family – the house - has taken its place on Santa’s knee.
If you want to see a clinic in emergency home repairs, just drop by our place in the weeks leading up to Christmas. The money you can drop on a Victorian farmhouse makes what you spent on the used car seem like a box of chocolates by comparison. Last year, several little projects shot their way to the top of the Christmas shopping list. A faulty sump pump got the ball rolling. We returned from Christmas dinner at my father-in-law’s to find a new swimming pool had been installed in the basement. I don’t recall having ordered it although my son was amazed by the buoyancy of his new Nerf Super Mondo Blaster gun. We spent the next few carefree hours bailing and repairing ABS pipe. It just doesn’t get any more festive than that, does it?
A couple of days later, we heard a sound right out of a Stephen King novel emanating from the basement. It was a hollow, steady drip, drip, drip. We cowered into the spare bedroom to see droplets of yellow gunk oozing from the ceiling. The pipe leading to the septic tank was leaking. We ran to the phone quicker than you can say “Yellow Pages.” One repairman and a small fortune later, we had our indoor plumbing back, minus a few ceiling tiles.
The third ghost of home renovations showed up a few days later in the form of our well pump staying on all day. I’ll spare you the sordid details but after the huge, shadowy truck disappeared down the driveway, our already-beleaguered bank account was several hundred shekels lighter. It turns out Santa is a contractor. Who knew?
This year we were looking forward to a nice, quiet, traditional Christmas. Chestnuts roasting in the oven, a steaming turkey surrounded by smiling faces and cranberry sauce, and… a leaking toilet in the main bathroom. This time there would be no Contractor Claus pulling into the driveway in his pickup with the extended cab. In these times of financial uncertainty and with the economy headed for the septic tank, we decided that it was a good time to become handy (actually, I made that decision; my wife already is McGyver-ette). But this was one fairly large dose of wishful thinking since I am to handiwork what Joseph Stalin was to humanitarianism. Still, I was determined to become more hands-on, more self-reliant, a DIY-er. So I rolled up my sleeves, said a quick prayer, and got at it.
This particular throne looked like it was first used by Champlain and every bolt on it had seized into a lump of rusty metal. I would have to bypass the Intro course and go directly to “Fun with a Hacksaw”. After hearing much festive cursing, McGyver-ette decided to pay a visit to the classroom. She offered quick tutorials in applying CLR and anger management, then left me to finish my assignment. Finally, in a fit of potty rage, I ripped the toilet from its moorings. I didn’t like what I saw. One of the boards had rotted. My toilet had been held aloft by a foot-long piece of sponge toffee. It would have to be replaced. This particular gift just kept on giving.
I consulted with McGyver-ette. We would replace the old board with a similar one from the closet; and since the hall closet is in the bathroom (did I mention this is a Victorian farmhouse?) the replacement would be of similar composition. One problem. I didn’t have the proper tools (or expertise) to perform the task. We agreed we wouldn’t call a professional, so we opted for the next best thing.
I rang up my next-door neighbour, a fellow of unending generosity and community spirit. I lured him into my trap with the promise of sainthood and cold Creemore. He showed up the next day armed with a reciprocating saw that looked like it was part jackhammer. We measured, re-measured, sawed, levered, wedged, and jimmied. Heck, even my daughter shared in the experience. The new piece needed some router work so she took it to shop class to put on the finishing touches. Now I have a new slab of 1.5-inch thick, 130-year-old pine to which I can fasten the NEW toilet. The throne itself patiently waits in pieces behind the door, the newest present for the most demanding member of the family.
From my family to yours, have a Merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year.
