The Fools on the Hill

I’m off today, and after exercises and a brief nap and a cup of tea, I just took a mid-morning meander around our property. Feeling the soft, humid air against my face. Listening to the birds and the squirrels and the distant whinny of the neighbor’s horses. Looking at the trees and the irises that have (finally!) sprouted and the weeds growing out of the driveway. Puzzled by the myriad of pipes and tubes and vents that bring things like water and electricity in, and keep most of Mother Nature out.

And I realized something. That if, for some reason, Husband didn’t wake up one morning, or fell off the roof while cleaning the gutters and landed on his head and died, I wouldn’t know the first damned thing to do.

Well, of course I would. I’m not a complete dolt. I’d call 911 of course. Cry a lot, and stuff. Then get his original artwork appraised. But you know, after that. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea about the maintenance and upkeep of this piece of property.

It’s not like Husband does everything now, although he does do some things that I am extremely grateful for. He mows the lawn, pulls a few weeds, cleans aforementioned gutters, and paints the deck a fresh shade of sage green when the old stuff starts to peel, and he frets about all the other things that need to get done.

Hey, that part I could handle. I can fret with the best of them.

But when I was outside, staring at our new central air conditioning unit, looking at the tube going into the house through some kind of silver junction box, I had a driving need to know how it all worked. I wonder if there is some kind of class for that. Not how to fix stuff. I probably wouldn’t be fixing stuff. I hate Home Depot and hate getting my hands dirty. My way now of getting things fixed is to tell Husband what has broken. After which, the following steps occur:

1. He heaves out a mighty breath, rolls his eyes and throws his hands up to the sky and wonders what other awful and expensive thing will happen to him next.

2. Grumbling, he will put on some sort of expendable clothing depending on the location and condition of the domestic infirmity (painting pants, a ripped sweatshirt, hip waders, radiation suit) and “go look at it.”

3. He will then attempt to fix it while I hold my breath upstairs, bracing myself for a flood or an explosion or some other mishap. I can monitor the progress by the grunting and the loudness of the pounding that is going on in the basement. If the pounding gets loud, I know to do a mental check of our account balances to see what we can afford to replace. If it gets too quiet, I wonder if we will have to take a trip to the emergency room.

4. He will come upstairs and announce one of three things: 1) That he was able to fix it (after which I will need to praise him like a puppy who just learned how to sit); 2) He might be able to fix it but it will require several trips to Home Depot and/or consultation with several neighbors; or 3) He’s not God and can’t fix everything.

If part 3 of number 4 is the case, he will be willing to wait until the Guy Who Fixes Stuff On The Side is available, which could be weeks. Depending on the severity of the situation, I might gently “recommend” that we get it repaired by a professional who could be here, say later that afternoon. Some things I can live with. But if it’s the dead of winter and the furnace is not working, then I feel like I’m in my rights to insist that we call someone who can actually come before Spring, so I don’t have to sleep in so much clothing that I can barely roll over.

No. I don’t want to learn how to fix things. I just want to learn how things work. So if the times comes that I have to face some kind of vital domestic infrastructure failure alone, I’d know the right kind of noises to make and who I should call and how much I can expect to shell out.

I’d already have the radiation suit and the hip waders.