Lowcountry Riffs: Bob Vila does not live here | Columnists | Our Gazette

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Lowcountry Riffs: Bob Vila does not live here

Published Wednesday, February 03, 2010 9:21 AM

By Jim Tatum
The Gazette

As Dirty Harry once said, “Man’s got to know his limitations.”

Mine appear to be plumbing and electrical work. And carpentry. And tile. And…

No, that’s not quite true. I’ve managed to hang four ceiling fans and the front porch light without burning down the house. Granted, one fan made this weird noise I tried to cure with a pencil while standing barefoot on an aluminum ladder at the time -- and another fan knocked out a circuit breaker the first time I cut it on.

I can unstop a clogged toilet with the best of them, assuming it’s relatively minor and I have working SCBA equipment handy.

But as a general rule, the reason you pay a plumber or an electrician to do these things is because they don’t have to re-read the directions; they already know what they’re doing.

My father, a West Pointer with an engineering degree, best put it into perspective for me when he said, without the slightest trace of irony, “I would never walk across a bridge I built.”

Now that I think about it, I probably wouldn’t either. That he graduated with an engineering degree is a testament to his intelligence, self-discipline and sheer grit, not his hands-on skill. In fact, building a bridge was easier for him than, say, putting together my new bike, if only because the ’Point taught him the best way to build a bridge was to say “Sergeant, build that bridge right there.”

I remember an entire summer spent attempting to make our dog pen escape proof. Our dog, Schultz, was an excellent hunter not at all gun-shy, but he was absolutely petrified of thunder. He could sense a thunderstorm coming hours before it hit and would work himself into a frenzy, rip the pen apart and tear down the street searching for sanctuary.

As our household toolbox at the time consisted of a hammer, a chain saw, a screwdriver, and duct tape, our dog pen repair aspired to be third world at best.

Every day at some ungodly hour of the morning, Dad would get me out of bed and we would spend the next several hours slaving away on some new innovation designed to keep Schultz from breaking out and destroying our neighbors’ homes. Every afternoon we would knock off work, secure in the knowledge that this time, there was no way that nutty hound was getting out. And every afternoon, about five seconds after that first crash of thunder, Schultz would annihilate the pen and gallop wildly down the street wreaking all manner of havoc wherever his hysterical perambulations took him.

I’ll never forget the phone call we received one steamy July afternoon. Before Dad could even say hello, a quiet voice just dripping with sarcasm delivered the following missive.

“Now don’t you worry about Schultz, he’s doing just fine. He’s resting comfortably, right here in our bed.”

Sure enough, he and his wife, lulled by the delicious sounds of a gentle afternoon thunderstorm, had just retired for a nap when our histrionic, wet, and very stinky 80-pound bird dog crashed through a heavy oak front door, tore down the hall into the master bedroom and launched himself right between them. We would all share a good laugh about this, but not for a decade or so.

What can I say? We never did get the pen fixed right. And the dog never lost his extreme phobia of thunder. And the neighbors continued to put up with daily destruction until the dog went to that great big old broom sedge patch in the sky.

Fortunately, that summer did teach me to incorporate dogs and duct tape in my household projects. As soon as my young Corgi finishes eating the downstairs carpet and kitchen baseboards, we’re going to get new floors.

But unless they make wood grain colored duct tape, I probably won’t be the one installing it.

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