My wife can do almost anything, really – almost anything. I mean mechanical stuff, electronic stuff, and carpentry stuff, plus all sorts of things that involve thinking, like philosophical and spiritual stuff. She also knows (she reminds me now and then) what’s best for me, which is a real plus since I have no concept myself; she can do laundry and sew and, very important; she can cook. One thing she cannot do, however, the only thing as far as I know, is throw a flatbar – toss, really – she can’t toss a flatbar. I was on our roof once years ago, it’s not finished yet, shingling, something she could have done herself as she reminded me, were she not busy doing simultaneously several of the other things she can do. I needed my flatbar and had left it on the ground near the bottom of the staging. I called down to her and asked her to toss it up to me. Her mouth curled up on one side and her brow furrowed and she put her hands on her hips as she regarded first the flatbar and then me on the roof. It was the only time I’ve ever seen that particular expression cross her face. I’d never seen it before and I’ve never seen it since. If I never do again it will be too soon. If I ever do see it again I will not press my request. She held the flatbar by the straight end, looked up at me as if to gauge the trajectory, and took a couple of softball pitcher type practice swings, creating an arc from behind to in front of about 180 degrees. Then she held it by the other end, the one with the right angle bend, and did the same thing. Typically deliberative, she repeated the procedure, trying one method, then the other. Because the sun was setting I urged her on and, clearly pressured and unsettled, she opted for a toss holding the angled end. With her tongue visible and held to the starboard by her teeth and with, as I say, an odd expression, she let it fly.
We used to have a cat. Its name was Alice and it could not catch a flatbar with any more aplomb than my wife can toss one. I was ready. I stood at the edge of the staging with my arms outstretched in anticipation of catching the flatbar. The cat stood behind my wife on the front door stoop in anticipation of enjoying the rest of its life.
“Strike,” when used as a noun in building terminology, refers to the little piece of hardware sticking out from the door jamb and which, circumstances being ideal, when the door is swung closed, receives into its mortise the door bolt which, in turn, latches the door. Because over the years our old house, like so many things, has sagged a little, the latch of our bathroom door, when the door is swung closed, rides up on the strike but, fractionally misaligned, never quite finds a home in its mortise.
While I’m on the subject of the bathroom, I want to digress to talk a little about our current cat, Emily, the one that replaced Alice who rests in a tiny plot in the back yard under a marker that reads A friend and Companion but not a Carpenter’s Helper. I used to regard people like myself, older people who talk about their cat(s) with a barely uttered “Get a life.” Now I’m more forgiving.
We, my wife and I and our kids, when they are home, imagine we are multipurposed individuals. We are not. We are singularly purposed and that empowering goal is to serve the cat. This house is the cat’s house; our bed, if there’s room, is, in fact, the cat’s bed; the kitchen is the cat’s kitchen; we are the cat’s attendants and, most importantly; the bathroom is the cat’s bathroom. She regards it as an optimum opportunity to spend some quality time with us, her devoted family. Usually, now that we’ve been trained, when any of us needs to use the bathroom we don’t close the door behind us without looking down to see that we haven’t closed it on the cat who, always knowing what we are about beforehand, is usually coming in at the same time. Because she has misgivings about any of us being in her bathroom unattended, she will, if elsewhere in the house, when she hears the door to her bathroom close, put in an appearance outside in the hall, stand up on her hind legs and put her considerable weight to the bathroom door causing it to free itself of its tenuous grip on the strike and to swing open. Not content to have simply fashioned a narrow corridor for herself through which she might then slip she glances derisively over her shoulder and gives the door a swipe of her paw, knocking it fully open that all who pass by might have an unfettered view of the occupant and the activities therein. In either event she then makes a determination as to whether the occupant will be or is in the shower, at the lavatory or seated. It’s the latter circumstance that suits her best for the occupant has clearly chosen this posture to be nearer the floor, hence nearer to her and hence, further still, more fully able to attend to her considerable needs.
I am perfectly capable of making the modest adjustment that would restore the function of the bathroom door or of finishing the roof or the many other half-done projects around the house. I confess though, that I haven’t attended to these things not because I am lazy or don’t care. Rather, I’ve become emotionally attached to the unfinished condition. To me these things mean home like my wife, children and friends.
When I’m on the road and encounter a woman respectfully addressing her husband (it doesn’t happen often) I’m reminded of my own wife’s shortcomings in that regard and hence home which I then miss. When I chance to see a teenager obediently respond to Dad with a snappy “yessir” (usually a fundamentalist family) I’m reminded of my own daughters’ long-suffering expressions and I pine for home. When I’m staying in a motel or in someone else’s nice new house, and when I use the bathroom on those occasions, when I close the door and find it remains closed, I’m reminded fondly of home. Not with sadness but with a kind of sweet melancholy. Home to me means those I love and with whom I live and their attendant shortcomings, my friends on the island and their many little idiosyncrasies, the other islanders with whom I interact and their considerable failings and my old house with its inherent deficiencies.
I also abhor silence with the same intensity with which nature regards a vacuum and these little unfinished things around the house sustain a certain level of conversation. Talk about repairs and maintenance fill the empty spaces when other conversation lags. I think an unfinished house may be the key to a lasting relationship. I suggest to others, men whose relationships may be shaky, to think about letting things ago a bit. See if the interaction doesn’t ratchet up a little.
Phil Crossman,
Vinalhaven