We have a great fix-it guy. His name is Randy.
If your name is Randy, there is some kind of unwritten law that you must become a handyman. Handy Randy has a lot to live up to. Our last handyman died 13 years ago this month.
It’s taken us that long to find a replacement for Steve. And a replacement for the missing hallway floor tile, and the bathroom faucet handle and the bulb for the refrigerator.
Here’s a memory of Steve from 2005.
When Steve comes over, we sit and chat about his kids and his grandkids. Then he gets around to his infirmities and then his wife’s cousins who are overstaying their visit. Then what’s new at the temple. And finally, how things are going at his regular job — which, interestingly, is just talking to people on the phone about their problems. And he’s not a therapist: he’s an acoustical engineer.
Then it’s time for a little lunch. We talk about the history of smoked salmon, the relative merits of a Kosher hot dog, and the debate about yellow vs. brown mustard.
Then we start talking about his granddaughter, Amanda, again. Apparently she is a very good talker for only two years old. This trait must run in the family.
After about an hour, I do something that is a bit rude. I ask Steve about actually fixing something. Like the door that won’t close properly.
“Steve, sorry to interrupt, but can we talk about fixing the hinge on the front door?”
I think I should be more careful with how I phrase things, because for the next hour that’s exactly what we do. Or, to be more accurate, that’s what Steve does. Last week I learned a lot about the long and rich history of the door hinge, the benefits of stainless steel over iron, the evolution of the pin that allows the hinge to move freely, and the best type of oil to use. It was very interesting. (Yeah, right.)
But my door still didn’t close well. “I’ll have to fix that hinge another time,” said Steve. “It’s getting late.”
“It wasn’t late when you got here six hours ago.”
“Dick, these things take time. What’s a good day for me to come back?”
“Why are you coming back? We can do what we do over the phone.”
Steve returned a week later. He would have come back sooner, but he was very busy and had a lot of people he needed to talk to.
“Hi, Dick. Is your door still broken?”
“Well, of course it’s still broken, Steve. You didn’t fix it.”
“I know, Dick, but we talked about it for almost an hour. You mean it still won’t close?”
Despite my kidding, Steve was our savior. Steve could fix anything, except the cancer that finally took him, the result of years of working around asbestos at his full-time job.
After he passed, I appreciated his skill and friendship even more and I wrote a tribute to him that I will share with you next week. As I write this, Randy is upstairs installing mirrors in our new bathrooms. Randy has become a pal, as well. That’s the kind of guy you need when you’re in a fix.
