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    When we had our first child, everyone said we’d have to build on. Our house had three bedrooms and a good-sized living room, so I couldn’t figure out why we needed more room. Plus, in Russia, they cram twenty people into a two-room apartment. Then our son turned two, and I learned what every parent knows: The extra space isn’t for the kids; it’s for the parents.

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    We decided to convert our basement into living space. Called in a contractor for an estimate. Made sure to tell him about needing access to the pipes, because every now and then a big gob of potato peels jams the garbage disposal, so I have to go down to the basement, open up the pipe, and ram a clothes hanger through to loosen things up.

    First, we had to get the basement dry. Lately, it’s been getting wet every time it rains. I figured the drainage pipe coming off the rain gutters was clogged with roots from our maple tree, which I will cut down just as soon as I get my chain saw fixed. (I broke it trying to cut some bricks.) Turned out it wasn’t roots. It was a squirrel that had fallen in the down spout and got stuck. Basically, what I had was a squirrel cork. I rented a plumber’s snake — twenty-five feet of cable with a slicer/dicer on the end — and now my basement is Sahara dry.

    Before they drywalled the basement, I was told I’d have to clean the mildew off the walls. This was something I didn’t understand. I was drywalling to hide the mildew, so first I had to clean the mildew? Why bother drywalling?

I figure Daniel Boone never called a plumber.

    I forgot to tell the contractor that sometimes the dirty water from the washing machine backs up through the floor drain. But I stuck a wad of duct tape in the drain and took care of that little problem.

    I have a friend who took a class in home maintenance. His house is perfect. When he needs a screwdriver, he goes right to his workshop and gets it. When I need a screwdriver, I head to the kitchen for a butter knife. I hate it when he comes to my house. He says things like, “I’m not trying to alarm you, but the electrical outlets probably shouldn’t throw out flames when you turn on a lamp.”

    I have another friend who hires everything done. He’s a man who’s made his peace with his ineptitude. Not me. I come from the school of rugged individualists. I figure Daniel Boone never called a plumber.

    Sometimes my three-year-old wants to help with household repairs. Once we fixed a leaky faucet together. I forgot to turn off the water before I started, and a geyser hit the kitchen ceiling. The next time we fixed a faucet, he put on his raincoat. Quick learner, my son.

    Tradition has it that Jesus was a carpenter. That means he went into people’s homes to fix things. You’ll note he found another line of work pretty quickly — wise man, our Savior.

From the book Front Porch Tales, by Philip Gulley. © 1997 by Multnomah Pub., used by permission.