I noticed water dribbling from a line in the basement one day. After listening to my description of the problem, the gas company sent over a technician to inspect our air conditioner. The unit was fine, but I had forgotten one important task: to change the furnace filter after we sanded our wood floors the previous week. Because of my oversight, the filter clogged, forming condensation on the line, and water dripped and pooled on the floor. Now I stood outside—the technician next to me—staring at the side of our house.
“See? You’re gonna have to do a patch job right there,” he said with a sniff, pointing at a small area on the stucco near the foundation.
I frowned. “Does this have anything to do with our air conditioner?”
“Naw. I’m just letting you know what you’ve gotta fix at some point.”
He moved on to the next item, a new furnace, on his for-us-to-do list.
“That thing’s gonna conk out soon,” he said, bobbing his head, maybe hoping his steely eye contact would break me. “Better replace it now.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
My mind flitted back to a different technician from a few months earlier who had checked our furnace and pronounced it good. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Don’t replace it until it totally dies,” he had said.
The current technician’s words pelted me, and before he left, I agreed to a duct cleaning. Even though it had been my idea first, his face grew the smug look of a successful hawker.
Not all the repair people visiting our home were so crafty, though. Over the years, I noted the differences. There were those who got the job done in little time with minimal talk, and those who wove stories into their work, their visits leaking into my day.
“You wouldn’t believe the stuff I see in people’s basements,” said one technician as she swapped out our old water meter for an updated one.
“Oh? Like what?” I said, not sure I wanted to know.
“One lady had shelves lining her basement walls. Kennels of dogs on those shelves. Sometimes even a couple of dogs per kennel.” She pried off a bolt.
I cringed. “That makes me sick.”
“At least forty of them, I’d guess. Maybe more.” She rigged the new equipment into place and tightened the bolts again. “I told her she’d better let them go. Give them away to good homes and all that.” She swiped an arm across her forehead. “I reported her to Animal Control as soon as I left her house.”
“Oh, good.”
The repair woman finished the job, leaving me with a shiny, new meter. But I also had a bad taste in my mouth. Sometimes stories won’t let you go.
Husband and I evaded window washing for eight years, and in 2010, we decided to replace the windows altogether. The installation guys were efficient and meticulous. Along the way, they pointed out the miniscule details of their work—the hidden nooks and crannies no one would ever see. And at every turn, they tidied up after themselves.
Spurred on by the call of hospitality, ten-year-old Flicka whipped up a baked treat for the workmen, since they were doing such a good job. As I plucked weeds in the garden, she emerged from the house, holding a plate of fresh goodies. She offered a treat to one of the men and stood there, fiddling with the edge of her shirt, eyeing him as he chewed.
“Wow,” he said, smacking his lips. “These are good.”
I ducked into the house to sample her baking. The hot, fresh mounds looked like muffins but tasted so bland I skimmed her recipe. Had she forgotten the vanilla, cinnamon, AND sugar?
All around, the home improvement project was a success. The windows were beautiful, the workers fastidious. And over those few days, Flicka got a solid start on her hostessing skills.
Four years after the new windows, we eagerly awaited the installation of a new metal roof. Early-morning pounding on the house—the perfect pairing with my French Roast—had never sounded so sweet. I spoke with the workmen, but my questions were met with smiles and shrugs. I soon learned the only English speaker on the job was the supervisor.
My mind skipped back to the roofers of my childhood. Their overly-tanned skin, slick with sweat and oil, melded with the Hair Band anthems thrumming from their boom boxes. In stark contrast, the workmen on our roof in 2014 kept their shirts on—a lesson or two learned about the ozone since the 1980s, I suppose—and blasted Vivaldi, Corelli, and Handel.
I savored the lovely music, but twelve-year-old Ricka and ten-year-old Dicka saw the chance for fun. They scrambled to their upstairs bedroom, slid open a window, and peeked out at the workmen who were tearing off the old roof.
“Yoo-hoo!” they called, then ducked under the open window. After a few more hoots from the girls, one of the workmen tossed a tarp over the opening. The girls inched it aside to chirp at them again before crumbling to the floor, giggling.
“Girls,” I said, “you might be getting on their nerves.”
Just then, one roofer lifted the tarp and warbled back at the girls.
During that three-day job, I heard more classical music than I had since my piano recital days, and no one watched TV. The excitement of the new roof was entertainment enough.
Interesting people are tucked away everywhere. We venture out and see them in stores or on the streets and learn from them. But sometimes fascinating strangers come right into our homes and add zest to our lives with their quirks and stories.
And if we’re lucky, they’ll fix something while they’re at it.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.