HANDYMAN

I’m regularly reminded how different my partner Evan and I are. And each time I feel blessed that we are able to overcome, appreciate and even lean into those differences. 

 

We’re currently in Taos, New Mexico, spending an extended long weekend at his Airstream trailer. Taos? Trailer? Four years ago, I’d have said that’s not me at all. And yet I love it. The trailer is just another place where our relationship feels at home—the sagebrush, the sunsets, even the ponchos. Evan bought his after a day trip we made to Santa Fe a few years ago. This weekend I found myself nodding to a woolen raspberry poncho of my own. (The chill in the air may have played a factor.)

 

I’ve been a vegetarian for 41 years and, well, Evan is inclined to order the meat lover’s pizza. Still, the meals we’ve made here together have been entirely meatless: veggie chili, veggie tacos, and veggie tikka masala Indian bowl. He still feigns energy and protein deprivation each time but he’s joking…I think.

 

Evan’s Airstream is a vintage trailer from the 1950s. Since he’s a gifted interior designer, the space makes a statement worthy of the cover of Architectural Digest if the magazine ever published a special issue on glamping. But a 70-year-old trailer requires ongoing maintenance. Parts break down. Newer “fixes” can sometimes be temporary. While Evan works on minor repairs, I typically stand clear. I know I have nothing to contribute. I will be in the way. My questions will only shine a light on my ignorance.

 

And, no, I am not putting myself down. I am simply being a realist. I’ve long since come to terms with many things I’m incapable of and being a handy man is at the top of the list, even above throwing a football, drawing a stick figure and firing a gun. 

 

Growing up, my father held out hope. Just as he thought I could learn to throw and catch a ball—any freakin’ ball—he figured I could learn how to do an oil change, how to start the pilot light for a gas fireplace and how to replace a light fixture. Actually, he may have equalled my own low expectations. It was my mother who nudged us both—to my Dad, “Show him”; to me, “Go see.” These were always futile moments, me staring at my shoelaces until my father would sigh and say, “Just go watch your MTV.”

 

My father hopefully never took it personally. Typically an A student, I made Ds in Woodworking every term in junior high school. Mr. Bentley had less patience than my father as he frequently called me an “incompetent ninny” in his British accent. I avoided the power saw, the lathe and, well, even things that required a hammer and nails. (I believed it was important to hang on to both my thumbs…and all other digits.) 

 

As Evan worked to stop some water leaks—something about changing copper and plastic gaskets or other thingies—I stood outside the trailer, gazing at the sweeping mountain and valley views while pretending I knew how to set up the firepit for a nighttime bonfire. Since the water leak issue required several tweaks over the course of a couple of days, I was finally put to use, turning on and shutting off the water from outside. It was a minor task a Labradoodle could be trained to do, but then we don’t have a Labradoodle…or any pet. I filled in.

 

Yesterday, a crank for opening and closing one of the trailer windows had to be replaced. This was more challenging than one might think because they no longer make the size or brand of window handle cranks that corresponded with the original Airstream. Evan ordered two different ones and had to figure out whether he could use some combination of the parts to be able to open and close the window. I resumed my role of avoiding the scene/staying out of the way by editing sunset photos on my phone. (Really, Taos sunsets are so stunning no edits are required; I just had to appear busy.) 

 

But then Evan said five dreaded words, “Hey, can you help me?”

 

Gosh darn it. I should have driven into town to write at a café. 

 

“Help” meant doing something with a washer and nut from inside the trailer while Evan poked a screw through from outside the trailer. Yes, by its very nature, it was a two-person task. (I’m working on us getting a Labradoodle, dammit.) 

 

It only took fifteen seconds for me to feel I wasn’t doing it right. Evan would tell me to line up the holes—“Higher”—but the holes could not be aligned. I had no Plan B. 

 

We switched positions with me now standing outside the trailer holding a screw and a washer, my head wedged between the trailer wall and the tiny window opened at a small angle. Despite it being decades, I suddenly wanted my MTV…that cool video by A-ha, Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” or even Phil Collins’ grating “Sussudio.”

 

It took a few attempts but apparently we did it. Next thing I knew, I was holding a screwdriver and using it properly. Again a Labradoodle or a captive crow could accomplish as much but I was the only being available in the moment. Window crank replaced. Ta-da!

 

We did it. Evan’s patience, persistence and making do with what he’d been dealt paid off. There are so many things about Evan that make me grateful, but him being a handy man is up near the top. 

 

I have a few little “projects” awaiting him next time he visits me in Vancouver… I’m hoping one of my neighbour’s cats can provide an assist.