Summer

One week of summer vacation down.

That’s scary.

Before I know it, the Fourth of July will be here and so will – for all intents and purposes – the end of summer vacation.

Most teachers earmark the Fourth as the end of summer. For me, summer school picks up after that. Then my MNHS class. Football starts. Then inservice. It’s all over.

But that’s okay.

Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of miss school.

Don’t get me wrong. What’s not to like about sleeping in and having your day free of real obligations? But that can only keep me busy for so long.

I have read my way through one of the required texts for my trip to Boston, Paul Revere’s Ride by David Hackette Fischer.

I’ve also ready Choosing Excellence by John Merrow. But reading only occupies a few hours each day.

Usually I end up cleaning up around the house. But again, I can only take so much of that (and Kristie would like to see me take a lot more! She was just reminding Casey and I to not only pick up after ourselves (no small feat in itself) but to also pick up after the animals – Mischa leaves snot in various places, the dogs leave fur all over, and Einer tends to leave towels and laundry in various spots too. But somehow Casey and I are oblivious to most of this (I chalk it up to being a guy) – we just don’t see things the same way as Kristie does. For instance, she remarked how filthy the bathroom sink was. Casey and I never noticed. I figure if it works – there is hot and cold water and nothing is glogging the drain – then who cares if it’s clean? Casey agreed. We’re incorrigible. But we’re getting better).

I have also watched my share of TV. One thing I love to do (and this drives Kristie nuts) is watch five shows at once. Just the other day I caught The Last Stand of the 300 on the History Channel, the Michigan State vs Northwestern football game from 2006 on the Big Ten Network, a show about asteroid impacts on the Science Channel, and an episode of Monsterquest, all the while checking in on the NFL Network. Thanks to satellite I can catch some great shows that I would never normally watch.

I fear, though, that the big tasks are looming. We want to install a patio in the backyard. My first instinct was to hire it done. However, we have hired some local carpenters to do our roof, windows, siding, and steps. After seeing the estimate for that, the last thing we wanted was to hire anyone for anything else.

Besides Kristie is much more of a do-it-yourselfer than I. She said, “How do we know we can’t do it if we don’t try.”

Good point.

I usually realize that I can’t do it when I get so mad that I end up bashing whatever it is that I’ve been working on. This happened with some cabinet doors that I was attempting to refinish a few years ago (of course, the substance I purchased to remove the paint never worked like the nice, tidy picture on the instruction booklet. It just gooed up. After an hour of this, I just took to bashing the cabinet doors on the garage floor. I took some pleasure in seeing the glass and wood shatter. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about refinishing it any more). This also happened when I attempted to start my fahter’s weed wacker (which Casey got running last weekend) and Casey said that the clutch cable needed to be connected (at that point I ripped open the box for the new weed wacker I had purchased prior to Casey getting my father’s machine running. I had planned to return it and save the money, but as soon as I heard those words “clutch cable” or maybe it was “throttle cable,” I knew I was over my head and would gladly spend 90 bucks to save the trouble of trying to figure out how to connect the damned cable).

However, I am willing to give the patio a shot. I figure I can handle the grunt labor. As long as there is nothing mechanical involved, I should be fine. And for the detail work, I have Kristie, who is a perfectionist when it comes to the small details of such projects.

Plus, it should be fun shopping for all of the supplies. We already bought patio furniture and a fire pit.

But the fun part is over now. Time to get to work.

There is also a fence that needs to be built around our back yard to keep the dogs in check. Kristie tried to reassure me that we could buy a kit from Menards to help us. So I conceded to check it out.

Sure enough, they have kits to help us build a real, wood fence. How ingenious is that?

As far as having me build a fence . . . you might as well ask me to help prepare astronauts for a mission to Mars.

But this kit supplies us with all the wood and directions.

Hey, I have no problem putting my Lego sets together. So how hard can this be?

Although I was pulling for the white plastic fence (which was incredible fake looking but easily the easiest option to install).

Of course, builing a fence means using tools, something I don’t exactly excel at (you should see me simply try to hang a painting. Using my drill (don’t ask me what size drill it is – I just know it’s Black & Decker) is always a sight. You wouldn’t think it would be so damn hard to get a screw into a wall. But the damn thing never wants to sink into the wall. Of course, the first time I try it, I always have that damn little switch on the drill set the opposite way, so the screw is really being turned the wrong way so it’s coming out of the wall. But that’s easily correctible. The trouble when I get the button switched the right way so the drill is turning the screw into the wall. That damn screw will not go in. When I apply more pressure to help it sink in, the damn screw tilts and ends up shooting across the room. This usually leads me to hammer the screw into the wall and then finish it off with the drill). So building a fence shouldn’t be a problem, right?

I think I can trace this problem back to my youth. I never took an interest in building anything or assembling anything other than my toys.

So whenever Dad would drag me along on one of his projects, it was like puling teeth. Usually when he was beneath the car, instead of paying attention to what he was doing so I would be able to do it by myself one day, I would be throwing rocks at the dog or a bird on the high line wire or thinking about a movie I wanted to see or debating what new cassette tape I would buy on our next visit to Crookston or what book I wanted to read after I finished the current one I was reading or dreaming up new songs or album covers for my fictitious rock group or thinking about the Bengals or – really thinking about anything else other than paying attention to what Dad was trying to teach me.

Of course, when I was really off inside my head, Dad would ask for something, usually a wrench (I recall a 9/16 being a popular choice). So that meant dropping the rock I had zeroed in on our dog or yanking myself out of whatever day dream I was lost in and rummaging around for a wrench and handing it to him. This, though, was usually followed by the reminder that what I handed him was a socket and not the actually wrench that he wanted.

This was usually followed by me trying to inch the blasted tool box ever closer to him so he could just pick out whatever tool he wanted, but he always insisted on me picking it out and handing it to him like I was some surgeon’s assistant or something.

If I we were lucky, Mom would open the back door and call out that dinner was ready.

I never needed a second call. Usually, by the time I saw the door open, I was half way to the house by the time Mom got into the second syllable of ‘dinner.’

Dad would eventually come in, usually covered in dirt or grease or whatever is under a vehicle, and eat his supper. By this time, though, I had mine wolfed down and snuck up into my room to my music, books, magazines, and desk.

There I was off in my own world again. With any luck, Dad would just realize that it was a lot easier to do the job himself and quit trying to teach me how to change the starter or fuel pump or cam shifter or whatever it was.

Of course, this has now come back to haunt me. Now each spring when we try to get our various tools running (the lawn mower, weed wacker, tiller, and so on), I have no clue what to do beyond putting in fuel and yanking tugging on the starter cord (see, I don’t even know what the right word for that is, but I’m sure starter cord is not correct). If I’m lucky I can locate where the oil is and try to check that. Though, beyond putting more in, I’m at a loss as how to actually drain it.

Thankfully, Casey is mechanically inclined. In fact, over Memorial Day weekend, he fired the tiller up all on his own. He even sent me after a new sparkplug (see now that is something I am good for).

I guess if paragraphs or papers every become as popular as houses and vehicles, I could really strut myself.

But fat chance that will ever happen.