If you are a parent, you are constantly imparting little bits of knowledge to your kids about how to make their way in the world. The hope is that by the time they get to be practicing adults they will have a reservoir of best practices that will carry them through life. Usually based on your own experiences and learnings, they run the gamut from theoretical to practical, from emotional to physical. It might be how to balance a checkbook or treat a spouse, how to make lasagna or fix a flat tire, how to pack a suitcase or water the plants.
It starts as soon as they are born, as you first model behavior, then teach specific skills, then show by example and hope they pick up the cues. By the time they start to leave the nest you've pretty much done all you can do. Sure, there's the occasional call to mom or dad with specific queries, such as when to add bleach to the wash, or what that recipe was for hummus, or tell me again how to fix a leaky faucet. But usually offering unsolicited advice long distance is a fool's errand, likely met with bored affirmation meant to keep you placated, perhaps resembling how you treated your own parents. On top of that, the advent of the internet has meant there is another authoritative source for much of that same information, complete with diagrams and no war stories.
Still, when one of our sons called home on a recent weekend, I felt I would be remiss if I didn't offer up one piece of advice that somehow escaped me over his more than three decades on this planet. To be truthful, I thought I was done with imparting life-lessons. I knew whatever I had told him to that point had either stuck or not, and he was doing just fine on his own. Still, I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't pass on an imperative. Whether or not he honored it going forward would be up to him, but at least I felt that I could live out my days knowing I had done my best.
As relatively new homeowners, he and his wife had spent the last year or so dealing with all the usual fun and games that come with being lords of your own domain. They were successful working their way through whatever challenges cropped up, certainly no better or worse than we did when we were in their shoes. But having just flaunted one of my own personal maxims, and paid the price dearly, I had to lay down one last relevant marker.
Never do home repairs on a Sunday morning.
We're not talking about changing a lightbulb or hanging a picture. We are talking anything that directly relates to your home's infrastructure, be it plumbing, electrical, or other things best handled by a skilled tradesman, but which seem like you could tackle on your own and save a few bucks. I know it's tempting to go at it on the weekend when you have the time and quiet to replace that light switch or deal with that drip. And I'm not saying you can't replace a leaky toilet valve or upgrade a thermostat on your own. It's just that no matter how simple it seems, the potential exists for it to go south. And if it does, and it will, getting help is that much more difficult and expensive on Saturday or Sunday.
In my case it simply involved turning off a toilet supply line. Simple, that is, until the valve broke off in my hand, spraying water everywhere. The only option was to shut off all the water and call a plumber. On a Sunday morning. At 830AM. On Father's Day. You would have thought that by now I would have known not to play with plumbing out of regular business hours. Obviously not.
Thankfully we got a guy relatively quickly and the problem was fixed, though it cost twice what it should have. So much for heeding my own advice. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote "A man builds a fine house; and now he has a master, and a task for life: he is to furnish, watch, show it, and keep it in repair, the rest of his days." Right you are, Ralph. Just don't do it on a Sunday.
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Marc Wollin of Bedford hates plumbing. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.
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