LETTERS FROM HOME: THE FEAR AND THE SECRET OF DOING IT YOURSELF

March 30, 1995

Dear David,

I'm beginning to see how owning a home can teach you something about self-reliance. It's funny to feel that way toward a house and never to have learned anything from a car.

A few days ago, the truck wouldn't start for DC at the grocery store. She walked home, snarling at Toyota, at grocery stores, at ancestors of the truck's previous owner.

My way of coming to the rescue was to jiggle the distributor cap. People who want to disable a car in the movies always remove the distributor cap, so that always seems a good place to start.

Jiggling had a momentary effect, then didn't, so I replaced the wire that runs between the distributor and the starter. This, I learned at the parts store, is called the coil wire.

Men aren't supposed to be this ignorant about engines. It's doubly embarrassing to reveal yourself to be a pudding head about cars in front of guys who know all about them.

Women who don't know how to cook probably feel the same way.

The new coil wire didn't make the engine jump either.

I have, in the car-owning years of my life, changed spark plugs, installed a new starter (with supervision) and even replaced a head gasket when times were too lean to pay a mechanic. But when you've paid for the security of AAA, the easiest thing to do is call.

I got a sinking feeling when the guy in the wrecker immediately began playing with a loose battery cable. It was nice of him not to laugh as he wrote up the charge to AAA, don't you think?

When the kitchen faucet went kerplunk, a picture of a plumber with a pipe wrench was the first thing that came to mind. Here's some money, fix it.

That was the advice from my dad, who has a horror story for every occasion.

DC comes from a do-it-yourself tradition. Which, she confesses, sometimes means water may spring from unexpected places at unfortunate times.

Her dad's advice was to order a new part. After a month without being able to use our kitchen faucet, the part still hasn't arrived.

Though grateful for all the helpfulness, I think this is the kind of everyday household decision you make yourself and live with.

So we bought a new faucet, me thinking a plumber would handle the rest, DC thinking we could do it ourselves.

I suspect that belief alone gets you halfway there.

Some grunting with the wrench, a little plumber's putty here, some Teflon tape there and we have a faucet. No leaks.

Sealed with a kiss.

This is precisely the kind of domesticity that used to make me regurgitate. But there's no time. Not with cracked walls to repair, floors to sand, a garden to till, and grass that keeps on growing.

The cable TV installer arrives Monday. I want my MTV.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.