Father liked to refer to himself as a practical man, educated by the school of hard knocks. When he described himself in this way, it was usually to contrast himself with some wealthy chap who hadn't had to work for a living, and who therefore didn't know anything worth a damn. And it was true that in many ways Father was just what he described. As a sailor, prospector, merchant, and contractor, he had a wide experience in practical matters. He could quickly tie a bowline or a sheepshank knot; he could saddle a horse or rig a block and tackle. He was even a carpenter, in a rough, impatient, exasperated way. But father was not a plumber.
On one occasion, Mother mentioned to Father that she was in need of a plumber, but couldn't afford one out of her housekeeping budget. As best she could. She explained the problem.
No need to call a plumber, he said, I'll get right at it.
Off came the jacket, out came his tools, and down he went to the basement. Within ten minutes there was water over the floor. Lillian, he shouted why, for pity's sake didn't you turn off the water?
Because I'm not the plumber, you are, was Mother's retort.
Father grumbled to himself about not being to rely on anyone to help a fellow out. By then the pipes were spread over the floor. Soon the time came for him to put them back together again.
By the Lord Harry, he said as he struggled against a special perversity which so many inanimate objects seemed to display towards him. Not one of them - not one of them - will help a fellow. While it wasn't clear whether he was referring to members of his family or to some object, he finally got relief from his frustrations by hitting out a fury on a recalcitrant pipe fitting.
Mother came along at this point with a cheery, Here's a nice cup of tea. I'm going to call the plumber. Father drank his tea, and quietly put his plumbing tools back in the box. . . |
