My Father the Handyman

My father was an enthusiastic but somewhat unfortunate handyman. Leaving a hammer on top of a step-ladder and getting clunked on the head with it when he moved the ladder was not an infrequent occurrence.

Dad and his Helper

I normally played the part of his assistant, but on this memorable occasion, I’d gone to the beach leaving Dad to do some painting around the house.

I returned from the beach and was chatting to Mum in the kitchen when, from the side of the house came an almighty rattling crash.

When I raced outside, the extension ladder was lying on the ground alongside a great blotch of spilled paint. I looked up and there was Dad dangling from the peak of the roof, legs thrashing around as if trying to gain purchase from the air.

I couldn’t help myself—I doubled over with laughter. “Get the bloody ladder up here you little bastard,” Dad yelled at me. (In times of stress he regularly questioned my legitimacy). I managed to compose myself long enough to resurrect the ladder.

For many years after, the paint splotch on the side path served as a reminder of this little incident.

Another time was equally memorable: A previous owner of our house had erected a fibrous cement extension on the back of it. At this time, cheap houses in Australia were sometimes constructed entirely from this material—it was not pleasing to the eye.

So Dad decided to parge the extension in order to render it more in keeping with the rest of the place.

While I mixed buckets of cement to the Pater’s consistency instructions, he carefully trowelled it on to the wall. After a full day’s toil, we finished around five in the evening and Dad stood back to admire his work.

He then poked his head through the back door to call Mum outside to feast her eyes upon the masterpiece.

Upon exiting the house, Mother closed the door a trifle too hard. Dad and I watched in fascination as, in slow motion, the cement slid from the wall…every last bit of it, coming to rest in a tidy heap on the ground.

Edited by Davina