The year is 1993.
It’s Saturday morning. Bowl of Fruit Loops in my lap, it’s time for Eek the Cat. Grown-ups had their way all week. Homework, chores. But this is my time.
Except it’s not. Though everybody knows SATURDAY MORNINGS ARE FOR CARTOONS, my dad thinks Saturdays are for This Old House. And New Yankee Workshop.
Eek’s fuzzy face gives way to Bob Villa’s fuzzy face. And Norm Abram. And all those handy Bostonians going on and on about coping saws and quarter-sawn oak and nothing that could possibly interest 11-year-old me.
Maybe I can catch the end of Bobby’s World. But no, the man has a cabinet-full of VHS’s, bursting with bootlegged episodes that he’s already seen but must watch again. Yes now. Go play outside.
The year is 2008.
I bought a house. It needs some work. I have a few tools Dad gave me for Christmas. Not sure what to do with them.
The year is 2011.
Found a gal. I know, right? We’re getting hitched. We intend to keep the wedding simple, but for some reason I’m building an altar and photo booth in my garage. That’s how we do.
The year is 2012.
I now have a basement full of tools, much to Leslie’s chagrin.
It gets fuller with each project. Little projects turn big, big projects require more tools. That’s my story, anyway.
The year is 2012.
Our first big project. We contemplate moving the kitchen from an undersized nook to a larger room on the other side of the stairs. Can we do this? Should we? I mean, we have to break our house and hope we can fix it.
Load-bearing walls and the rat’s nest of wires within stand between us and destiny, but sledge hammers and pry bars make way for the kitchen of our dreams and the confidence to tackle most anything, including this blog.
The year is 2014.
This Old House is now my favorite show.
I know, right? I mean, I think I like it better than Game of Thrones.