“Please, call me Etta. And this is Dooley, my constant companion.” Dooley was hands-down the ugliest cat I’d ever seen: a skinny three-legged tabby whose orange striped coat stuck up in random tufts. He meowed raucously until I leaned down and petted him.
“Mel is taking over the family business,” said Dad. “My girl knows her stuff.”
There was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. That was my father for you—one moment I’d be ready to throttle the cranky old guy, and the next he’d do something sweet, like signing off on the phone with a gruff “Love you, babe.” He never used to say things like that before my mother passed away. Then he had been the distant, hardworking disciplinarian, the military man who seemed baffled that his three daughters didn’t respond to his orders like a company of well-trained cadets. Having gone through a personal tragedy with the loss of his wife, Dad had become an odd mixture of Grumpy Old Man and sensitive New Age Dad.
I found it easier to deal with the Grumpy Old Man. It was more my comfort zone.
After a few more minutes of pleasantries, we settled in to work. Etta had hit the jackpot when my dad was assigned to her renovation project. A skilled crew was repouring a portion of the foundation, a major job that would clearly run beyond this weekend. Others were bolting and shear-walling in the basement, two methods of keeping a house from sliding off its foundation in the event of a major earthquake. Painting crews were at work in both bedrooms, and outside, an empty lot was being used as a staging area, though volunteers were cleaning it out to put in a vegetable garden. In the bathroom, the broken tile around the tub and the dry rot underneath had been removed, and now waterproof backing was going in to prepare it for new tile. And last but not least, Dad had somehow talked one of our regular suppliers into donating double-paned replacement windows for the weather-facing side of the house.
When Dad picked up a brush to help the painters, I pulled on my coveralls and joined the basement foundation crew. We had been working for several hours when we stopped for a lunch break, which today was pizza and salad provided by yet another group of volunteers. As I soaked up pizza and sunshine, I thought how amazing it was that people could get so much done when they worked together.
“Mel, you should check out the interior before you go back under,” said Dad, as we finished up our slices. “It’s small, but so well maintained. And you’ll never guess what’s in the sun porch.”
I didn’t have to be asked twice; I’d been working in the dark basement all morning and I love snooping around old houses. I stood at the front door and knocked. Even though it was a worksite, I didn’t want to invade Ms. Lee’s privacy any more than we already had. It’s tough to live on a jobsite, even if it’s only for a weekend.
“Oh, come in!” she said, greeting me at the door. “How polite of you to knock.”
“I didn’t want to startle you,” I said.
Following her into the entryway, I saw Dad wasn’t kidding. These old bungalows weren’t fancy, but they boasted beautiful wood trim and panels in the Arts and Crafts tradition. I was betting there would be cross-sawn wood under that paint. Problem was, if I checked for it, I was obligating myself to strip the paint, as once it was scratched, there would be no fixing it. Was I willing to go down that road?
Neighbors Together, like most community groups, was underfunded and did the best it could with limited donations of time, materials, and money. House captains were encouraged to focus on health and safety issues first, such as fixing dry rot and installing handrails. There simply wasn’t the time or the money to strip wood and bring a bungalow like this up to the standards of This Old House.
Still . . . it wouldn’t take much to transform this place. It was small enough that the necessary work could be accomplished in a couple of weekends.
“I know I’m old-fashioned,” Etta said. “But I used to harangue my students about common courtesy, things as simple as saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ or knocking before entering a room. Even when I visit a dear old friend, I always knock. It amazes me that people don’t teach their children basic manners anymore. Of course, a lot of them are children themselves when they become parents. Children having children . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head and then chuckling self-consciously. “Well, would you listen to me? I’m sounding more and more like an old crank, aren’t I?”
I smiled and shook my head. I am a sucker for public servants, especially teachers and librarians. The kind of people—usually women—who dedicated their lives to our children for low wages and crummy working conditions, and now even their pensions were in danger. Maybe I could talk my dad into coming back with me and stripping the woodwork. . . . I felt a plan coming on.