I am not a handyman. I’m poorly suited for DIY stuff, as much out of nature as nurture.
Roger Abrahamson and I grew up together on the mean streets of 17th Avenue in Richfield. Roger is a traditional wooden bowl-turner specializing in Norwegian ale vessels. He’s been a talented woodworker who uses hand tools, a pedal-powered spring pole lathe, and hand-forged tools for many years. He teaches wood turning at North House Folk School in Grand Marais and travels the country to demonstrate his art at county and state fairs and festivals.
Roger’s paternal grandparents were Norwegian immigrants who settled in south Minneapolis. His grandmother’s ale bowl, which is still in the family, inspires him to this day.
When we were kids, we built a shed behind the Abrahamson’s garage that would be our clubhouse. Roger must have had some handy-man skills. He was the oldest of the group and may have used his craftsman nature to get the building done. We enjoyed it for years.
I, not handy even then, may have hammered a nail or two. But Roger’s skills, like the skills of others to follow, failed to nurture any handy-man abilities in me.
Roger and I pursued different paths in life. He works with his hands, fixes things, and creates beautiful carvings. I took the path of the collar of white. If something needed building or repair, I hired someone to do it.
I recently wrote about a plumbing problem at Casa Fernlund that led me to call on the talents of a plumbing professional when my limited DIY skills failed me. This past week, it was a problem of a different sort: electrical.
My knowledge of electricity is just above knowing what Reddy Kilowatt says: Electricity is penny cheap. I also know it can kill quickly. As for wiring, I know just enough to be dangerous.
The Bohunk and I, and our two dogs, routinely go outside to do our duties just before bed. For weeks now, it’s been dark for those excursions. Though the dogs don’t mind the dark, it’s a different story for two elderly pet owners. Floodlights on the north side of the house light our porch and some of the abandoned road we take the dogs on. We supplement with headlights.
One night, the lights did not light up. I flipped the switch up and down several times, but the bulbs stayed dark.
I verified that all the circuit breakers were positioned correctly the next day. The floodlights were the only thing that did not work.
Next, I checked all the GFCI outlets (Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter.) They were all functioning correctly.
Then, I tried new bulbs, even though I was sure we couldn’t have lost both bulbs simultaneously—still, no joy getting the floodlights to work. I was stymied.
Feeling like this was just another one of those things I didn’t need happening right now, I suggested that the Bohunk contact an electrician.
I was leaving the next day to drive to Mayo for some tests. At the Forest Lake rest stop that day, I got a text from the Bohunk saying she’d tested positive for Covid. The electrician would not be contacted until after I got home.
The Bohunk has, for more than 50 years, kept hidden her frustration that my handyman skills are lacking. Arriving home, bearing the good news from Dr. Kwan, she delicately asked if I thought the floodlight problem could be a failed switch.
I admitted it might be something like a mouse nibbling through a wire, but failed switches are rare. But I’d check it out.
Single-pole switches are inexpensive—less than $2. With a new switch and a noncontact voltage detector to tell me the juice was shut off, I tried to find the circuit breaker that our floods were one. No matter which circuit I turned off, the switch still had power. So, I shut off the main power, traded out the switch, and crossed my fingers that the Bohunk’s diagnosis was correct.
