Danielle Crittenden's 1905 house in Washington, D.C. has been undergoing a major renovation for the past year (and off and on for over a decade). In this weekly summer series, which appears weekends on HuffPo, Danielle records what it has been like for her and her family to live through the construction with their builders, Virginia-natives Brent and John. To read previous installments, click here.
In another life, John would have made a swell bartender.
"JOHN SAYS I should dump him," my teenage daughter was saying on the phone to her best friend. "John thinks the only reason he called is that he just broke off with another girl."
"Who is John?" asked the friend. "John's our builder."
"Wait, you discussed your love life with your builder?"
"Uh, yeah. Actually, he gives really good advice."
The intimacy was becoming contagious. Months into our renovation, our family had been reconstituted to include John.
Every morning, John would arrive in time for breakfast. John and my teenage son, Nat, would sit at the improvised kitchen table and share the sports section. John had his own special coffee cup that my husband, David, or I would refill.
Then David would drive Nat to the subway, and our youngest child, Bea, would take Nat's place next to John. Bea and John would banter playfully while I poured her cereal and packed her lunch.
By midday, I'd be ready to leave my home office to eat a sandwich with John. John's assistant Mike joined us when he was on the site. So, usually, did our housekeeper, Ruby. Overturned paint buckets became our version of the set in The Office -- and lunch, our watercooler time. Or in John's case, beer-cooler time.
At the beginning, I attempted to use this opportunity to review progress. Between the friendly chit-chat I could insert questions such as, "You really think it will all be done by Easter?"
But it quickly became apparent that there was rarely much progress to report. These were the long months of the "framing" period, which John was doing mostly on his own while Brent tended to other clients. (We were repeatedly promised that Brent would reappear when the drywall went up.) And since there's only so much to say about headers and plumbing rough-ins, my questions would be answered with:
"So does David think Obama has much of a chance?"
Sorry, that's a translation of a John sentence. It would actually come out more like this: "What does David...so Obama...any chance?"
That's partly because (as readers of this series know) John's speech is usually impeded by chewing tobacco -- when not by a mouthful of nails, or both. But he also has a habit of swallowing his words, which, when combined with his heavy Virginian accent, have trouble emerging in any understandable way. At least to a John novice.
And yet, like a dentist who nods in comprehension at his patient's obstructed mumbles -- "Hawaii you say? I hear it's great this time of year" -- I had become fluent in understanding
John, to the degree I could even hold discussions with him over the phone (which my husband called Advanced John Studies).
If we weren't discussing the politics of the moment, I'd soon be asking John for personal advice: how to deal with my son's studying habits, for example, or how to guide my strong-headed teenage daughter. For, like her, I'd come to appreciate John's wisdom. He might not express himself clearly, but he observed keenly. His insight into human psychology was acute and profound, sometimes unnervingly so. Everybody turned to him. I occasionally overheard him counselling Ruby -- or setting one of his young men straight about women. He could have become the greatest bartender in the history of the profession. Except that he would have been in danger of drinking as much as he poured.
Our discussions would continue at the "cocktail hour" later in the afternoon. I'd pour a gin for myself and start dinner. John would take up his seat again at the kitchen table, an open beer in hand, as he waited for rush hour to pass. Bea would join him for a snack as my son dumped his knapsack on the floor and exchanged the sports news of the day. At some point my husband would roll into this happy domestic scene and join us with his own cocktail.
I realized this all looked a bit weird to outsiders. The subs -- plumbers, electricians -- who arrived on the job were clearly unused to seeing a homeowner dissect an event like the Eliot Spitzer affair with her contractor, or a contractor advising the homeowner on how to deal with her personal stress:
"You need a few days off. You should go stay with your friend in New York."
"I can't. I'm needed here."
"Nah, you need some downtime. You need time for you."
"What about the kids?"
"They'll be fine. David can handle them."
"Really? You think so?"
"Yep. Do it." Pause, spit. "'Cause if you don't do it, you're going to kill someone. Think of it as having fun --and saving lives."
Admittedly, at times, all this could look a bit weird to me, too.
Once, John came in to work on a weekend. Normally, our yellow Lab wakes us up with a shoe in his mouth, making what we call his "hungry cow noises." Get. Me. Breakfast. Now. But this particular Saturday morning remained blissfully silent. We slept in.
By the time I went downstairs, I found John reading the newspaper, our dog contentedly snoring at his feet. John had already put him out and fed him, and then made a full pot of coffee.
In sleepy disbelief, I poured myself a cup -- and before I could even ask, John said: "Six scoops, right? I know David likes it strong."
Even my friends began to look askance when they'd asked me for advice about their children, husbands or boyfriends, and I'd say: "We should really put this to John." A few took to warning me gently that if I made the builders too cozy, the work would never get done.
I considered this. We were now well past Easter.
"Yes, but what happens when the work gets done -- and we no longer have John?"
Perhaps this was another problem to run by him.
This series originates in the National Post.
Follow Danielle Crittenden on Twitter: www.twitter.com/dcrittenden1
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