Every afternoon around 2:30, the Mystery Woman’s hammer goes off. Since I am usually napping about that time, I think of it as my alarm clock. Besides, when she starts hammering, she’s armed.
Time for me to get up.
Her project today: to hang a floating shelf over the kitchen sink to display her whimsical collection of hand-made pottery shakers from around the country. First, she watched two videos on-line on how-to drill through the fragile ceramic tile already in place. Then she trundled off to the hardware store to buy the proper drill bit. She took it on faith that the job required hollow wall anchors. She still doesn’t know what that is but we have two of ‘em over the sink.
If the hammer had not awakened me, the drill would have.
Her tool box is bigger than mine. Did I mention she has her own drill? And hammer, and saw, and level, and…
In every place we’ve lived, she has been inducted as an honorary handyman by the guys at the local hardware.
In the Minnesota house, her daughter would point to the fireplace and proudly proclaim: “My mother laid that hearth.”
It runs in the family. For decades, when her aging mother moved to a new city, she would haul a box of her favorite boards. I wrote about that years ago – but never told her.
I am convinced if she really wanted to, the Mystery Woman could build a house. From scratch. While wearing sensible shoes.
No job too big, no job too small. Just look at me. I’m her first successful re-model. And the job only took her six years.
Sometimes, she just lets me sleep. Like earlier this week when she painted the kitchen. Painting is quiet. But she’s never in a good mood painting. It’s because she looks for bargains and has yet to find a place where they sell used paint.