Just About Perfect

When I was a little girl, I thought my father was perfect. Most people did. If you asked Pete Manale to help you with something, you could be sure he’d do a bang-up job, whether it was hanging living room curtains with millimeter precision, fixing broken things or creating something decorative. Dad’s never been much of a cook, but other than a lack of culinary talent he’s always seemed to be good at everything, probably because he devotes a great deal of thought and care into each undertaking. (This is code. It means he’s never in a rush, but it’s worth the wait.) It’s a philosophy he reinforced in me, his eldest child: If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.

Dad has a very innovative mind, forever dreaming up ways to make things better around the house. Every time I visit, he has something new to show me. His creations are the perfect extensions of himself, equal parts practical and playful. Over the years he’s added two pantries and a corner bookcase in the kitchen, and managed to beautify a run-of-the-mill electric fan.

Then there’s the custom magazine rack Dad built into the wall of Mom’s bathroom, complete with wiring for her phone. They call it the phone booth. Haven’t you always wanted to make a call from the john?

Probably the cutest of his creations is his storage solution for Mom’s many pairs of reading glasses. She has at least a dozen pairs of cheapie drug store magnifiers that Dad finds scattered all over the house. So he designed a shelf above her desk with a built-in row of little felt-lined cubbyholes to protect them from scratches. Pure genius.

I like to think I inherited Dad’s problem-solving, let’s-make-it-better mindset. (At my job we call this continuous improvement, but if I ever start sounding like a consultant here, somebody please stage an intervention!) Anyway, that’s my excuse for constantly rearranging the stuff in my cabinets and closets, something that might drive you crazy if you lived with me. 

When I was little, I enjoyed being Dad’s helper. I’d watch him work, handing him tools and asking a million questions. If he ever got impatient with me, he didn’t show it. It was a sweet bonding experience for us and it taught me a lot about approaching a task thoughtfully. I don’t trust people who toss out the instructions. 

My first clue that my father might not know how to do everything came when he tried his hand at brick masonry. We’d just moved to a new house and instead of a wooden gate to the backyard he wanted to install brick columns and an iron gate. It seemed simple enough. Lay a row of bricks, spread the black mortar across the top with the trowel, repeat. I watched excitedly because I couldn’t wait to swing on the gate.

Except the bricks kept sliding out of place like a layer cake with slippery frosting.

I don’t remember how long Dad struggled with the task but it felt like forever to me. No matter what he did, the bricks would not form a wall. When he finally gave up, I felt disappointed. I’d never seen him fail at anything. But of course, Dad didn’t really give up. The next Saturday, he tackled those bricks again with fresh vigor and a new plan. 

We were no longer living in the house when Hurricane Katrina destroyed St. Bernard Parish in 2005. But I’ll bet that brick and iron gate was still standing. 

Some things from those days aren’t still standing. When I was in high school, my parents divorced, Dad remarried and my mother died. That time, Dad couldn’t fix everything. I don’t know how we all got through those years and it’s still hard to talk about sometimes. But my father was there. Through all the changes, both his and mine, he’s always been there for me.

Lucky for us, Dad is enjoying good health at age 82. He chafes at the restrictions of old age and sometimes he flagrantly defies them. A couple of Christmases ago, Dad tried out my nephew Christopher’s hoverboard. It didn’t go well. The board zipped out from under his feet and he crashed onto the cold kitchen floor flat on his back. Scared us to death! But my crazy daredevil father got to his feet, rubbed his head and asked, “Hey, where’s the seat to this thing?”

He hasn’t lost his sense of humor and he’s still creating things. I’ve tried to talk him into downsizing, selling the house and moving to something smaller and easier to maintain, but he won’t do it. He says he can’t find a retirement community that would let him have his workshop.

Last summer, I was feeling nostalgic for those sweet times with my father when I got an idea for something we could build together during my visit. Dad was a little confused by my request at first. 

“How are you going to take a bench home on the plane?” he asked.

“A meditation bench is really small, Dad. Not like a park bench.” I held my hands about a foot apart to give him an idea of the size. “Space for one butt. About eight inches tall. Flat seat. You kneel on the floor to sit on it.” I pulled up the directions I’d found online to show him what it would look like. 

Dad studied the diagram and then launched into a search on Pinterest, his new jam, to do a little more research. In the end, we settled on a design and found the wood and stain we needed for the project among his everyday supplies. Mom and I went shopping for the fabric to cover the seat, because shopping is her jam.

Dad’s shop is a carpentry wonderland. It’s easy to see what he does with all those Lowe’s gift cards we give him for every occasion, but I’m clueless naming his many fierce-looking power tools. For our modest meditation bench, we used a couple of different saws, at least three sanders, a device that did some kind of planing and possibly a drill. I’m not sure. Other doodads may also have been involved. The man has everything. 

Just like old times, I passed Dad tools and watched him transform scrap wood into something useful. He urged me to try my hand at it. The little palm sander was fun. The big saw that bounced was scary. Dad applied the stain and the next day we padded and covered the seat, securing the material with upholstery tacks. It’s just about perfect. Kind of like Dad.

I know Dad doesn’t understand why I’d want to sit on a little wooden bench and watch myself breathe. (Nobody in my family does. I’m glad they all indulge my oddities.) But he was delighted to build it for me, gifting me with all these fond memories.

Dad tries meditation

And my very own meditation bench will have the touch of my father’s loving hands upon it forever. 

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Say Goodbye to Bessie

Bessie is 47 years old, and sadly, she is way past her prime. Sometimes she’s too hot, and at other times, she barely warms up at all. She’s unpredictable, unreliable, and frankly, she doesn’t look so great anymore, either. As much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to replace her.

This is Bessie.

Bessie

She appears to be the original kitchen range in my little house, a modest brick ranch built in 1971. So yes, I’ve been cooking on a relic that was manufactured during the Nixon administration!

In spite of my irreverent tone in the first paragraph, I’m actually quite impressed with Bessie’s longevity. They just don’t make ‘em like her anymore! Since I bought my house eight years ago, I’ve purchased new washers and dryers twice, and we had to replace a relatively new dishwasher last year, too. Thankfully the 12-year-old refrigerator is still chilling, even though the door makes a loud, cranky sound when you open it, and the icemaker has never worked right. The dispenser doesn’t actually dispense, but it does spit random ice cubes at you when you least expect it. It’s playful that way.

Home Improvement, Part 1

When I first moved in, I updated mostly cosmetic things, like the groovy shag carpeting in the front bedrooms and the paneling on the living room walls. I actually liked the bright blue guest bathroom and decided I could decorate around the gold tile in the master bath. Hey, I’m a child of the 70s. My favorite pair of jeans are bellbottoms!

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Groovy shag carpet

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Living room wall paneling

Anyway, the stove and oven still worked, so there was no reason to replace them at the time when all the flooring and walls needed attention. I didn’t mind that I couldn’t read the numbers on the oven dial; it wasn’t hard to figure out which white mark represented 350 degrees. But over time, I began to notice that my kitchen was becoming unbearably hot when I used the oven, because all the heat was escaping the oven itself and baking me instead. If a muffin recipe said, “bake at 350 for 20 minutes,” 35 minutes later their outsides might look done, but they’d have strange, raw, spongy middles. And the burners on the stove lost their ability to find a happy medium, scorching my morning oatmeal or just not heating up at all.

Home Improvement, Part 2 

Finally Bessie gave up altogether when a dry, brittle wire touched something it shouldn’t – with a dramatic arc, a puff of smoke, and a loud BOOM! (I’m wondering if one day I’ll go out the same way. I’m not getting any younger myself.)

Ret and I spent weeks hunting for a replacement, which was much more frustrating than I expected because not just any range would fit in the space we have. Who knew this would be so complicated? Evidently installers will gladly accept your $149 to plug in a new appliance for you, but if carpentry work is involved to make room for it, they’re not interested. Finally, my handy brother-in-law came by over the weekend to help us. My husband Ret is a terrific guy, a loving hubby and a talented musician – but he’s no carpenter.

What happened to the stove?
Hey, what happened to the stove?

Now we’re cooking!

Here’s my shiny new range with the smooth cooktop and convection oven. What do you think I should name her? I am so excited! Just think: After all these years of somehow managing to prepare pretty decent meals with poor Bessie, we just might find out I’m really a chef!

New range