JPF Home Page Forums Creative Arts Forums Creative Writing Forum "Great Expectations" - Revisited

I realize I may be pushing my luck here, but with my own renewed interest in some of my prose pieces (and also, knowing some of you folks a wee bit better than when I FIRST posted this....), thought I'd give her a bumpity bump bump bump.

I can also pretend it's for all the new folks who have joined since I first started this thread.

So with out further ado, please enjoy if you will, "Great Expectations"....

“Great Expectations”
© 2007 Beth Williams

When my new husband’s problem first became apparent, I pooh-poohed it, breezily chalking it up to newlywed jitters. But as time wore on, and I saw no evidence of improvement, I had to face up to the fear that lurks in the mind of every young bride; though he was a certified male, my husband was not – dare I say it -- HANDY. That’s right. Though evidence of the all-important Y chromosome abounded elsewhere, he did not automatically know how to put a hammer to a nail. Or re-wire small appliances. What was I to do?

While as a Modern Woman, it might be suggested that I try to tackle a blown a fuse on my own, in many ways, I’m still an old fashioned gal. I like chairs pulled out for me. And I enjoy having doors opened. And gosh darn-it, if a leg starts to wobble on one or hinge falls of the other, I expect my husband to be able to fix it. But alas; this wife was either going to have to miss out or hire out.

To make matters worse, my otherwise rational hubby was in defiant denial of this deficit; O, how I shuddered when I heard the dreaded words “I’m sure I can do it myself, honey, how hard can it be?” I recall one incident in particular. A powerful winter storm had burnt out our garage door’s electric opener, and sure that the repair would be a simple matter, he climbed his ladder like a man setting out at the base of Mt. Everest. Ultimately, that mountain climb might have taken less time; but ever-confident, he smiled reassuringly at me as I poked my head out every now and then to check on his progress. “Honey, why not just have Hank come over to help you?” I casually suggested after we had marked the beginning of Day Three (Hank being a friend generous with both his time and electrical expertise.) Perhaps suspecting a carpentry coup, he brushed off my pleas and returned zealously to the tangle of rainbow-colored wires above him. Late on Day Four, I heard his heavy steps coming in; prepared to give him a solid clap on the shoulders for having tried so hard, I watched him instead walk trance-like past me to the computer, muttering something about garage door help-sites. Ten business days later, the seeming answer to our prayers arrived in a little 2” x 4” box. Sadly, the part did not fit.

Desperate by now, and no longer interested in sparing his pride, I pressed upon him the salvation I knew lay in the hands of our friend Hank. With eyes ablaze, he turned to me from his perch, shaking what appeared to be pliers at me, and shouted “HANK, HANK, HANK, THAT’S ALL I EVER HEAR ABOUT!” I nervously retreated into the house, hushing my two youngins, who had unwittingly witnessed their father’s demented display. But somehow, this final outburst had scared my husband too, and shaken some sense into him; though he could not and would not call Hank at this point, he finally conceded that outside professional forces were indeed needed. And taking no more chances, he turned to the big guns. Home Depot. Under dark of night, he called. And the next day the Almighty Truck arrived. Within minutes, I was able to wave good-bye to my saviors and close the garage door silently behind them.

In the aftermath of this “Daddy Door Debacle”, we did enjoy a blissful period free of repair needs. But then one day out of the blue, my husband puffed out his chest, grabbed his tool box, and launched into the heretofore unthinkable task of re-doing our bathroom floor. I was incredulous…was he testing my support of him? Was he planning a murder-suicide by unearthing layers of latent asbestos into the household? Well apparently not, because guess what? Instead of failure, our guy presented us with a snazzy new floor! TA DA!

And suddenly, it all made sense; for my husband, this job had been his Bob Villa swan song. Having proven to both himself and his family that he did have the nuts to do it right, he could now retire his ill-used tool box. So these days, while he may take on an easily-plunged toilet or I might cheerily chip in by changing the occasional light-bulb, as a rule, our tool of choice is the telephone….where Hank is set up on speed dial.


While I do understand shorter pieces are more the fodder for this forum, I'd still enjoy any and all feedback you might be willing to offer.

Thanks in advance,
Beth