"Some people seem to think you have to shove 40 tons of CAULK in there to make it work." My father, ladies and gentlemen.
The guy who owned our house before us thought himself somewhat of a handyman, but his DIY (do-it-yourself) was more like DDIW (dumbass did it wrong). The basement wiring was a fire hazard waiting to happen, the self-installed garage door opener fell apart two weeks after we moved in, and the grout work between the ceramic tiles he boasted about in his seller's ad has all but turned to dust.
And there's the stellar job he did on the shower. Caulking about two inches thick bulging out over the enamel and collecting black mould like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. That's when I called in the reinforcements: me Da.
Home improvement is a big thing with my dad; he put the extension on the house, built desks for my brother and me, tends his lawn like it's the last patch of grass on earth. There are few things he can't fix, and very little he doesn't know already about plumbing, insulation, sump pumps, woodwork, car repairs, construction and how to build the perfect squirrel-proof bird feeder.
Aside from the double-entendres and the total wrongness of hearing my father use the word "CAULK" the entire day, I enjoyed myself fully, getting that same sense of "I did this!" satisfaction I did when I was picking grapes in Norman's vineyard. But much more important than that feeling of achievement was the time spent with my dad. It meant a lot to me to be working alongside him while he was in his element, digging out mouldy bits of plastic and getting high on a combination of bleach, rubbing alcohol and paste fumes, to be able to stand back at the end of it and say, "We did this!" Thanks, Da.