That Man, That Man

I can’t concentrate enough to work, and it certainly isn’t quite enough to have prayer time, so I’ll do what I usually do to get rid of frustration – blog. My wonderful husband whom I love has decided to pick this time, this day, to finally work on the ceiling fan in our bedroom. It’s been making noise for months, and we’ve both said it needs to be fixed. But for some reason, he picked today. This man, whose job involves making decisions around project start dates and balancing work loads, picked today. It was my second day home from knee surgery, while I’m on orders to stay off my feet, still in pain, needing quiet to work from home while I rest and heal. In the bedroom. Under the fan.

Instead, I’m listening to the sounds of a ladder being placed at the foot of the bed, and watching my handmade quilt be used as a work table for flashlight and screw drivers, lubricant and pipe cleaners. And the fan has to be off to be worked on, so it’s starting to get a bit stuffy in here. That man dons his glasses and starts up the ladder. Fixin’ is about to commence. Fortunately this type of work is quiet; even my boisterous man can’t make the job of applying oil to a non-moving fan noisy. Only the clank of screwdrivers against the metal tray on the ladder can be heard, that and the clicking of keys on my keyboard.

Climbing down off the ladder he turns on the fan and inspects his work. We both listen. And hear nothing. The beautiful sound of the absence of that annoying random squeak that is no longer there.

Then, just to really give it the test, he turns on the fan full blast. My bible study materials go flying across the bed but I don’t care – the noise is gone, even with blades whirling at full speed!

That man stands there for some time, examining the fan from different angles, straining to hear even the tiniest squeak. Nothing. Mission accomplished. Until the final lube job this evening.

I can tell he is finished with the job for now so I gently but firmly ask him to place the ladder outside on the porch. I know if I don’t it’ll be left at the foot of the bed for me to stumble around on my restroom breaks and to be my own personal, unsolicited eyesore.

The ladder is parked outside, and the final end-of-project clean up begins. “Where are my pipe cleaners? I left them right here but someone must have stolen them because they aren’t there now,” he says in exasperation. “Are they in that yellow package downstairs on the kitchen counter?“ I ask. “No, they are in a red package. I thought I had them right here.” He tromps downstairs to find the lost pipe cleaners, returning a few minutes with a yellow package boasting red letters which he holds close to my face. “See, red,” he says.

But the bottom line is yesterday I had to listen to the annoying sound all day. Today I’ll still be working from bed but the noise is gone. Because my man decided this day, this time, to fix that darn fan.