Prayers and Works (Part 3)

As I sped across the state of Pennsylvania toward the town of Somerset, I prayed. My current mission was to rehabilitate an ancestral home that had been in our family since 1921. The most pressing concern was a three-bedroom unit that comprised one-half of the house. The tenants had recently abandoned it and I had to get it whipped back into shape and re-rented. But the whole house needed looking after because the exterior had been neglected for some time.

 

I had some basic renovation skills. I was acquainted with roofing and metal work and knew how to handle a scraper and paint brush, though I was no electrician or plumber and was not particularly skilled at carpentry. Still, I had the gumption. God willing, I would complete the project. This was the object of my prayers; that in this instance I be made one with the Heavenly Will, and that if my instincts were in harmony therewith, that I be made an instrument of Providence in order to be successful in the task-at-hand. 

 

My cousin had recently retired from his job and had moved into the upper unit on the other side of the house. I would be staying with him. (He and his wife had divorced a few years back and his only child—a son, Chris—had already left the nest.) His name was Patrick. He preferred to be called Pat. He was about two years younger than me. I had had sporadic contact with him throughout my life but we didn’t know each other all that well. The son of my mother’s brother, my Uncle Tommy, Pat had endured a chaotic and difficult upbringing. His father and mother just couldn’t get along. Each apparently suffered from mental difficulties (characterized by neurotic obsessions) that worsened an already disastrous marriage. (More on this later.)

 

Besides renovating the recently abandoned apartment and getting a judgment against the former tenants, the other half of my purpose in coming here was to take care of Cousin Pat after he underwent knee replacement surgery. This would mean helping to organize his stuff, fetching groceries, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and making small improvements around his place. I even made his bed and washed his hair a few times. (He was instructed by the doctor not to bathe for about two weeks after his surgery.)

 

Pat was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1956, the third child of four and the only male. His mother taught in the Catholic school system; his father couldn’t seem to hold a steady job. His family history was one of constant turmoil as the parents feuded, split up, reunited, then split up again. He attended a long series of public and private elementary schools as they moved from place to place, together or separately, from Ohio to Latrobe, PA, to Orlando, FL, with Pat finally coming to roost in Silver Spring (then Ellicott City and ultimately Laurel), MD. Here he managed to graduate from high school. He had never laid down roots in any particular place until then.

 

Fresh out of high school Pat landed a job with the American Postal Workers’ Union, where he slaved away for the next 43 years. He retired in 2017. I had helped him move-in to the old family house in Somerset just over a year ago. He had a bum knee and bad back, and had no one lined up to help him to unpack the moving boxes and get things sorted out. So I felt obliged to help him. Despite a chasm of differences between us I felt an affinity for my cousin. I felt the blood bond between us as we slowly went beyond re-acquaintance to actually coming to know one another. It would be a long process that had only just begun when he had moved-in back in April, 2017.

 

As mentioned, motoring my way west, I was also praying. In a tone barely audible to me I cranked out Our Fathers and Hail Marys. After five decades of the rosary, I recited special intentions for family members and friends. (Afterwards I felt a sort of peace descend upon me. It may have been my “imagination” but what is our imagination anyway but a sort of “introspection all aglow”?) By my prayers I sought to softly surrender my soul so that not my will but Thine be done.

 

To my joy, a rough-hewn and well-spoken preacher, Tony Evans, came on the radio as I traveled along. As Tony faded out I was able to pick up a conversation that included a truth teller from The Foundation for Critical Thinking. Then another great preacher came rattling over the radio, the late James Boice, who was one Presbyterian theologian who knew his Bible inside and out. It was great stuff, probably only aired in places such as the Pennsylvania boondocks. The words coming to me from the ether that morning were a real comfort. In fact they were so inspiring I found myself feeling that I was not alone.    

 

It was a Sunday. I soon reached my destination and surveyed the abandoned apartment. A lot of work lay ahead. Not only was there a lot to discard on the first and second floors, the attic and basement were also filled with junk that needed to be removed. I needed help and I had no idea how I would empty the place of assorted heavy furniture left behind, let alone do all the fixing up that needed to be done. I spent the first few days attending to Pat while mulling things over, assessing, planning.

 

The first serendipitous synchronicity occurred on Tuesday morning. Around 9:00 AM I set out for Aldi, a grocery store owned by a company in Germany and one of my favorites. Aldi is now in over 30 states and no one can beat their prices.

 

I got out of my car and was walking toward the door. So was another fellow. By chance we exchanged pleasantries. This led to some light conversation, and as we approached the entrance to Aldi’s the guy mentioned that he was a painter. This grabbed my attention immediately. A painter was exactly what I needed. I looked him over. He was an older fellow, though not quite as old as me, fairly fit-looking and, despite needing a little dental work, there was a competent aura to him. I shot back that I was currently working on a painting project of my own and might he be interested in some work(?). He was. He walked back to his vehicle and retrieved a business card. His name was “Ray” and he was a like a blessed ray of light brightening up my prospects that day.

 

I called him the next morning. He said he was only ten minutes away and would come right over and have a look. When he arrived I told him that the first thing that needed to be done was to empty the place of all of the left behind junk. I then proceeded to take him on a tour of the place from top to bottom, emphasizing that I really needed a hand with some of the heavier stuff. I told him that a roll-off dumpster would be dropped off later in the afternoon. Ray said to call him when the dumpster arrived and he would give me a hand.

 

Later, the dumpster arrived and I called him just after 3:00 PM that Wednesday. He said he would be right over and was bringing a few others to help us. He also said that if they could pick through and keep some of the items that I didn’t even have to pay them. Ray showed up around 3:30 with his son and a friend. Within two hours the great bulk of the refuse was in the dumpster and his son had strapped some select items onto his flatbed trailer.

 

Exhausted and somewhat dumbfounded I took out $40, all that I then had in my wallet, and gave it to them. They then started to discuss how they would divvy up $40 among the three of them. It seemed that divvying up the cash would have been easier if I had given them $60 instead and I told them so. At that point Ray handed the $40 to the other two and said I could just pay him the other $20 the next time we met. I asked him when he thought that would be and he estimated he would be available to do some painting next Tuesday.          

 

I was elated as they pulled out. Over the next six days I would finish cleaning the place up and start prepping all surfaces to be painted. The ceilings were fine. It was only walls, cabinets, doors and trim that needed sprucing up. (I had rented the largest dumpster available: a 30 cu. yd. box and filled it to the brim. The truck driver who picked it up and took it to the local landfill reported back that the contents weighed out at close to a ton and a half. I ended up pulling out over 125 nails, screws, staples and wall anchors from those walls.)

 

The next serendipitous synchronicity occurred that following Tuesday. Anticipating that Ray would follow through with his promise to start painting on this day, I went to the Sherwin-Williams paint store early in the morning to consult with the fellow in there. I spent some time matching colors and trying to estimate just what I would need to get started. I just about had everything picked out when Ray walked in. We hadn’t arranged to meet there—it just happened that way. And it turned out he had an account there. So he told me to put the paint on his account, which reduced my cost by about 30%. Before doing anything else, I put the $20 I owed him in his hand. He then shot out to his truck and worked up a simple contract. His price seemed reasonable and he told me he would begin later that day after he finished up what he was then working on. (Ray also noticed and commented upon the strangeness of these two chance meetings of ours—and he told me later that because I was so forthcoming with the $20 that I had promised him, he knew we would work well together.)

 

I would discover that Ray is a Mennonite. His straw hat might have clued me in; it wasn’t quite Amish but seemed somehow defining. He told me he didn’t drink or swear or take breaks as was common among non-Mennonite workers. It wasn’t long before I saw how, for him, it certainly seemed that work was work. For the next week he showed up early and stayed late until the painting of the apartment was completely finished. And Ray has promised to return next month to help paint the exterior.

 

Other serendipitous synchronicities followed. None were as prominently foregrounded as had  been the case with Ray, but each was mildly startling in its own way.

 

At another point I needed an electrician. A former handyman for the place referred me to Miller Electric Supply, saying the guy there could likely recommend one. (Now “Miller” was the name of our family who had originally purchased the house on which I was working.) Once there, the man behind the counter connected me up to an electrician by the name of “Brian,” which is the same name of a best friend, now deceased, who had been an ace electrician. He turned out to be very competent. He fixed the problem and then some, and at a very reasonable price.

 

I decided to replace an ancient fixture in the kitchen with a stand-alone, base cabinet that I purchased in two pieces from Lowe’s. When I suggested putting a granite top on it, the salesman recommended a granite company about 30 miles away, just over the PA line in Grantsville, MD. I soon headed over there.

When I pulled up the owner was on a smoke break. We hit it off immediately. The showroom even had a baby grand piano and I of course sat right down and knocked off a couple of tunes. After picking out a suitable remnant from which the top could be fabricated I got into further conversation with the owner only to discover that she used to live in the same Maryland neighborhood where I currently reside!  

 

When I needed a plumber, Cousin Pat suggested I try the same thing I did to find an electrician. He said to look under “Plumbing Supply”in the Yellow Pages. And so I did and I was soon heading over there.

It was late on a Friday when I walked in. The owner just happened to be there. Soon after discussing what I needed and telling him where the house was located, he asked me about the owner of the property. Sure enough, he was well-acquainted with my Aunt Janet McGuire on whose behalf I was working. In fact, he was the plumber who had originally installed the boilers in the house and a check valve on the water line between the house and the street. With a big smile on his face he remembered Janet, recalling his conversation with her from long ago and saying that he had since wondered whether she was still around. He readily agreed to go to the house sometime the following week to take care of every plumbing issue that needed attention.

 

The final tradesman I needed was a locksmith. All of the keys to the many deadbolt locks in the units had long since been lost. I wanted one key that would open every lock in the unit for each tenant. On that same Friday I again looked in the Yellow Pages. There were a few locksmiths to choose from. I decided to call one that was located in the small town of Berlin, just outside of Somerset. An appointment was made for 10:00 AM the following Monday. Of all places, the locksmith turned out to be from Thailand, originally. I had visited Thailand about two years prior. We talked about his home country and soon developed a good rapport. He turned out to be a very able and resourceful locksmith. He finished the job the following day with his final bill coming in below his initial estimate!        

 

During my Somerset sojourn I would learn from Pat that Uncle Tommy was convinced that the government was directing “rays” at him and others. This was in the early ‘60s and this belief of his would eventually lead to a six-week stay in the psych ward at Sheppard-Pratt Hospital in Baltimore. It is known that directed microwave and scalar weaponry has now been fully developed. People can be made to “hear voices” and become highly susceptible to suggestion, not to mention being driven crazy. Thus, in retrospect, it could be that my uncle was way ahead of his time. (Incidentally, “mind stalkers” tend to prey on the more powerless in society who would never be taken seriously if they complained or sought professional help.) Then again, he may just have been placed in the loony bin after having been driven crazy by yet another force to be reckoned with.

 

Pat’s mother, Aunt Eleanor, was deathly afraid of spiders. When they lived briefly as a family unit in Florida she would call my Uncle Tommy while he was at work each time she saw one, insisting that he come home immediately and kill it. She saw so many spiders and made so many calls that Uncle Tommy soon lost his job as a purchasing agent for a steel company. (There may be more to that job-loss story—who knows?) But according to this side of the family, it was Eleanor who had driven my Uncle Tommy mad. Disrupting him at work seemed to be her modus operandi. Reportedly, when he worked for Westinghouse in Baltimore she would call him incessantly, threatening to harm the children. It is not difficult to see how any fellow might have had a hard time holding onto a steady job under such pressure.

 

And so, between serendipitous synchronicities and becoming more enlightened about the family history, my Somerset trip was quite a refreshing detour. Things are slower in  Somerset and the folks there are very friendly, courteous and helpful. This is quite a contrast to how people and things are in and around Our Nation’s Capital. I almost hated coming home.

 

Among many other weird tasks while in Somerset, I scraped and painted the rear porch and other exterior areas that were visible to prospective tenants. There seemed to be a thousand and one details to attend to before meeting with the realty agent who will soon be screening applications from prospective tenants.

 

In just over three weeks, I more-or-less finished up what was needed to get the three-bedroom apartment re-rented and returned home. Pat was coming along well. He was getting  physical therapy regularly and was able to drive after about ten days.  He had been using a walker and is expected to transition to a cane soon. In short, the bulk of my job was done. But in another few weeks I would return to do this again. Why?—the tenants in the unit below Pat’s are now being evicted. Their eviction is long overdue. It will be unmerciful and swift, now that I knew the “lay of the land.” And if the past is a prologue to the future, fixing up this second apartment and getting the exterior restored should go swimmingly well. After all, I at least now have the contacts I need and, Lord willing, if the mule don’t die and the crick don’t freeze, all will be well in Somerset once again.