We have to wait until Monday to give the Inspector a call, so today we spent some time plodding along with our list of tasks needed to move in. First up, a new mailbox.
The other projects we filled the day with were centered around drywall.
Whenever my Dad would work on a house or a kitchen, he would always leave something in a hidden location. It was usually his name and the date he did the work, but sometimes he would leave a note. When we starting working on the house I grew up in, he allowed me and my sisters to write notes on the drywall behind the brick hearth. And when I built kitchens with Dad, he allowed me to sign my own name on the cabinets I built and installed. It was a simple way to leave our mark on the world.
I've avoided talking about my Dad because this project has been emotional on more than one occasion. I carry a tape measure that bears the name of his Cabinet Factory etched into the face. His speed square is now mine and bears his initials, DES. I've used the finish hammer he had from before I have memories, and the red framing hammer he bought for me that matches the one he used for all my teenager years. His chisels, screwdrivers, nail guns, circular saw, table saw, utility knife, chalk line, and so many other tools have all done work on this house; not in his hands but in mine.
Today my emotions bubbled to the surface. I was about to sign my name and the date on the back of a piece of drywall before I hung it, but then thoughts about my Dad starting flowing from my heart through the pen and ended up on the sheetrock. His old habit of leaving memories in the houses he worked on, had found it's way to a house I purchased five years after his death. Tears and more tears, and then more tears after that. It was long overdue. I miss you Dad.
Love you.
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