Memories of Projects With My Dad

This past Father's Day, my kids and I bought my husband a hammock. We decided to put it in the backyard and thought it would be an excellent place for him to read or nap on a relaxed afternoon.

My 19-year-old son and I decided to put the hammock together for my husband rather than make him assemble his own gift.

We opened the box and were pleased there weren't many pieces. I assumed it would be pretty easy to put together and it was as I suspected, taking us less than an hour to complete. But what surprised me was how this simple act of assembling a hammock would transport me back to doing projects like these with my father.

When I was a kid, it seemed that there was some project every weekend. As adults, my two brothers and I shake our heads in disbelief at the sheer volume of projects we did around our house. How could so many things need fixing, maintaining or assembling? Honestly, my dad seemed to invent jobs for us to do.

My dad was always the foreman, the man in charge and we worked for him. His approach to any project – from putting together a bike to trying to fix a leak — was the antithesis of methodically. He believed instructions were a mere "guide" or guestimate to be followed loosely and not to the letter.

I can picture him standing in Levi's dungarees and flannel shirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He'd squint, not yet ready to admit he needed reading glasses, as he skimmed through the page – taking in the gist of what the manufacturer wanted us to do. He'd run his hand through his hair while he thought for a bit. Then he'd crumple the instruction paper into a ball, toss it and say, "Let's get started."

Looking back, some of the work we did with my dad was probably kind of dangerous. He worked in a middle school as a guidance counselor. He had no formal training in carpentry, plumbing or electrical work. Still, we helped him install light fixtures, splice wires, paint walls and fix leaky faucets. There wasn't Google in those days, so I wonder how he knew how to do these types of things and also, how is it possible we never started an electrical fire? Yet, I don't even remember getting a splinter.

I chuckle, thinking about all the furniture and appliances we put together, from bookcases to barbeques. We never used all the pieces we were given in the box. When I expressed concern, my dad would say that the company had given us extra, unnecessary parts to cover themselves. I wasn't convinced that the company expected us to "wing it" and not use everything included.

With clarity, I can picture his workbench in the garage. Most of the tools were rusty and well-used, hanging on assorted nails my dad had hammered into the wall behind his bench. By the time I was a teenager, I had probably used every one except for the saw. I knew the difference between a slated head screwdriver and a Phillips head, and between needle-nosed pliers and a long nose.

While I hated having to do so many projects, ultimately, the skills I learned working side by side with my dad on weekends came in handy. In college and young adulthood, I was an "Ikea Queen," able to put together 5000-piece dressers without breaking a sweat.

As adults, my husband and I have chosen (rightfully so) to have licensed professionals fix any electrical or plumbing issues in our home. Most of our furniture and appliances have arrived fully assembled. Our children have done some projects with us, but fewer than we did when we were kids.

Still, my son was happy to help me assemble the hammock.

Unlike my dad, I am more cautious and rule-oriented by nature. I carefully unfolded the instructions and read them through entirely twice. Then, I made my son lay out each piece, ensuring we had the exact number the instructions outlined. I kept the instructions close to me, referring to the written page often. We followed the steps in order.

And still, with that methodical, slow approach, we both got confused. We'd each refer back to the instructions, wondering where we went wrong. At one point, we had to pull on a crossbar we had screwed in backward and start that step over again. We laughed as we figured out how to put the pieces of this hammock puzzle together.

Forty-five minutes later, we had what appeared to be a functioning hammock. It looked just like the photo on the box. All that was left was for us to test it out. My son and I held our breath and cautiously climbed into the hammock.

Sure enough, we did it right. The hammock was sturdy and held us both up. I felt a sense of accomplishment. There was something extraordinary about completing a simple project together.

While the two of us swayed back and forth, I kept thinking about my dad. He would have loved to see me doing a project like this with his grandson. And he would have been quick to point out that even with following the directions to a "T," we did have an extra piece. Look at that: the old man was right.

I laugh as I see the piece sitting on the grass and start to think about all the Saturday mornings I would hope not to hear my dad say, "I have a project for us to do today." 

And now I am thinking about those days with a fondness and wonder, will my son too? Perhaps he'll bring his kids to the house to swing on the hammock and tell them about the day, many years ago, that he put it together with his mom.

Randi Mazzella is a freelance writer specializing in a wide range of topics from parenting to pop culture to life after 50. She is a mother of three grown children and lives in New Jersey with her husband.  Read more of her work on randimazzella.com. Read More