Dear Readers

MY ROUTINE WHEN FACED with a home-repair task has been the same for my entire adult life: Upon begrudgingly starting a project, I will hit a snag, instantly mutter, “This is impossible,” and in seconds escalate to “Call the handyman!” as if something were on fire. Lately, this has stopped seeming sitcom-cute. It’s embarrassing. So I got up the nerve to call Gary Wentz. Patient and droll, he’s the editor of the Family Handyman, one of our sister publications, and a reason I’m newly embarrassed. I can’t imagine his respecting a colleague who’s afraid of a wrench.

Gary (that’s him below) listens to my tale. I’m impatient and clumsy with mechanical things, I say. No one in my family fixed stuff. His reaction: “Repair pros have a name for clients like you,” he says. “‘The guy who paid for my boat.’”

Gary starts by appealing to my vanity. “You are as smart as or smarter than any pro, right?” He next describes the rewards of change. Recently, he decided to repair his truck’s balky transmission, about which he knew zilch, and felt his ego do a happy dance when it worked. “I was just soooo pleased with myself.”

Finally, he does some accounting. “A handyman charges $100 just to walk through the door,” he says. “And the time! You set up appointments, stay home from work, then do it all over again when he doesn’t show up.”

His conclusion: “What’s the worst that can happen? You’re not going to wreck the house. You can always call a pro later. I bet you won’t, though: It’s remarkable the difference it makes when you become just willing to try.”

Next thing I know, I’ve spotted a fix for our sputtering bathroom faucet in this issue’s cover story, which Gary helped edit. I unscrew the faucet’s tip (I didn’t even know it came off!), use an old toothbrush to scrub away the residue from inside it, and screw the tip back on. In five minutes, the water is flowing as powerfully as Yosemite Falls.

Thank you, friend. As you promised, I like the feeling.