Honey do... 3 Marcy
8-minute read
So, now I am a widower with four kids under four. I still owned a business that I had to work, since I depended on it for income. The demand for my talent and service was seemingly unending.
I figured out how to capitalize on the experiences from being a kid on a hard-scrabble farm in the post-World War 2 era. It seemed in my experience on the farm, nothing got repaired or continued to work without a struggle.
I lived the adage, 'Only sailors and farmers never throw anything away, because it might make the difference between living and dying.'
The piles of rusting metal all had some value, even if it meant reducing the use of one thing so that other thing would run adequately enough to get a job done. To apply that to "Honey do this... honey do that..." was a natural-seeming transfer of values and a learned determination to 'Make it work.'
After Ellen died, I got serious about the business out of necessity, as much as a sudden influx of customer demand drove me. I found wonderful help for the kids and rededicated myself.
'Honey do this... Honey do that...' became a viable company with a word-of-mouth reputation among single professional women. That happened because I was introduced to the human resources director for the Richfield office in Anchorage when I was picking up a dishwasher to install from a major retailer.
She was buying a dishwasher and hired me to install it. When I had installed it for her, she had the company employee newsletter write an article about the service and dependability I showed her.
I was suddenly surrounded by a flurry and a constant flow of women customers thirty-five to forty-plus years of age. Most had never married, were career-minded, and consequently, childless.
As a group, they realized their biological clocks were ticking, and they had no one to fulfill their desire to be in a relationship that would lead to marriage and a family.
These women usually had dated but didn't take time out from their career to seriously be ready to find 'Mr. Right.' Now that available men were not as numerous, and consequently not much more than the leftovers from other women marrying them. These women, as a group, had a desperate sense about themselves wanting to beat their biological clock.
My schedule for work filled a six-hour day, then time at home with my kids each day for three or four hours, and then back to work for a call or two in the evenings.
I was aware that I was the only business in Anchorage that was doing the broad range of repairs I was capable of doing. I checked with my customers and suppliers to make sure my prices, service, and attention to the detail these professional women expected were met.
Leaving their homes cleaner than I found them was the surest way to keep customers. I found that it made them happy to have me in their homes. I would make it a point to allow time for that finishing touch, and it paid in dollars, and referrals.
After about a year of being lonely, I gave an estimate for a floor replacement in the kitchen and a repair problem in her shower.
She had requested an evening meet so I arrived when she expected me, and I noticed she was in a bathrobe. At first, it seemed bizarre, but then I remembered she was meeting me after work. I assumed she was just being comfortable in her home.
We looked at the kitchen floor and discussed the ramifications of replacing it. Then Marcy walked me up stairs to her bathroom shower that would spray erratically while she was adjusting the direction of the shower head.
I assumed I would test it to see what needed to be done. However, she thought she needed to show me instead. I was not very alert, and as we entered the bathroom, her robe fell to the floor.
She was naked and stepping into the shower when I became conscious again; I said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm showing you what is wrong with the shower."
