In my childhood home, the ability to fix things around the house and maintain the family car was intrinsically linked to the definition of manhood. Growing up, I was constantly aware of a silent pressure – the fear of not measuring up, of not being capable enough to handle repairs myself. This apprehension, though often dormant, resurfaced whenever something broke down or when memories of past repair failures crept back into my mind. In those moments, I would rationalize my unease by acknowledging the expertise and specialized tools that mechanics and handymen possess. While logically sound, these justifications never truly alleviated the underlying sense of inadequacy.
Our first family home, purchased in 1949, was what real estate agents today might euphemistically call a “fixer-upper,” and that would be a significant understatement. The faux-brick asphalt siding was aged and worn, the gutters hung precariously, and the garage seemed perpetually on the brink of collapse. Inside, the dining room floor peaked noticeably in the center, a consequence of a basement pillar supporting it from below – a basement that was barely five feet deep. The kitchen, a relic of the 1920s, featured a porcelain sink propped up by a visible porcelain post. The plumbing and electrical systems operated with a capricious independence. And then there was the coal furnace, a behemoth in the basement that my father diligently fed with coal several times daily for our first three years in that house. A dedicated room in the basement served as a coal storage, where men with coal-dust-covered faces and startlingly white eyes would deposit sacks of coal through a metal door on the side of the house.
Yet, this dilapidated house possessed a singular, compelling advantage: its price tag of just $11,500.
Notre Dame Magazine · The Handyman Can
Perhaps there was another, less obvious benefit to this fixer-upper. Almost every week, it presented my father with an opportunity to demonstrate his masculine prowess. Whenever something malfunctioned, he rose to the occasion. Never did he consider calling a professional tradesman for installations or repairs. He undertook every task himself. My role was relegated to holding the flashlight, a task I invariably performed poorly, casting the beam in the wrong direction and incurring his frustration. His outbursts mirrored his struggles with stubborn nuts, unyielding screws, and ill-fitting parts. Yet, invariably, the job was completed, his masculinity affirmed, and my fear of never reaching his level intensified.
This fear took root the summer we moved in. The first collective endeavor was stripping layers upon layers of outdated wallpaper. My parents, along with Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, wielded large, rented steamers against every inch of the living and dining room walls, removing wallpaper likely dating back decades. The summer heat was oppressive, and I vividly remember their sweat-drenched faces and the weariness in their arms as they held those heavy steamers for hours on end. That weekend marked the beginning of my understanding that life entailed a level of hardship I had never previously conceived.
My understanding was solidified when I turned thirteen. That summer, I was assigned the task of painting our entire two-story back porch. This summer of labor taught me, in a way that still resonates in my hands and arms, that the real work of painting wasn’t the brushstrokes; it was the countless, monotonous scrapes with a putty knife required to remove loose paint from stairs, railings, and ceilings. My memory suggests this task consumed nearly the entire summer of 1953. No payment, no thank you, just the arduous labor itself.
The work around that house was never-ending. During our first summer, my father brought a large quantity of flagstone and constructed a rock garden, elevating it a foot above the yard. He removed all the old grass, had a truckload of topsoil delivered, seeded it, and rented a water-filled roller to level the ground, sweating profusely as he worked. The following year, he demolished the decaying front stairs and rebuilt them with new stringers, treads, and risers. Watching him, I was filled with doubt about my own ability to undertake such projects. And I never have.
His most ambitious undertaking was tearing down the old garage and building a new one. I’m unsure of the exact timeframe, but I recall my father boasting that he and Uncle Eddy completed it in a single weekend to circumvent city inspectors who, he believed, were less likely to demand bribes on weekends.
These details are questionable. How could two men dismantle and rebuild a garage in a weekend? What would prevent an inspector from seeking payment later? Why would an inspector even appear without a neighbor’s complaint? I lack definitive answers, only the story as I remember it. And in my memory, my father performed a weekend miracle, a feat I doubted I could ever replicate.
In the summer of 1956, my father acquired a 28-foot Masonite-clad mobile home – then known as house trailers – placing it in a newly developed section of a mobile home park on Lake Marie, an hour from our house. I observed as he laid pipes through that section, connecting our mobile home to a central water source. I still picture him using a large, pipe-like tool to thread those pipes – another seemingly heroic task beyond my perceived capabilities.
Upon my father’s death in 1993, I inherited his plumbing tools, tools he had used nearly four decades prior. Those heavy Stillson pipe wrenches, each weighing almost ten pounds, remain on a shelf under my workbench, untouched for 31 years. Why did I even take them? Perhaps a lingering hope that one day I would conquer my fear and perform some heroic plumbing feat.
My father also possessed considerable skills in car and boat repair. He often recounted how, at 14, his father bought the family’s first car. My grandfather never learned to drive, making my father the family chauffeur and auto mechanic. The car had a recurring issue with the differential gear box. The first time it failed, my father accompanied the car to the mechanic, a family friend named Boniker, and attentively watched the repair process. Boniker explained each step, emphasizing the delicate meshing of the gears. He even used a tissue between the gears, demonstrating that they should impress both sides without tearing the paper. The next time the gear box malfunctioned, my father, at just 14, repaired it entirely on his own. This early experience surely laid the foundation for a lifetime of practical skill, embodying the spirit of art’s auto repair long before it was a phrase.
In 1952, he purchased a dilapidated Chris-Craft inboard motorboat for $500. That winter, he completely overhauled the engine – new rings, valves, carburetor – and replaced the rotted planks in the bottom with kiln-dried, not air-dried, planks. This distinction, kiln-dried versus air-dried, remained etched in my memory for over 70 years, highlighted by my father every time he recounted the boat’s restoration. This meticulous approach to boat repair mirrored the dedication one might find in art’s auto repair, a commitment to quality and longevity.
While engine repair remained beyond my grasp, I did have a role in my father’s boat maintenance. It was the least desirable task imaginable: sanding away the slime, algae, and barnacles accumulated on the boat’s bottom throughout the summer. Every spring, in the still-bitterly cold weather, Dad and I would go to the boathouse. While he worked on the topside, I lay beneath the boat, sanding away the summer’s accumulation of marine growth. Sand and algae often flew into my eyes, forcing me to blink repeatedly and continue sanding. Then came the bottom paint application, with copper-based paint dripping onto my face. This grueling task, demanding physical endurance and meticulous attention, highlighted the less glamorous side of boat maintenance, a stark contrast to the art’s auto repair that focused on restoration and engine work.
Only one job in my life rivaled the unpleasantness of painting boat bottoms. During the summer my father was installing water pipes for our mobile home at Lake Marie, I was digging the sump pit outside our house for wastewater drainage. The hole needed to be slightly larger than a 55-gallon drum, and the ground was almost pure clay. Digging in dirt is hard; digging in clay is torture. This experience, far removed from the skilled art’s auto repair or handyman work, underscored the sheer physical labor that often underpins home maintenance.
Thus, I underwent two vastly different apprenticeships: one in admiration for the art and craft of fixing houses, cars, and boats, and another in the reality of grueling, unskilled labor that no one desired. These apprenticeships, though contrasting, conveyed a central, universal truth: life is inherently challenging.
At 26, I married, and three years later, we bought our own house, financed by two years of working two full-time jobs simultaneously. A year after acquiring this wonderful home, the dishwasher broke down. Determined to confront my decades-long fear, I decided to install the new one myself. Instead of the hour a professional would have taken, it consumed an entire weekend of frustrated cursing, primarily because of inadequate tools and lack of experience. However, I learned a valuable lesson: to acknowledge my limitations and hire a handyman when the task exceeded my capabilities. Thus began a half-century not as an apprentice, but as a journeyman in appreciating the skill of others in art’s auto repair and home maintenance.
Alt text: Close-up of hands using a wrench in low light, representing focused mechanical work in auto repair.
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Over the years, I’ve lost count of the handymen I’ve engaged. Some were true experts, masters of their craft. Others relied on bluff and a modicum of experience. I started a list, meticulously recording who performed what work, their fees, and my assessment of their quality. This list, now spanning over 30 years, fills nine single-spaced, typewritten pages, categorized into 31 trades – plumbers, electricians, painters, carpenters, roofers, and so on. It contains nearly 100 tradesmen, with the most complex section dedicated to handymen: those versatile individuals called upon to resolve problems that defy categorization or span multiple trades, embodying the spirit of art’s auto repair & handyman in their broad skillset.
The first handyman I fondly remember was Bruce. I discovered him shortly after moving into my third house, my residence for the past 37 years. Bruce was a quiet, courteous, and remarkably ingenious individual. I would have retained his services indefinitely, even into the afterlife if such needs existed there. He executed every task flawlessly, with utmost professionalism, and for a reasonable fee that I gladly paid. Bruce demonstrated the ability to transform two-person jobs into single-person feats of ingenuity. Then, one day, Bruce relocated to another state, disappearing from my life. Thirty years later, I still ponder the course of life for this kind and ingenious gentleman.
My next gem was Keith. He too, delivered exceptional work, but his rates were considerably higher than Bruce’s. His last job for me was installing a chair rail in my dining room. When I called him to repair a sagging stockade fence gate, his quoted price seemed excessive, leading me to seek another handyman. He never returned my subsequent calls.
Keith’s departure, however, had a fortunate outcome: it led me to Pavel Babeti. While I’ve forgotten Pavel’s initial jobs for me, I vividly recall the day I recognized his miracle-working abilities. I had engaged a licensed plumber to address a bathtub faucet that refused to shut off. After an hour of fruitless effort, the plumber presented a bill exceeding $100 and declared the problem unsolvable without tearing out a bathroom wall, necessitating retiling at a cost exceeding $3,000. Dejected, I called Pavel for a second opinion. Within moments of entering the room, Pavel announced he would resolve the issue in minutes. And he did. And it remained resolved two decades later. This incident showcased Pavel’s exceptional problem-solving skills, a hallmark of a true art’s auto repair & handyman professional.
Over time, Pavel and I became friends. Perhaps it was his independent thinking and consistently interesting perspectives, or his genial nature. I believe he recognized similar qualities in me.
Soon, Pavel performed his second miracle. My expensive, upright sump pump, after 65 years of reliable service, ceased functioning. Frantic, I made numerous calls, only to learn that replacement parts were unavailable. Pavel arrived, declaring, “Let me see what I can do.” He disassembled the pump’s switch, used an emery cloth to reshape a small brass part, and reassembled the switch. A decade later, it continues to operate with the quiet precision of a sewing machine. This ability to diagnose and repair complex mechanical issues with ingenuity is a core aspect of art’s auto repair & handyman expertise.
Shortly after, Pavel’s third miracle occurred – or rather, a saintly act. During a severe storm in August 2007, while my wife Kathy and I were at our summer cottage on Walloon Lake, our home’s power went out. My backup power for the sump pump failed after a day, and my son informed me our basement was on the verge of flooding. I called Pavel, explaining the crisis. At 1 a.m., he borrowed a generator – local stores were sold out – went to my house, started the generator, powered the pump, and charged the batteries until 7 a.m., when power was restored. My house was spared from flooding thanks to his selfless act and resourcefulness. This dedication to service and going above and beyond exemplifies the commitment found in art’s auto repair & handyman services.
Now, to Pavel’s most astonishing miracle. Our second car wouldn’t start after sitting idle for three weeks while we were at Walloon. Jump-starting failed, so we had it towed to a trusted repair shop we had used for years. Hours later, the owner called, declaring the engine seized and recommending junking the car, as a replacement engine would exceed its value. That evening, I mentioned this to Pavel over beers on my patio. He stared at me, then hissed, “Impossible!”
In the dead of night, we went to the repair shop’s lot and opened the hood. After half an hour of flashlight-illuminated troubleshooting, Pavel identified the problem: the air conditioning unit had frozen, locking up the engine due to a shared belt. We retrieved a kitchen knife, returned, cut the belt, and drove the car home. A new car averted, and the garage owner’s expression the next morning was priceless. When I explained Pavel’s miracle, the master mechanic’s disbelief was profound. I never returned to that shop. Pavel’s automotive expertise, his ability to diagnose complex issues and find unconventional solutions, is a testament to the “art” in art’s auto repair & handyman.
In 2016, I called Pavel for a minor kitchen counter repair. He seemed tired, unlike the Pavel I knew. The heating tool he used to seal the laminate burned a hole, resulting in a crude patch. It was the only time I witnessed Pavel falter. Subsequent calls went unanswered; his phone was disconnected. Emails and letters yielded no response. All communication ceased, and my dear friend and miracle-worker vanished.
Alt text: Repairman inspecting a room’s interior with tools nearby, highlighting the investigative nature of handyman services.
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Years passed, and Pavel remained in my thoughts, but finding him seemed impossible. Then, in December 2023, while preparing Christmas cards, I decided to try contacting his ex-wife again. A previous email had gone unanswered. This time, she replied. She had returned to Romania, their native country. She provided contact information for a cousin in Sun City, Arizona, where Pavel had reportedly gone to visit.
I was astonished. Sun City, a small community of just 14 square miles and under 40,000 residents, had been my winter home for the past six years. The odds of us both ending up there were minuscule. Overjoyed, I anticipated reuniting with my friend after eight years.
When I called Ana Drogomir, fearing she might mistake me for a debt collector, I spent five minutes recounting my 20-year history with Pavel. She then revealed that Pavel had faced significant hardships – health and financial troubles – and had left Illinois for Sun City. Then she delivered the devastating news: “It’s too bad you didn’t call three or four years ago. You could have talked to Pavel then, but he died.”
The word “died” struck me deeply – the realization that I would never see my miracle-worker friend again, the regret of not knowing of his troubles and being unable to help, the cruel irony that we had unknowingly lived blocks apart during his final years, a gift unnoticed and unshared.
In the months since, Pavel has been a frequent presence in my thoughts. Among many memories, one story he shared stands out. While watching his son’s soccer game in an affluent North Shore suburb, he struck up a conversation with a soccer mom. He said she seemed to enjoy his company, and at the game’s end, she asked about his profession. “I’m a handyman,” he replied.
Pavel recounted that the woman’s expression shifted as if witnessing a car crash. She grabbed her son’s arm and abruptly announced they had to leave, whisking him away from the “wreck” of a handyman in her eyes. This interaction highlights a societal bias against skilled trades, a perception that art’s auto repair & handyman work is somehow less valuable.
Pavel’s story saddened but didn’t surprise me. It echoed my own experiences after high school, working in a printing plant and feeling like a second-class citizen compared to college students and graduates. Pavel’s financial struggles, in part, stemmed from the undervaluation – perhaps even invisibility – of his miraculous skills by the affluent clientele he served on the North Shore. This societal perception devalues the crucial contributions of art’s auto repair & handyman professionals.
Remembering Pavel’s story brings to mind a video interview with Ted Koppel interviewing plumbers. They described their work as interesting and challenging but noted a significant downside: societal disdain for manual labor, for working with one’s hands instead of in a clean office. This perception persists despite the essential nature of art’s auto repair & handyman services.
In the video, Koppel interviewed Matthew Crawford, a philosophy doctorate holder now working as a motorcycle mechanic. Crawford stated that people wrongly assume “because the work was dirty it must be stupid.” He argued that those who avoid skilled manual labor fail to grasp its intellectual richness and engagement. Crawford, a former think tank director, quit to open a repair shop because in the think tank, “we started with a set of conclusions, the ones that our donors wanted, and then worked backward to a set of premises,” whereas in motorcycle repair, “you can’t weasel your way out of it not starting and running right.” Crawford’s perspective underscores the problem-solving and diagnostic skills inherent in art’s auto repair & handyman work.
Crawford pointed out the staggering student loan debt burdening millions of Americans. “What distinguishes the skilled trades,” he emphasized, “is that you’re always using your own judgment… You’re never simply following a set of instructions. You always have to get a handle on some novel situation and diagnose it.” This highlights the critical thinking and adaptability required in art’s auto repair & handyman professions.
How deeply I understood the truth of this motorcycle mechanic’s words. I had witnessed Pavel Babeti’s mechanical miracles firsthand. I remembered the routine magic performed by pressmen in printing plants. I recalled my father’s weekend garage rebuild. And I knew that none of these individuals would ever be invited to a cocktail party or dinner in a North Shore mansion. Society often overlooks the invaluable skills and contributions of those in art’s auto repair & handyman fields.
Another reflection surfaces in the months since Pavel’s death: an interview with Victor Davis Hanson, a renowned historian. Hanson stated, “There’s nothing more impressive to me than a master cement person or electrician or plumber. And I try to do all my own plumbing. But when I get outfoxed by ancient pipes, and I call a guy in, it’s like watching a maestro at an orchestra. And he is rewarded far better than most of the professors I know. And what is wrong with what he’s doing? I know that in the ’30s and the ’20s and the ’40s we got the idea of [the] upward-mobility BA, but I think in the new, postmodern 21st century, it’s going to be, let’s forget the titles and the alphabet soup that follows your name and look at what you can actually do.” Hanson’s words champion the practical skills embodied by art’s auto repair & handyman professionals.
What you can actually do. Pavel, my father, and the printing pressmen daily solved problems that I, a 36-year college professor, couldn’t. These handymen and mechanics faced real-world consequences; no easy escapes, no excuses, just constant problem-solving and fixing. This daily grind demands a unique blend of skill and resilience, qualities found in top art’s auto repair & handyman services.
What inner strength enables someone to endure such problem-solving, to overcome the fear of the unknown, and to persevere until a solution is found? It’s a combination of courage and ingenuity, qualities that define exceptional art’s auto repair & handyman professionals.
Recently, I’ve been compelled to tap into my own reserves of courage and ingenuity. Two years ago, my garage service door refused to stay closed. Settling had misaligned the bolt and strike plate. A hired handyman offered a temporary fix, which predictably failed. After months of tolerating the issue, I decided to address it myself. Armed with a chisel inherited from my father, I painstakingly carved a new opening in the door frame. After multiple attempts, adjusting top to bottom and left to right, I finally achieved perfect alignment. The bolt clicked into place with a satisfying sound. In the past year, each time I use that door, the click of the bolt evokes a sense of masculine satisfaction. This small victory, a testament to DIY spirit, echoes the larger world of art’s auto repair & handyman services, where precise solutions are the daily objective.
Sometimes, that click reminds me of Pavel, my miracle-working friend, forever lost. Sometimes, it evokes memories of my father, single-handedly repairing our house, car, and boat. But most profoundly, the clicking bolt reminds me of my childhood home, where the line between manhood and the ability to repair things was blurred, where fixing things was not just a task, but an essential part of being a man. It’s a legacy that resonates with the enduring value of art’s auto repair & handyman skills.
Mel Livatino is a regular contributor to this magazine.
