My father used to take our house apart and put it back together every weekend. No one ever came to our house to do anything. This is a guy who never went past 4th grade in Ireland, a self-taught carpenter, self-taught paperhanger, self-taught plumber, HVAC guy, you-name-it. He used to give us haircuts. The guy could do anything. The Budd Company used to call to borrow his tools. He put a toilet in our cellar. Sledge-hammered our furnace to get it out of the basement and installed a gas heater - the only one on the block. Permits? Fuhgeddaboutit! Corralled a runaway horse one day and today people are still talking about it. “Remember when Ferry’s old man caught that runaway horse?”
Only one of my six brothers inherited this gift. So much for nature over nurture.
I’m no one’s idea of a handy-man. Think footy-man. Knowing the phone number of the plumber is the extent of my contribution to domesticity.
So don’t be too harsh on those footy-men. They’re doing the best that they can.