The extra mile

"I gotta get this done," Ref said, gesturing in disgust over his shoulder at the windows over the porch. "When I came by yesterday I said, 'I just can't stand looking at that ugly front anymore.' "

So he and Nathaniel were up there Friday, getting ready to fine-tune the windows with a gentle application of circular saw and Sawzall.

As soon as those blades hit the old wood, the pungent scent spread down and around -- Dade pine, zesty as the day it was put in.

But he wasn't the only one at the "gotta get this done" stage. All week, we'd been expecting the plumber and the electrician to resolve the question of instant hot-water heaters: how many, how effective, where, and how much power. The plumber had told me there would be two big units; the electrician was worried about that word, "big."

Now, these two guys have offices maybe a block from each other, about a half-mile from the house, and all week I had a little film loop playing in my head: Strother Martin's classic cracker line from Cool Hand Luke: "What we have here . . . is failure to communicate."

So on Friday, I let Ref know how frustrated I was -- if there's any fixing to do, it needs to be done now, while the floors are torn up. Ref hopped in his truck. A few minutes later, he came back, pointing out that some requests are conveyed far more clearly in person, and announcing that the meeting was scheduled for 10:30.

We were singing perfect harmony on the classic hymn, "Come to Jesus."

Denny arrived first. Then Duane, the honcho for the plumbers. Smiles and handshakes, then Duane turned the spec sheet over to Denny: two heaters, 47 amps of 220 current each -- nothing like the 100 amps each Denny was thinking of as "big," but according to Duane each about twice the capacity required. No sweat. No more questions. End of transaction. Thanks. See ya.

It took less than a minute.

Make that "was a failure to communicate."