Some passions arrive suddenly, fully formed. Others are handed down quietly, one small task at a time, until you look back and realize they’ve been with you your entire life. My love for DIY projects falls squarely into the second category.

It didn’t start in Aurora. I was only nine when we left there, probably a little too young to be trusted with much more than carrying tools or holding the flashlight. I was the cheap manual labor that could shovel snow and cut tall grass growing around the house with clippers. Remember those manual grass clippers? Ouch. The real beginning came a year later, in Winona, when I was in fourth grade—ten years old—and we moved into an old rental house we knew we wouldn’t be in for very long. One year to be exact and then we moved to the other side of Winona to a much bigger house that we purchased.

Because it was temporary, there was freedom in it. We weren’t trying to make it perfect—just better. The landlord actually reimbursed my dad for materials and paid for the labor for the projects we completed in this home. Everyone chipped in. Every project, no matter how small, felt like an opportunity to improve our little corner of the world.

That’s where I discovered how much I loved the work itself.

Painting came first. It’s the great equalizer of home projects—easy to learn, forgiving, and instantly satisfying. You hand a kid a roller, point him toward a wall, and before long he feels useful. I remember standing there, carefully working up and down the wall, proud of the simple transformation happening right in front of me. Even at that age, there was something deeply rewarding about watching a room change because of your own effort.

Painting continued to be a constant thread throughout our family’s journey. Every house we lived in involved paint, and everyone helped, but I was doing it younger than most. It felt natural to me. Still does. Chuck and I would paint the walls. Tom the ceiling (he’s 6’3” so of course) and my mom would do the all-important line where the wall meets the ceiling. She had a steady hand and was good at it. Eventually I would learn that skill and I am proud that I can still do a professional job with this task. It’s all about paint loading and angle of the brush.

The biggest painting job we tackled was painting the exterior of the next house we would move into. 848 West Broadway. It still rolls off the tongue. It happened during the summer of 1970. My dad “hired” Tom, Chuck, and me to paint our large two story house for the sum of $100. Not $100 each. $100 total to be split 3 ways. I remember receiving about $5 for my efforts, which looking back, was probably about right. Tom was 16, Chuck 15, and I was 11. It took us the better part of that summer but it got painted and it was a quality job.

In another house we put in a suspended ceiling. I was young, but I remember helping tie off the framework to the ceiling joists and popping tiles into place. I didn’t fully understand the engineering of it all, but I understood enough to feel like I was part of something bigger—learning by doing, hands on, side by side with my dad.

Then came electrical work. That really hooked me.

I distinctly remember wiring a switch above a sink—probably ten or eleven years old—doing something like that today would make most people nervous. But back then, it was normal. My dad trusted me, watched over me, and taught me what mattered. That early exposure stuck. Even now, decades later, I still love electrical work—understanding how power flows, installing junction boxes, breakers, how things connect, how a small change can bring something to life.

As I got older, the projects got more complex. When we lived in New Lisbon, we had new carpeting installed—thick, plush carpet that raised the floor just enough to cause problems. So I took every door off its hinges and trimmed the bottoms so they would swing freely again. I remember the methodical nature of it, one door at a time, measuring, cutting, rehanging. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary—and satisfying.

Another project that stands out happened when I was in sixth grade. We were re-roofing our house, again in New Lisbon. Somehow, it was decided that I was the ideal candidate to be up on the roof—lightweight, but with big feet. The older adults with roofing experience (my parents) thought that combination was perfect.

So up I went.

I did a lot of shingling on that steep pitch, completely unfazed. At one point, I was lowered down on a rope to paint the cupola above the driveway. My brothers stood on the other side of the roof peak, holding the rope so I wouldn’t fall. Probably not the safest approach by today’s standards—but that’s how things were done back then.

And I trusted them. They trusted me.

My dad’s tools were simple—probably considered archaic by today’s standards—but they were what we had. I remember them clearly in our basement. Worn handles. Heavy metal. Tools that didn’t look pretty but got the job done. There was also an old drill press, which I believe my nephew Alex owns now. He replaced the motor and still uses it. The idea that a tool from my childhood is still working—still useful—feels fitting somehow. I know Alex is also very into DIY and has probably completed more projects than I have.

The collection of those tools is part of where my love for DIY really took root. I take pride in the tools that I have collected over time given the amount of projects I’ve taken on and completed. But the deeper source was my dad himself.

He was an industrious man in his younger years. Full of energy. Always working on something at our house. He built our cabin on Bass Lake, just outside of Biwabik. We lived in a newly constructed house in Sunset Acres in Aurora, MN when I was born and my dad was building a cabin 15 minutes away that we could enjoy. With help, yes—but he carried much of the load himself.

The land to get to where the cabin eventually sat was swampy and nearly inaccessible. So he figured out a solution. Contractors dumped concrete rubble from demolition projects, filling the swamp until it was solid enough to drive on. And then, on that beautiful land by the lake, he built a cabin that our family used for almost ten years. Summers were magical there. More on that in another post.

Chuck and I recently visited it in 2025. It’s still there. Still standing. Pretty much the same as it was when my dad built it in the early 1960s. That kind of durability tells you something about a person. See picture below.

He was always doing something. Many times he held multiple jobs. Always learning. Always improving. And though he died young at the age of 52, he passed that passion on to me. Looking back, I realize those moments shaped more than just skills. They taught confidence. Judgment. Responsibility. And eventually, discernment—knowing what you can do, and just as importantly, knowing when to call in professional help. DIY can get you into trouble if you don’t respect its limits.

Now, at 67 years old, I still carry that same passion. I still do most of my own projects. I still enjoy figuring things out, working with my hands, and making something better than it was before. My son, Jake, has just purchased his first home in Austin, TX and I can see that same passion in what he has done in that home. From fixing things with his pool, running low voltage wiring from indoors to outdoors for an amazing sound system, running electrical power through existing walls to a new outlet to a landing above his front doorway so he can delight his children with lighted pumpkins and reindeer during the respective holidays.

I also remember Jake was by my side when I did a number of projects in our various homes growing up just like I was with my dad. Now that I think about it I remember shoving him into a small access hole near the ceiling level to run some wire where I could not access. Ah, the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.

That love started young—working alongside my dad, learning by doing, trusting the process.

And it never really left.