If trivia taught me to ask questions, home improvement taught me how to answer them. Instead of asking, "How does this work?" my dad usually handed me a tool and said, "Let's find out.”
Not every passion begins with a defining moment. Some grow gradually, shaped by countless small experiences that hardly seem significant at the time. My love for DIY projects developed that way. What started as helping with simple tasks eventually became a genuine enjoyment of solving problems, learning new skills, and experiencing the satisfaction that comes from creating or fixing something with my own hands.
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 would do 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 the 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—having a child do 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 and 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.
One of those doors left me with a memory and a scar I still laugh about today. As I was trimming the bottom with a saw, the blade slipped and caught my thumb, leaving a jagged cut that immediately started bleeding. I clamped my hand over it as blood dripped onto the brand-new linoleum floor we had just installed. Seeing the commotion, my mom came running into the kitchen with a towel. I assumed she was rushing over to wrap my thumb, but instead she knelt down and started wiping the blood off the new floor before it could stain. Only after the floor was under control did my injury get much attention. Looking back, I smile because that moment perfectly captured the practical way we were raised. Cuts, bruises, and scrapes were simply part of getting things done. You cleaned up the mess, took care of the wound, and got back to work.
Another project that stands out happened when I was twelve years old and in sixth grade. We were re-roofing our house 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. Nothing battery powered. There was also an old drill press, which I believe my nephew 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 he 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.
If there was one word that defined my dad during his younger years, it was industrious. He was never content to simply maintain what he had; he was always building, improving, fixing, or planning the next project. Long before I was born, he earned both his bachelor’s and master’s degrees from what was then North Dakota State in Bismarck. His ambition and leadership led him to become one of the youngest high school principals in Minnesota, an accomplishment that reflected both his intelligence and his remarkable work ethic.
That same drive carried over into every home we ever lived in. I’ve heard stories about one of the first houses my parents owned after Dad accepted a new job in Melrose, Minnesota. Without my mom ever seeing it, he bought what had once been used to store grain. When she first walked through the front door, remnants of grain were still scattered throughout the house. Most people would have seen a mess; Dad saw potential. My mother cried. Together they transformed it into a home, beginning what would become a lifelong pattern of buying properties, remodeling them, and making them better than they had been before. Whether it was the cabin he built on Bass Lake or the countless improvements he made to the homes we lived in, there always seemed to be another project underway.
His talents weren’t limited to carpentry. Before automobiles became rolling computers, my dad could diagnose and repair just about anything under the hood. I admired that ability, although I quickly discovered I didn’t inherit his interest in mechanics. My brother Tom, on the other hand, loved working alongside him in the garage and absorbed much of Dad’s automotive knowledge. Watching the two of them together was like watching an intern watching a skilled surgeon bring a patient back to life in the operating room.
Dad also believed that an honest day’s work didn’t necessarily end when you left your primary job. Throughout the years, he regularly took on bookkeeping and accounting work for several small businesses, often spending evenings balancing ledgers after an already full day at school.
Looking back, I realize that I grew up watching a man who rarely stood still, whose example taught me that meaningful accomplishments are usually the result of consistent effort, personal responsibility, and a willingness to do whatever needed to be done.
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 running diagnostics on his phone and fixing the recirculation pump for his pool, installing low voltage wiring from indoors to outdoors for an amazing sound system complete with a subwoofer to the same pool, and 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.
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.
Working beside my dad taught me far more than carpentry or wiring. It taught me confidence, patience, and the satisfaction of creating something with my own hands. Those lessons would eventually blend perfectly with another fascination that appeared during my teenage years—a little store called Radio Shack.
