A Southern Lady in President Yushchenko's Court

For as long as we have lived in the house, we have had a handy man. Like the evolution of humankind preceding the dawning of great monoliths, I would argue my family most likely had a handy man before this house was completed. This comes from Estelle's need for continual home improvement, her keen eye that creates very odd jobs and the fact that the men in my family have a proclivity towards books rather than buzz saws.

When it comes to installing, fixing and just plain tinkering, my father and I are a useless lot. My dad is occupied, nee obsessed, with his ritual of books, movies and television shows. His current compulsive diet of Lindsay Lohan's "Parent Trap," recorded episodes of Lil Kim on "Dancing with the Stars" and rereading Michael Pollan while chomping on a Little Debbie cake has negated all concerns for home upkeep. I am not much better. Being back in NC and writing a book, I cherish my spare time for gardening,cooking and breathing in the mountains. Even if that excuse was not valid, I would be more inclined to watch "Au Revoir Les Enfants" seven times in a row than figure out the difference between ratchets.

In our failures, Estelle has taken on the task of home improvement and performed it with memorable flair.

The first Handy Man we had was not one but a band of five brothers whose genetics favored almost identical traits in appearance and consumption of corn liquor. We could never tell them apart and simply referred to them as "The Short Brothers." These brothers worked rather diligently when they weren't passed out on the lawn. Even this passing out had its function since my friend Michael and I would use one of the drunken vagabonds as home base in our afternoon games of freeze tag.

As all people, The Short Brothers loved Estelle and out of respect and admiration, they would never let her see them drink from the clouded mason jar. Due to the State of North Carolina, the Short Brothers were forever banned from moving vehicles, including riding lawn mowers, and had to walk every where. After several fatal accidents involving walking, railroad tracks and flat bed pick-up trucks, Estelle decided she could not live with such blood on her hands and the remaining Short Brothers were dismissed from employment.

Soon there after, Oscar arrived. Oscar was a prelude to all the foreign films I would digest beginning in high school. He was slight with curled, grey hair and overly tanned skin. His chinos with roped belt, cardigan and navy bandana signaled a sophistication unknown to the Blue Ridge Mountains. His English drunk with heavy French accent was unparalleled to his skill. He could roof, sand floors, paint, garden, landscape, fix cars, tame electricity and any and everything my mother sent his way. As a child, I thought Oscar single handedly rebuilt France after WWII. Yet, like a character from a Godard film, Oscar had tragic flaws: A severely broken heart and one leg.

Oscar stood only a few inches taller than my mother and soon became ever present. Being picked up from junior high in an old pick-up truck was a titch more elegant when a one-legged French man was behind the wheel. My cohorts from student council would ask, "Who is that?" I would replay only with his name and let the mystery of the l'homme francais linger. Oscar's refusal to wear his prosthetic leg aided the racing pubescent minds.

During one September malaise surrounding the waterfall and fishpond in the back yard, Estelle unearthed more mystery than mud when knee-deep in water she asked gently, "Oscar, do you still have family in France?". This middle-aged man had lost more than a limb in the war. Returning to the loss of his family displaced Oscar and had him fleeing to find some solace away from France. The tears of the teller and the listener were matched. My mother experienced her own call to arms.

"Deeeeeaaaan!" I am sure her yelling, throwing off weeding gloves and making straight way for the house as she dripped water and algae startled Oscar as much as it alerted my dad. "Oscar's moving in." And he did.

Oscar lived down the hall in a large bedroom, sitting room, small kitchen and bath. From this spot, he became more and more involved in our lives. When we went to our nightly dinners at Clifton's, Oscar was there. Around the kitchen table playing Monopoly, Oscar was ironically the boot. Oscar and my grandfather would take turns trumping each other's war stories at family reunions. Oscar's one leg frightened my bratty cousin to death and he used that to all of our advantage. He knew when to make an appearance to quiet the tantrum-prone child.

Oscar was the first to arrive when I was rear-ended on Mountain Road. His appearance simultaneously brought fear to the large, toothless woman who rammed into me and comfort to my mom and dad who arrived minutes later. They found Oscar beside me performing the French inquisition to the dispatched officer. "No, no, no , no zee chile could 'ave been veree 'hurt, no?"

Oscar lived with us until he had to move into a nursing facility. Everyday Estelle would take him a paper and sit and talk. Smiling, she would ask Oscar's opinion about house upkeep. "How long do you think the roof will last?" "When should we rebuild that retaining wall?" She was there a few months later when he closed his eyes and never woke up.

Oscar fixed many things over the years and afterwards there was no steady handy man. How could there be? I like to think my mom fixed some things with Oscar too. He was able to stop wandering and we all loved him and celebrated everything about him, even his one leg.

That is family, be it blood or not. Estelle has taught us to look beyond flaws, stick together and make it all better. It doesn't matter if you can't hold a buzz saw, manipulate a ratchet, or if you just have one leg. Still you matter.

Late last night, the doorbell rang and echoed throughout the house we heard "Well hello Vladimir." My dad turned off Lil Kim, put down his Little Debbie and Pollan diatribe. I recessed from writing. We peered to the foyer where Estelle's 5'3 frame was shadowed by a giant from the Ukraine. We over heard the thick accent talk about car repair, roofing, heating systems and a litany of house upkeep. Then Estelle, with the crackling of tea pouring over ice, asked , "Now, what about your family . . . "