"You can't argue with results," my dad always said—usually while rigging up some Frankenstein creation that looked more like an art project than a home improvement. Store-bought solutions? Overpriced nonsense. If something could be built, patched, or precariously balanced with whatever he had lying around, that was the route he took. The end result? A house full of DIY marvels that worked… under very specific conditions.
For years, my brother and I slept in a bunk bed that my dad cobbled together from mismatched wood and pure optimism. It technically functioned, provided we didn't shift our weight too much or sneeze too hard. Our living room had shelves made from repurposed doors, and the kitchen cabinets? A carefully curated collection of wooden crates that somehow held together. We didn't think much of it at the time—it was just how things were. But looking back, I'm amazed the entire house didn't collapse like a game of Jenga played by a very reckless toddler.
as long as you mow in a straight line
