The alarm clock buzzed insistently on the nightstand, piercing through the morning stillness. Marcus groaned, stretching his arms above his head before swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. He shuffled across the bedroom floor, his feet finding the familiar path to the bathroom where he twisted the faucet handle and splashed cold water onto his face. The droplets trickled down his cheeks as he grabbed the towel and patted his skin dry.
After brewing coffee in the kitchen, he gulped down the hot liquid and chewed through a piece of toast slathered with butter. The crumbs scattered across the countertop, which he swept into his palm and dumped into the trash bin. Today promised to be busy—a Saturday dedicated to tackling the growing list of repairs and projects that had accumulated throughout the month.
Marcus descended the creaky stairs to the basement, flicking the light switch and illuminating the workshop he had organized last spring. Tools hung from pegboards on the walls: hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, and saws all arranged by size and function. He pulled on his work gloves and examined the wooden chair he had carried down yesterday, its wobbly leg threatening to collapse whenever someone sat on it.
He clamped the chair firmly in the vice mounted to his workbench, inspecting the loose joints where the leg connected to the seat. Taking a thin brush, he dabbed wood glue into the crevices, working the adhesive deep into the gaps with careful precision. He wiggled the leg, testing its stability, then wrapped a cord around the joint and cranked the tension, securing everything while the glue dried.
While waiting, Marcus surveyed the garden tools leaning against the far wall. The shovel blade had dulled from digging through rocky soil, and the hedge trimmers had accumulated rust on their blades from last autumn’s rain. He clamped the shovel in the vice and drew a metal file across its edge, producing rhythmic scraping sounds that echoed through the basement. Steel filings sprinkled onto the concrete floor as he sharpened the blade to a clean edge, running his gloved thumb carefully along the surface to check his progress.
Next, he attacked the rust on the trimmers with steel wool, scrubbing vigorously until the orange flakes fell away and revealed the silver metal beneath. He squirted oil onto the hinges, opening and closing the handles repeatedly until they moved smoothly without squeaking. Satisfied, he wiped the excess oil with a rag and hung the tools back on their hooks.
The morning sun climbed higher, streaming through the small basement windows and creating slanted beams of dusty light. Marcus unhooked a hand saw from the pegboard and carried it upstairs, pushing open the back door and stepping into the yard where dandelions dotted the lawn and morning dew still glistened on the grass blades.
He had stacked lumber in the corner of the yard weeks ago—pine boards he intended to transform into raised garden beds for his wife’s vegetables. Measuring tape in hand, he extended the yellow ribbon along each plank, marking measurements with a carpenter’s pencil. The graphite left thick dark lines that would guide his cuts.
Positioning the first board across two sawhorses, Marcus gripped the saw handle and placed the serrated blade against the wood. He pushed forward, then pulled back, establishing a groove. The teeth bit into the pine, releasing the sharp scent of fresh sawdust as he drew the blade back and forth in steady rhythm. His shoulders worked, his arms pumped, and sweat began forming on his brow despite the cool morning air.
One board fell away in two pieces. Then another. He repeated the process—measuring, marking, sawing—until he had cut all eight boards to the proper lengths. Wood chips scattered around his boots, creating a small pile that he would later rake and add to the compost heap.
He gathered the cut pieces and carried them to the garden plot his wife had marked with stakes and string. Kneeling in the dirt, he arranged the boards into rectangular frames, checking that the corners met at right angles with his carpenter’s square. He drilled pilot holes through the boards with his cordless drill, the motor whirring as the bit bored into the wood. Then he drove long screws through the holes, the fasteners sinking flush with the surface as he squeezed the trigger and felt the drill’s torque in his wrist.
The frames took shape—four rectangular boxes that would contain rich soil and nurture tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, and herbs throughout the growing season. Marcus stood, brushing dirt from his knees, and admired his handiwork before checking his watch. Nearly noon already.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had eaten only toast for breakfast. He trudged back inside, kicked off his muddy boots in the mudroom, and washed his hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing under his fingernails where dirt had wedged itself stubbornly. He assembled a sandwich, layering ham, cheese, lettuce, and tomato between slices of bread, and bit into it hungrily while standing at the counter.
After lunch, he climbed the stairs to the second floor where his daughter’s bedroom door hung crooked on its hinges. The top screw had loosened, causing the door to sag and scrape against the floor whenever she opened or closed it. He fetched his screwdriver and tightened the existing screws first, cranking them clockwise until they bit firmly into the doorframe. But the top hole had stripped out—the wood had worn away, leaving nothing for the screw to grip.
Marcus descended to the basement again, rummaged through his supply drawers, and pulled out wooden toothpicks and wood glue. Back upstairs, he removed the loose screw completely, squeezed glue into the stripped hole, and inserted several toothpicks, breaking them off flush with the surface. He waited a few minutes for the glue to become tacky, then drove the screw back in, threading it through the toothpicks which provided fresh purchase in the damaged wood. The door now hung straight and true.
The bathroom faucet had been dripping for days, a steady plink-plink that wasted water and annoyed his wife during the night. Marcus shut off the water supply valve under the sink, turning it clockwise until it stopped. He placed a bucket beneath the pipes to catch any residual water, then gripped the faucet handle and pulled, wiggling it free from its base.
Inside, the rubber washer had cracked and hardened with age, no longer creating a watertight seal. He pried out the old washer with a flathead screwdriver, comparing it to the assortment of replacements in his plumbing kit until he found a matching size. He fitted the new washer into place, reassembled the faucet, and turned the water supply back on. No drips. The steady plink-plink had ceased.
Outside, clouds gathered, darkening the afternoon sky and promising rain. Marcus decided to tackle one more project before the weather changed—replacing the loose boards on the front porch steps. Several planks had rotted where water pooled, creating soft spots that flexed dangerously underfoot.
He carried his crowbar to the porch and wedged its flat end under the first damaged board, leveraging it upward. The old nails groaned in protest, then released with sharp squeaks as the wood lifted free. He yanked out the rusty nails with the crowbar’s claw, tossing them into a coffee can. One by one, he pried up all the rotten planks, exposing the support beams underneath.
From his truck, he unloaded pressure-treated lumber that would resist moisture and decay. He positioned each new board, ensuring they overhung the steps evenly on both sides. Using his drill, he drove galvanized screws through the boards into the support beams below, spacing them evenly and checking that each plank sat level before moving to the next.
The first raindrops began falling as he installed the final board, fat droplets splattering on the wood and darkening its surface. He gathered his tools quickly, jogging to the garage as the drizzle intensified into a steady shower. Inside the dry shelter, he organized everything back into his toolbox—returning wrenches to their designated slots, wiping sawdust from the drill, coiling the extension cord around his elbow and palm.
The rain drummed on the garage roof, a soothing percussion that filled the space. Marcus leaned against his workbench, surveying the tools and half-finished projects that surrounded him. The chair still sat in the vice, its glue now fully cured. He released the clamp and tested the repaired leg, pressing his weight on it. Solid. He carried it upstairs to the dining room and slid it back under the table where it belonged.
His wife returned home from errands, shaking rain from her umbrella in the entryway. She noticed the new porch steps immediately, running her hand along the smooth boards and smiling. In the kitchen, she spotted the silent faucet and tested it herself, turning the handle on and off, delighted by the absence of drips.
“You’ve been busy,” she observed, kissing his cheek.
“Just catching up on things,” he replied, though pride warmed his chest.
That evening, after dinner, Marcus relaxed in his armchair with a book, his muscles pleasantly tired from the day’s labor. But his mind already wandered to tomorrow’s tasks—the squeaky door hinge in the bedroom, the loose gutter spout, the bicycle chain that needed lubricating, the picture frames waiting to be hung. The work never truly ended, but he didn’t mind. There was satisfaction in fixing, building, maintaining—in transforming raw materials and broken things into something functional and whole.
Outside, the rain continued falling, nourishing the earth where his newly built garden beds waited to be filled with soil and seeds. Inside, the house stood a little sturdier, a little more cared for, thanks to the work of his hands and the tools that extended his capabilities. Tomorrow would bring new projects, new problems to solve, new opportunities to create and repair. But tonight, he simply rested, content in the knowledge that he had used his day well, making things better one task at a time.