I was engaged in a project for a couple of days last week, a project that began innocently enough, as my wife and I were watching the evening news.
A decorator was interviewed about ways in which to keep one’s work space and one’s living space separate... even when they occupy the same space. My wife, a Spanish teacher with students in many different grade levels, was particularly enamored of a rolling cabinet with five drawers and a larger storage compartment which might help her consolidate and improve her home storage of things she doesn’t need in the classroom everyday.
We found one online.
Included in the fine print of the description of said cabinet were the three most dreaded words in the English language: “Some Assembly Required.”
The two most wonderful words in the English language are “Check Enclosed.”
This being February, the month of Valentines, you may be thinking about the three most wonderful words in the English language. A significant number of FWIW readers will look at the preceding sentence with some befuddlement. What, they will wonder, do Valentines Day or February have to do with the three most wonderful words? Of course, a large portion of FWIW readers think those three most wonderful words are, “You’ve been slated.”
But I’m stalling.
Just as I tried stalling after the large box containing the makings of our new cabinet arrived on our doorstep. But, finally, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and, after dropping my wife off at school, resolved to try building the cabinet.
I faced the large box with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man climbing the stairs to the gallows.
Some people are naturally good at DIY projects. My father built a grandfather clock from a kit and a 1927 Bugatti replica from another kit and an old Volkswagen Beetle chassis. After many a trying morning, my father would take a lunchtime stroll through the hardware section of the Sears store in the Loop. To relax.
I did not inherit these qualities. I only go into hardware stores under compulsion, and then warily, fearful that all those smiling, ostensibly-helpful men and women in orange aprons can tell at a glance how breathtakingly incompetent I am.
It’s been more than a half-century now since I had to take a shop class in junior high, and I am still scarred by the experience. While the other kids were mastering drills and lathes and various sorts of power saws, making chairs and lamps and decorative end tables, all of which are presumably still enjoyed today by their children and grandchildren, I was struggling, with hammer and nails, and under the constant and nervous supervision of our teacher, to produce a bookshelf. With two shelves. That listed to port. The shop teacher used to call me his ‘special project.’ I passed—mainly because I did not maim myself or anyone who inadvertently came nearby—but I believe the shop teacher retired immediately after I completed the course.
But back to the present.
I unpacked the cabinet box carefully, spreading the component parts around the living room, trying to guess which was which. I found two smaller boxes within. One had the wheels. The other had the drawer guide rails, screws and cam locks of various sizes, wood dowels, and, thankfully, the instructions.
The talented DIYer disdains the printed instructions. He or she may check it to be certain that all the pertinent parts have been included. But the experienced DIYer thinks he or she can figure out what needs to be figured out without further reference to the instructions. If the going gets tough, a YouTube video can always be found and considered.
It was at this point that I realized that there a great many similarities between a DIY project and the proper interpretation of insurance policies. Both involve construction (insert sting here) – but, actually, I am entirely serious.
Too many judges are like the experienced DIYer who thinks the instructions (or, in the case of an insurance policy, the Declarations) to be unimportant, even optional.
To be continued.... (Click here for Part 2.)
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