Lost in Translation: One Front Door

Many years ago, we embarked on a home improvement adventure that still makes a great story at family gatherings. We’d hired an Amish man—a man of few words and many unspoken guarantees—to build a breezeway connecting our house to the garage. In true old-fashioned style, there were no blueprints, no formal plans, just a verbal handshake and a hopeful nod. 

From day one, the project there was trouble. Something about the roof and the frame construction, blah, blah, blah... I remember Wes, my ever-patient husband, describing (again) in detail what the problems were and how to fix them in a tone reminiscent of the classic Peanuts films—“waaa, waaaa, wa... building stuff, waa, waaa waaa... roof, waaa waa…” Somehow, Wes, the Amish man and the horse standing dutifully by, all nodded in silent agreement. The new directives were understood. 

Day two brought its own surprises. When Wes returned home to inspect the progress, he was less than pleased. The windows were installed a staggering 10 feet high, and yet again, the roof was causing dissention. Once again, Wes and the builder entered another round of one-on-one negotiations.  

Despite these setbacks, the work limped along, plagued by persistent problems. Eventually, Wes had had enough. He terminated the gentlemen’s agreement and declared to the universe, “I’ll do it myself.” 

The real twist came that evening. After a pleasant dinner out to rewind from thebreezeway stress, we returned home only to be greeted by an eerie emptiness where our front door once stood. I stuttered, “Did we leave the door wide open?” But Wes, ever the quick thinker, soon muttered incoherent explanations until the dreadful truth settled in: the Amish man had taken our front door. You see, Wes had paid him for half the job upfront, reasoning that since the work was only half finished, the money was enough. But apparently, in the unspoken world of Amish craftsmanship, that payment wasn’t enough and the amount owed him was equivalent to the exact cost of one door—less the hardware— which was left behind, neatly arranged in the entryway. 

Promptly, Wes made his way to the man’s house to reclaim our door. Though the details of that final exchange remain shrouded in mystery, the two men somehow managed to resolve their differences amicably. The story took an even stranger twist years later when we discovered that one of Wes’s friends had been the driver escorting the man to our home to extract its entryway. One can only imagine the conversation in that pickup truck. 

Looking back, it’s these bizarre, almost cinematic misadventures that remind us how translation—in every sense of the word—can be utterly lost in the process. And yet, somehow, amidst the chaos, humor, and a missing door, friendships were forged that still endure today.