Few things trample my spirit as thoroughly as the feeling of helplessness. I’m a fixer by temperament, which can be a burden in a world that offers so much to feel helpless about. News media bombard us with disasters and injustices of staggering proportions. We watch in passive rage as a rapacious few despoil the earth and pick the common pocket. The culture socks us with standards of physical perfection and lemony freshness unattainable by mere mortals. We shrug in bewilderment as our hair thins, our hips spread, our spouses leave us for someone named Tami or Lance, and our children blame us for ruining their lives. This may explain my determination to tackle the problem of the crater forming outside my kitchen. A small-scale problem with a discernible cause and a clear solution doesn’t come around all that often.

            When I first discovered it, the hole in a narrow strip of ground along the side of my house was only about ten inches across and five inches deep. I wondered briefly if a dog or raccoon had dug it, but a closer inspection of its smooth contours convinced me it must have been scooped out by water. I only had to look up, then, to find the culprit—a bit of gutter that had come loose from the roof and gotten bent under the pressure of rainwater and fallen leaves. More rain was forecast for the rest of the week, so as a stop-gap I filled the hole with gravel and tamped it down hard, hoping that would stop further erosion.

The next day, as rain poured steadily from a grim October sky, I leaned over my kitchen sink and craned my neck for a view of the bent gutter. Sure enough, a small cataract was spilling over the edge and slicing into the ground below. I grabbed an umbrella and slogged around to the side of the house, but even before I reached the crater, a trail of muddy gravel told me my experiment in environmental engineering had been a bust. That’s when the gnawing sense of helplessness set in, because the only ladder I owned was just five feet tall. Which meant that the task of nailing a single spike through one end of gutter would involve searching Angie’s List for a reasonably affordable handyman who would agree to do such a dinky job, because the guy I pay to clean my gutters can only come when he can borrow a ladder and doesn’t speak English worth squat even though he has a green card and has lived in Maryland for 14 years! I could see this one-nail job stretching out for weeks and costing me more than the price of a new ladder, which is when a light finally went on.

I’d been eyeing a pair of buttery-soft black leather boots that, when I tried them on in the store, looked hot and felt like slippers. I craved those boots with a greedy lust and fretted that giving them up for an extension ladder would be emblematic of a dull, dutiful life. But when I weighed the sensuous pleasure of the boots against the virtues of self-reliance and the possibility of amortizing the cost of the ladder in less than a year by cleaning the gutters myself, my Puritan tendencies eked out a win. I found a 12-foot aluminum ladder online, with locking hinges that let it fold into 3-foot segments like a capital M. This and its weight of only 25 pounds meant that I could carry, maneuver, and store it all by myself. No more feeling helpless about domestic jobs more than five feet above ground. No more waiting to be rescued by handymen in droopy pants who charge 80 bucks just for showing up.

But a victory dance was premature at this point because, as I would soon be reminded, helplessness and self-reliance are slippery concepts. No one is truly self-reliant because no one accomplishes anything entirely by their own efforts. Ever. In the same way, we are usually not as helpless as we feel. There are some circumstances we can do little or nothing about (a painful truth for anyone stalled in freeway traffic), but whether in dire personal straits or tragedies of immense proportions, we are rarely without some recourse. Small steps add up, and though all may seem chaos and vanity, any one of us could be the butterfly whose wings stir a whirlwind on the other side of the world.

I suspect that in most cases, feelings of helplessness are fueled by a kind of tunnel vision where we imagine rescue in a single guise, riding in from a single direction, on a schedule of our own devising. But “help” encompasses a universe of possibilities and timetables, from a friend’s instantly outstretched hand to the slow unfolding of world events. It may reveal itself as inner resources hitherto untapped or supernatural forces only dimly perceived. Help, in other words, may arrive like a child at Halloween—disguised as something else. Not, perhaps what we were looking for, but precisely what we need.

When my new ladder arrived by FedEx a week later I was pleased to find that I could maneuver the cumbersome package down the stairs to my basement without much trouble. Once I wrestled it out of the box and its shroud of plastic wrap, I saw that the only assembly required was to attach a stabilizer bar at each end of the ladder. These horizontal bars had rubber tips at each end that served as the ladder’s “feet”. All I had to do was push the stabilizer bars into slots at each end of the long side bars, insert four bolts and secure them with washers and nuts. My only disappointment was that the job wouldn’t involve power tools.

However, when I tried to insert the first stabilizer bar, I found that one arm of one of the slots was bent, causing a pinch of a mere millimeter or two that was enough to prevent the bar from sliding in. I checked the other end of the ladder and found the same thing—a pinched slot on one side. I tried to force one of the bars into a bent slot by hammering on it, then tried to pry the slot open by inserting one end of a wrench and hammering down on the other end, but it was clear I would never get the job done with the resources at hand. I surveyed the packing materials strewn around the floor and pictured the effort it would take to stuff everything back in the box and haul it to a FedEx office. The packing slip included a stern warning that I would have to pay for return shipping, and that unless I could prove that the manufacturer was responsible for damage, my refund could be as low as 50%. The ladder was useless as it was, so my only choices were to return it and swallow the loss, leaving me and my leaky gutter right where we started, or pay a man to fix either the gutter or the ladder. So much for self-reliance. I tossed my tools into a corner, cursed myself for getting into such a muddle, and hauled my tattered self-sufficiency off to bed.

The next weekend I was strolling through the Shrine to Limitless Competence, better known as the local hardware store, and started chatting with one of the clerks. On a whim, I described my damaged ladder and asked if he thought it was salvageable. He nodded knowingly and said, “You need to talk to Maurice. If he can’t fix it, it’s not fixable. The guy’s amazing,” he went on. “He’s 89 years old and still works here four days a week. On Mondays he volunteers at the Smithsonian designing and welding metal frames to display airplane engines at the National Air and Space Museum. After you ask him about your ladder, ask him about his years in the R.A.F. during World War II.” I knew then that he was describing the brisk little man with a British accent who had helped me numerous times over the years. I’d barely finish describing what I was looking for when he would stop me with a raised index finger, turn on his heels, and march directly to the needed item, making me jog to keep up. I was abashed that I had never asked his name and had no clue about his colorful history.

I found Maurice at the back of the store making a key for another customer. As I waited, I observed him closely for the first time. He was short and muscular, with a full head of white hair and ice-blue eyes. He looked like Santa’s oldest elf, who absolutely positively refused to discuss retirement. He handed the customer his new key and turned to me, shoulders thrown back at attention. “Now, young lady, what can I do for you?”

Maurice assured me that he could make my ladder workable and told me to bring it to his house the following Thursday afternoon. He wouldn’t discuss payment until he’d seen the damage. When I said, “So, I hear you work at the Smithsonian …” he stopped me with a raised index finger, reached into a pocket, and pulled out half a dozen photos of himself in full welder’s gear, posed next to a massive airplane engine supported on one of his custom-built frames. I admired each photo, then leaned on my shopping cart while Maurice spent the next 20 minutes telling me stories about joining the Royal Air Force as a teenager and surviving the war years working on airplanes in the Middle East and North Africa. After the war he and a buddy bought an old Army ambulance and drove it from London to Cape Town. After crossing Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean, they loaded the ambulance onto a barge in Egypt and chugged up the Nile for 29 days to reach passable roads further south. He told me about fashioning cups and cutlery out of empty soup cans and trading them with villagers along the river for food for himself and his buddy, and about marrying a South African woman and coming many years later to America. Other store clerks sidestepped us, smiling indulgently as they went about their duties. No one was going to tell the old fellow he needed to get back to work.

I told Maurice about my British heritage and my year at a college in the English Midlands. I also told him what I did for a living, and that if he ever decided to write a memoir, he knew where to find an editor. He beamed at me and said, “You know, Bonnie, I’ve already made a start on that. I think it was very lucky my meeting you today.” He patted my arm and gave me a wink, and I left the store with a smile that wouldn’t quit. I’d found someone to mend my damaged ladder and a new chum besides. I walked to my car with the sage words of Saturday Night Live’s pioneering pundit, Roseanne Roseannadanna, resounding in my ears: “Well, Jane, it just goes to show you.”

On Thursday I arrived at Maurice’s house with the ladder stowed in my trunk. I went through the gate and up the front walk past a jumble of garden gnomes and airplane-shaped weather vanes, wondering if old Maurice would remember who I was and what I wanted. But before I could ring the bell he swung the door open with a cheery, “Hello, Bonnie! Let’s take a look at that ladder of yours.” With the ladder locked in a W on his front walk, Maurice quickly assessed the damage and bent to the task of adjusting the damaged slots to accommodate the stabilizer bars. I made myself useful handing him tools as he called for them.

Neither of us paid attention to the middle-aged man in a faded red sweatshirt and baseball cap who strolled past on the sidewalk, until he turned around, walked back to the house, and slipped through the gate. “Hi,” he said, approaching us tentatively. “Would you be interested in some seafood?” When Maurice, absorbed in bending aluminum to his will, didn’t look up, the man smiled and moved a little closer. “Seafood?” I asked, noting that he wasn’t carrying anything with him. “Yeah,” he said pointing to a small truck parked at the curb. “My buddy sells frozen seafood to restaurants and private customers in this area. He’s made all his deliveries for the day, so we’re just going around the neighborhood trying to sell what’s left in his truck. I help him out sometimes. He has really great stuff, if you’re interested.”

I thought going door to door trying to sell frozen seafood from the back of a truck was a bizarre business plan. But the afternoon was fine and I was feeling good, so why spoil the mood by being aloof and suspicious? The fish man was polite and well-spoken, not bad looking, and if things got hinky I was pretty sure Maurice could still take him down. This whole thing with the ladder was turning into such an unexpected adventure, I decided to just go with it.

 “Well,” I laughed, “I’m afraid your pitch is lost on me since I’m a vegetarian, but Maurice may be interested.” Maurice was still oblivious, so I tapped him on the arm and said, “Maurice, you got anything for supper? This guy’s selling fish.” He looked up from his work then and studied the man in the baseball cap, who smiled and gestured toward his friend’s parked truck. “What’ve you got?” asked Maurice. The man rattled off a list of whole fish and prepared entrees that meant nothing to me but clearly piqued Maurice’s interest. When he gazed longingly at the truck, I urged, “Go ahead, get yourself something good for supper. I’m in no hurry.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. He asked the fish man if he would wait a bit, because “this lady and her ladder come first.” The fish man readily agreed, apparently not overly concerned about his friend slouched behind the wheel of the truck. He looked over Maurice’s shoulder and became absorbed in our attempt to fix the bent ladder. When Maurice ducked into the house to get more tools, I cleared up the fish man’s confusion about who owned the house and who owned the ladder and how I had come to meet Maurice. I told him what I knew of my remarkable new friend, how he was still working at a hardware store at 89, about his reputation as a legendary fix-it man, and about his service in the R.A.F. during World War II. “R.A.F.?” the fish man asked. “Royal Air Force,” I explained. “See?” I said, pointing to Maurice’s red Jeep. “There on his license plate: RAF WWII.” When Maurice returned, the three of us chatted like old friends about the weather, gardening, and the challenges of getting older. Fish man was amazed that he and I were the same age and commented that vegetarianism appeared to be working well for me. He even made himself useful by holding a stabilizer bar steady as Maurice succeeded in tapping it into place.

When all the bolts were secured, I folded the ladder up and schlepped it out the gate and down the sidewalk to my car, while Maurice hustled over to the fish truck to inspect the goods. I was stowing the ladder when the fish man startled me by peering around the open trunk lid. I thought he had gone with Maurice to check out the fish. I said cheerily, “I told you it’s no use, I don’t eat seafood.” As I closed the trunk he adjusted his cap nervously and said, “Oh, I know. I’m not trying to sell you fish. I came over to ask you for a date.”

I played for a few seconds of time by mentally reviewing all the things this man did not know about me, starting with my name. There was no way I was going out with him, but during the few minutes of our acquaintance he’d been a perfect gentleman, so I didn’t want to hurt or embarrass him. I smiled and said sincerely, “Oh, that’s so sweet. What a nice thing to say. But I don’t date. I’ve been divorced quite a while and I’ve come to enjoy being on my own.” “Well,” he said, “I’m divorced too but I’ve never gotten used to it. You seem like a nice, lovely lady, so I thought I’d ask you out.” I walked with him back to his friend’s truck to pay Maurice, who was now giving his formidable attention to a box of frozen stuffed flounder. The fish man and I chatted for another minute, and then I said it had been a pleasure to meet him and shook his hand. I waved to him as I drove away—and giggled all the way home.

So far my crooked ladder had brought me a handy new friend and a brief encounter with a stranger who made me feel young and attractive. But it hadn’t run out of gifts just yet. The following day my son, who has Asperger’s syndrome, came over in the afternoon to earn some cash by helping me with yard work. He has always shown unfailing filial devotion to his father, while our relationship has often been rocky and nearly disintegrated after his father and I divorced. Lately, however, we’ve been doing better, and I cherish the time we spend working amiably together in the yard, talking about movies or whatever he’s interested in. I’m careful not to stir up bad feelings or unhappy memories during these times. But my encounter with the fish man had brought to mind how my son had lauded his father’s remarriage four years ago as the inevitable consequence of his father’s manifold perfections, while assuring me that I should not expect a similar outcome. As a prospect for romance I was, as he put it, washed up, a spent force. I might be forgiven, then, for wanting to gloat just a teensy bit about my force not being quite as spent as my son had imagined.

I was pruning an azalea with my back to my son, who was dead-heading the hydrangeas, when I said casually, “You’d never guess what happened to me yesterday. A man asked me for a date fifteen minutes after meeting me, without even knowing my name. He said I seemed like a nice, lovely lady.” My words hung in the air while I went on snipping. Then from over my shoulder I heard my son say, “That’s great, Mom.” I stood up and turned around to see if he was being sarcastic, but he was looking at me and smiling. “What was that?” I mumbled. “I said that’s great,” he repeated. “I’m glad that happened to you. The man was right, you are a nice lady.”

I dropped my pruning shears and threw my arms around my son’s neck, holding him tight, like I used to when he was little. “You didn’t say yes, did you, Mom?” he asked in my ear. “No, Honey,” I laughed, “I could never date a man who doesn’t know what R.A.F. stands for.”                    

As Roseanne Roseannadanna might have said, “You just never know.” How could I have known that a crooked ladder purchased in a moment of helplessness would bring help from unexpected quarters, a renewed sense of self, and the priceless insight that even in her Crone years a woman bears the eternal imprint of the Maiden and the Mother? These thoughts engulfed me as I stood by the hydrangeas unable to let go of my son, who was no doubt embarrassed beyond words. I couldn’t help that, any more than I could hold back my tears.