“Brian!” came my dad’s quivering voice over the phone. He sounded shaken and even disturbed, like a nut had come loose in his brain … or he had just joined a cult. “How come you’ve NEVER bought me a retirement gift like your brother did — one that is all-consuming and a total bottomless pit?” His voice wasn’t accusatory. In fact, I think it was his way of saying thank you. My answer: “Because I’m the good son and I think you should enjoy your retirement.” A year or so back, my brother bought my father a vintage British motorcycle frame along with a greasy bucket of assorted parts. My brother — thoughtful lad that he is — figured the old gentleman needed something to fill his time. Every waking minute, to be exact, and even some of the sleeping ones. A project that would require endless, mind-numbing, nerve-racking, never-ending tinkering, wiring, assembling, cursing and mad scratching of the head with greasy fingers while mumbling things like, “Why doesn’t the (bleep) (bleepin’) (bleep) fit in there?”

Man, you realize how much you take a small town for granted when you drive in a big one. A congested one. One where the highways are clogged like the arteries of a man who spent too many years of his life drinking bacon-fat cocktails. Here in St. Augustine I put up more miles on the bike than I ever do in the car. I live a half-mile from work and most weeks the farthest journey I make is to the grocery store — a grueling, excruciating 3 miles from the house. I pack an extra pair of underwear and check the weather before I go. Never can tell what might await you out in the suburban wilds. I don’t know traffic. I don’t know commutes. I don’t know road rage or backups, and I certainly have never had a callus on my buttocks from sitting in a car too long. Count me lucky.

My resume has held all manner of things over the years, but never once has it included coach. Until now. Well, substitute coach. Pseudo coach. Stand-in or placeholder coach. Three-day coach. Sounds like something you would buy off a late-night infomercial. But that’s what I was for the briefest period of time last week — a short-time cross country coach. My daughter was so proud. “You’re the coach!” she screamed when I told her. You would have thought I had just announced I was Santa Claus and had brought her a pony named Stan.

Here is exactly what I e-mailed my diligent and hard working contractor, Mr. Chad: “Nancy’s birthday is this week, and all she wants is a CO (certificate of occupancy). You and I could both be in trouble if we mess that one up.” A certificate of occupancy is that final step — that critical inspection — you need right before you officially occupy your new house, or in our case, addition. It’s that prize, that finish line, that little jewel that dangles down for you, always seemingly in reach, but always just a day or two away. It’s doubly difficult when you’re living in the old part of the house and the new part keeps teasing and tantalizing you — just within your grasp, but blowing you raspberries. To get to our old bathroom, we had to walk through our new addition. Sometimes I would avert my eyes, trying not to long too much for it while the final finishing touches were put into place. “Darn, if I just didn’t have to pee!” Finally we were down to, well, nothing but the CO. And it fell perilously close to my wife’s birthday.

I felt for the kid — this freshman who walked up to me on the Flagler campus and asked where a building was. Midway through the question his voice cracked — the most God-awful squeak. It could have broken glass. Man, when you’re young, why does your voice always let you down at just the wrong moment? No doubt it was from the jitters that come with the first days of college — this big, new, unfamiliar, intimidating, alien place. So different from the comfy world you just left. I felt for the kid and pointed across campus to the towering 5-story building. “It’s that big one,” I said, thankful the building he was looking for wasn’t the one we were standing in. That would have really been embarrassing. He trudged off and I watched him, remembering back almost two decades to when I was in his shoes trying to get the lay of the land at this very same school — unsure, nervous and overwhelmed, but at the same time excited, eager and too clueless to know better.

So, there I was taking off my shoe when what to my wondering eyes did appear but a big, bald toe poking through a hole in my olive green sock. A HOLE … in my SOCK. Me! It looked like General Patton staring back at me, and I could have sworn it barked out, “Boy, don’t just stand there. Get me a ham sandwich.” I was horrified. Humiliated. Totally embarrassed, even though I was the only one there to see it. “Quick,” I said to myself. “Throw them away before someone looks in the window and sees. What would the neighbor’s think? Oh, the shame. Me? A hole in my sock? What’s next? A hobo hat, three-day-old stubble and a bottle of cheap, cough syrup-flavored wine in a paper bag? The humiliation.

I ran into Joe Segal, the sculptor, at the grocery store and he asked how my addition was coming along. “Just a bit more trim,” I said. “Only thing is it’s making the old part of the house look even older. And I’ve got a lot of projects I’m going to have to finish now.” “Ah, don’t worry,” he said, before uttering what should be the motto of every homeowner. “Just use your imagination and finish them in your mind.” Spoken like a true artist. And strange as it seems, it was oddly comforting. It’s been weighing on me as we near the end — those handful of things I’ve never finished in the old part. Who am I fooling? It’s not a couple — there are dozens of little and big things. And the more complete the addition becomes, the less complete the old house looks — like it’s never been finished, and never will be. Suddenly it’s so obvious and glaring.