One thing that I have decided after five years of total immersion in the trials and tribulations of home inspectors is that I could never be one.
Now, my father was a union carpenter and worked for decades as such on literally thousands of houses constructed in Philadelphia, once known as the City of Homes, and its suburbs. On weekends, he would take a busman’s holiday and work on our house, conscripting his home-grown workforce as gofers. No tradesman ever came into our house to do anything. My dad did it all: painting, wall-papering, plastering, masonry, electrical, plumbing, roofing, tile work.
One day he decided that we needed to convert to gas heat. And took a sledge hammer to our ancient and massive coal furnace. Now that furnace could take a punch but, by and by, it yielded to my dad’s John Henry-like determination. Then he installed and plumbed the gas boiler.