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For an accountant, my husband is a pretty handy guy. When the kids were small, they had a book called "My daddy can fix anything." They actually thought the book was about their father because he really could repair or build everything.

He fixed broken toys, put together anything that came in a kit, assembled bicycles, built shelves, painted rooms, and finished furniture. He did minor electrical work, fixed clocks, and even converted an unused closet into a pantry. Even now, computer problems are a breeze for him. But the one thing we have agreed not to ask him to do is plumbing.

Long ago, when a kitchen faucet washer replacement put the kitchen under several inches of water, we agreed that he would avoid that kind of work. For that you need an expert. For anything involving pipes and water, you need that most elusive of geniuses -- a licensed plumber, not an amateur.

Why is it that you can never get a plumber when you need one? They don't work on weekends and holidays. Their hours are strictly 9 to 5. There is no such thing as emergency service.

When we leased an apartment as newlyweds, plumbing repairs were the responsibility of the landlord. As new homeowners, however, plumbing became our responsibility. We had to find a plumber immediately. A neighbor gave us her plumber's business card. His name was Mr. Morris and his card had little red waterspouts on it. We put the card on the refrigerator so that it would be easy to locate.

We met him for the first time when the kids stuffed up a toilet with Tinker Toy pieces. He came to the house smoking a big, smelly cigar that polluted the air for days. The kids called him The Stinky Man -- but never to his face.

Mr. Morris was our plumber for 25 years until he retired. In that time, we learned to be patient while we waited for our turn on his house-call list. Once, the kids managed to plug up both toilets at the same time -- on a weekend, of course. They thought it was great fun to go to bathrooms all over town. Going to a nearby Wal-Mart before bedtime was a hoot. They wanted to continue doing that after the repairs were made.

In those days, my husband and I were party people, always entertaining. We had a house with a huge playroom that lent itself to partying. One frosty New Year's Eve, we invited everyone we knew to celebrate with us. We completely lost count of how many guests we had invited.

All afternoon, my friend and I made trays of canapes that filled the refrigerator. As darkness fell, the temperature dropped to the low teens and snow began to fall, blanketing the layer of ice that already covered the street. My husband was setting up the bar as I prepared supper for the kids. My son called to me from the garage.

"Ma," he shouted, "there's water in here."

I ran downstairs to find water pouring out of the wall between the playroom and the garage. Fortunately, the water was going into the garage and not into the house.

"Quick, call Mr. Morris," my husband said.

Luckily, he was in. "It's the cold weather," Mr. Morris said. "Your pipes froze and one of them burst. Just shut off the water. I'll hold on."

My husband found the valve and shut it.

"OK, we did it. Now how soon can you get here?" I asked.

"Nine o'clock Monday, missus," he said. It was Saturday night.

"But we're having a big party in two hours," I shrieked.

"I'm going to a party, too," he said.

"But this is an emergency. Most of the women are pregnant."

"That's nice. Happy New Year." He hung up.

My husband and I looked at each other.

"We can't cancel now," he said. "We'll have to make do. We have three bathrooms."

The water remained shut off so we had no working toilets. When the guests trooped in, we warned them about the plumbing problem. They curtailed their drinking and used the out of order facilities anyhow, but right after midnight, they ran, or rather slid, down the driveway to their cars. On New Year's Day, we used a neighbor's bathrooms. Sheepishly, we tramped back and forth in the snow.

True to his word, Mr. Morris arrived at 9 a.m. Monday.

"How was your party, missus?" he inquired politely.

"Don't ask," I mumbled.

Later, when he was finished, he explained that in freezing weather we ought to let the faucets run a trickle to prevent the pipes from freezing. That was like closing a barn door after the cow ran away.

I always wondered why Mr. Morris never had a partner or partners. His business was lucrative and he had so many customers. Plumbers are like doctors. They won't see you if you're not one of their regular patients.

Plumbing is a good business. If my grandchildren asked me for career advice, I'd say, "if you can't be a doctor, be a plumber. You'll always have a job. You'll probably be rich and retire young like our Mr. Morris."

In this economy, don't you think that's good advice?

I just called Barnes and Noble. Yes, there is a book called "Plumbing for Dummies". In the future, I think I'll give a copy of that book at bridal showers and house-warming parties. Nobody else will think of it, I'm sure. The recipients may think it a peculiar gift at the time, but they will thank me long afterward.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.