Newspaper work is great. With a few exceptions, you don’t have to deal with hot sun or bitter cold. There’s no heavy lifting. Reporting is a creative, important and fulfilling occupation. You can change things.

The fruits of your labor are tangible. My attic is full of cardboard boxes, containing 33 years of yellowing masterpieces. They are my babies, and I can’t throw them away, but I know that most will never be read by anybody, ever again.

Which brings me to my other passion, tinkering. I enjoy getting something really cool, for pennies, and bringing it back to life. I tend to be drawn to fixer-uppers, partly because of the mental and physical challenges they represent.

Two recent examples come to mind. Last weekend, I picked up an antique nightstand that most people would have left in the alley. It was painted blue, and the top was warped. But I saw the beauty that was trapped within. I pulled out the drawer, and noticed that all four corners had hand-cut dovetails. The drawer bottom was planed along the edges. The turned legs were lovely. The whole thing was tight and solid, and made of cherry boards. I love old cherry wood.

I’ll strip it, then flatten the top by laying it on dewy grass and letting the sun steam it. After that, I’ll refinish it with old-fashioned oil varnish. I can picture the result: it will glow like satin; I will admire the reddish grain and think about the ugly, flat latex paint that once covered it.

When I’m done, I will have saved a piece of fine furniture that might have otherwise been lost. That will be more meaningful to me than simply going to an antiques shop and buying a restored nightstand. I also will feel a kinship with the cabinetmaker who built it, at least 150 years ago.

My love of basket cases knows many forms. About two weeks ago, for instance, I ran into an interesting little bicycle — a Raleigh Twenty, made in 1969. It was manufactured at the enormous Raleigh plant in Nottingham, England. For a few years the Raleigh Twenty was one of the most popular bikes in the world. You rarely see one in this country, but they’re still common in the British Isles and in Europe.

It is the soul of practicality, with fenders, narrow 20-inch high-pressure tires, hand brakes, and a sturdy, three-speed Sturmey-Archer rear hub. The step-through frame is lightweight, but rugged. The handlebars and saddle have long stems and quick-release clamps so that the bike can be adjusted to fit any rider. The “Twenty,” also called a “Shopper” was designed for commuting, or for shopping, so there’s a little aluminum rack on the back for school books, a briefcase, or a basket.

I got the bike for $15, then spent $6 for one new brake cable. A replacement shift cable was salvaged from another old three-speed. I removed every chrome-plated part, and polished it; oiled the hubs, and gave the 22 ball bearings in the bottom bracket the first grease job they had had in 40 years. I cleaned the chain with a wire wheel, then dipped it in motor oil.

I’ve been riding my spritely little Twenty for a week or so, and I love it. It’s nimble, fast, and far more useful than most bikes. I rode it to the farmers’ market Saturday morning, and came home with a sugar-baby watermelon, a bag of cherries, peanut brittle, caramel corn and a dozen ears of sweet corn. It rode like a dream, and everything fit right into the rear basket.

I love rescuing neglected things, returning them to use and restoring lost beauty. Saving my great-grandparents’ house at 411 S. Buchanan St. required five years of backbreaking labor, but it was educational and deeply satisfying. It was built in 1880, and later divided into four apartments. I turned it back into a single-family home, and my skills grew as I tore out drywall, fixed the roof, fixed sills, restored a wrap-around porch, replaced all the plumbing, painted, varnished, hung wallpaper and stripped acres of woodwork. In the end, my vision became a reality.

I tend to wear rose-colored glasses when my Mister Fixit impulse kicks in, but I like to think I know my limits, too. Just as I gladly pay lawyers, doctors and dentists for their expertise, I’d rather call an electrician or a furnace installer than burn the house down. I’m also finding that I like 30-foot ladders a lot less than I used to.

Other guys enjoy chasing golf balls all weekend, and that’s fine. I’d rather be in the basement, in the garage, or under a tree, happily painting, scraping, oiling, hammering, grinding or polishing. After another week of computers, interviews and words, words, words, it feels good to work with my hands and to have something to show for it.

Danville native Kevin Cullen is a former Commercial-News reporter. Reach him at irishhiker@aol.com.