The Day I was Handy

My relationship with tools can best be described as ambivalent.

I wasn’t afraid of them, but whenever they had to be used, they produced in me a sense of dread because it meant that something had to be repaired or assembled, and there was always the lingering question: Will I have parts left out when I’m done? Because that meant an improper assembly or repair, and I’d have to do it all over again.

My father was handy, and could pretty much fix anything; he handled tools with a craftsman’s concentration and confidence. He didn’t live with us, but when my mother wanted something done to our apartment and he could do it, he would.

I watched him painstakingly match wallpaper and tile so the patterns weren’t broken.

I watched him glue, wire, carve wood, spackle, grout, paint, and garden (at his place) with alacrity. I had no such confidence in my own skills to even remotely approach the quality of his work.

And then I became a Dad, and then we rented a house with a sizable yard that I was now responsible for as a man whose idea of nature was visiting Central Park and the Bronx Zoo.

Cribs, bikes, dollhouses, power outages, plumbing and car problems when there was no money to pay the tradesmen took care of those things all combined to come at me in a variety of configurations.

And so began the accumulation of hardware, of knowledge that demanded dexterity (if not speed), caution, and in time, more confidence than not. (No pieces left over! Yes!)

Those days are past me now, and the presence of my father is no longer on the earth, but the dust, dirt, and rust on my own toolbox has been hard won.

My ambivalence remains because, as I said before, it means something has gone wrong ( Aw man, a problem…)  and needs immediate attention, but I think of what my father would do, and how his legacy of excellence guides my hands. (Problem solved!)