Member-only story
My Father’s Tools
I was an apprentice to a master
My dad could fix anything.
When I was growing up, a common scene around our house was my father fixing anything that needed fixing. This might involve a car repair, a plumbing repair, or changing the spark plug in the lawn mower. In the eyes of a small boy like me, there was nothing he couldn’t make right.
I looked on with awe as he adjusted the seat and handlebars on my bicycle with his wrenches. I marveled at the way he could change oil in his car or unclog my mother’s vacuum cleaner so it would pick up dirt again. I don’t ever remember my dad having to get someone else to fix anything. He was amazing that way.
He wasn’t a mechanic or carpenter, but he had a well-equipped shop in our basement. I suppose today people might call him a handyman, but he never called himself that. Hanging from a pegboard were wrenches of various sizes, hammers, pliers, tin snips, wire cutters, and squares. He had an electric drill, several saws, and a level. The ladders he used to put on our storm windows were made of wood.
When my dad was working on something, I always played the role of his able-bodied assistant as best I could. I handed him the tool he asked for. I held the flashlight so he could see in dark places. I watched and I learned. I knew I was in the presence of…
