My grandpa was one of the greatest handymen in all the Great Lakes region.
He built most of his own house and probably never paid a cent to a repair man, electrician or plumber -- because he could fix anything with his hands, no instruction booklet required.
Dad, well, did NOT genetically inherit those skills.
After a few broken faucets, fried electrical outlets and hammer smashed thumbs (with requisite high volume, multi-syllable cursewords that I'm pretty sure we were not allowed to repeat) -- dad proved the point that sometimes it’s best to dial the experts before even trying. Dad learned to dial the experts.
I learned my lesson and never tried to grow up to be Mr. FixIt.
I simply figured a way of selling enough prose and poetry to pay for the plumber.
This is a 12-day tribute to my dad, who died a few days before Thanksgiving this year, from his first-born son.
No comments:
Post a Comment