When a boy, I helped my father with household projects—I liked being with him and enjoyed discovering how things worked. Yet very young, I had much to learn of the trades practiced by plumber, carpenter, electrician, and so on. I seemed to emerge from womb with a patient manner willing to take time to study situation before acting. Daddy, on the other hand, didn’t have abundant patience nor did he possess much in the way of hand coordination. In his quest to complete job, he frequently chose to act with limited understanding. This tendency was not from lack of intelligence, certainly not, as he practiced law and later became judge, but these smarts didn’t transfer well to the world of broken pipe, bad switch, or misbehaving appliance.

As further proof of father’s limited dexterity, he told of a test he took when in third grade. Apparently the object was to move washers from point A to point B and to fit shapes into receptacles. The evaluation was timed, and he remembers said washers landing mainly on floor and shapes being forced into spaces with mismatched profiles. This image amused us both.

Many times when dad and I took on maintenance tasks he had already worked a long day as barrister and had little energy or tolerance for mischievous nuts and bolts—still we tried. But those of you who have labored through repairs will recognize things don’t always go your way, especially when working without complete subject knowledge and when working without suitable tools. Under these conditions cuts and bruises aren’t uncommon and tempers rise. What made things worse was the habit I had of laughing when stressed or nervous and under these circumstances laughter was not the ideal response. Once I remember dad cracking his head against something and I began to giggle. This didn’t go over well and I had to run and hide until things settled down.

One of my primary jobs was tool runner. Dad, a tall man, might be contortioned beneath sink and I was the logical choice to fetch what was needed. Not having a good “tool” vocabulary, he would describe what he wanted and I would do my best to retrieve. Unfortunately, I missed the mark at times and he would send me again. I learned quickly it was best to bring two or three possible matches to cut down on steps traveled and to reduce frustration. Dad, an avid reader of the local newspaper, approached one day to inform that one of the building supplies stores in town was holding classes in the basic disciplines of home repair. Being somewhat a loner, I was apprehensive as dad wouldn’t attend with me, rather he would drop me off and pick me up before and after each session. Despite my reluctance, I was interested and consented. At first I wouldn’t add voice to discussion, but the ten or twelve attending were good guys and took me under wing to help me absorb what instructor was teaching and this aided in my emergence from shell. That simple set of courses helped immensely and I served as fine support to father from then on. In fact, the majority of time he took direction from me.

Still dad didn’t always follow my recommendations. One late evening, when struggling to affix board to heart-pine floor joist, dad’s efforts to propel screw with old-school manual driver were failing miserably. Heart-pine is quite dense and pilot hole is mandatory. Dad looked to me in exasperation, “get the hammer” he demanded. I answered, “But dad, that’s a screw”. “I know”, he replied and repeated his request. Several broken screws and a sore thumb later, he relented and we started over the next day to greater success. Despite the years from then till now, when I resurrect this tale, dad yet smiles.

I miss those evenings with him, working side-by-side in the trenches, and encourage all who might heed, to soak up the small opportunities life offers to bond with father, as one day you might look back and remember as I do now.