Humor by John Christmann
Mr. Fixit
I am the fixit guy in our household. When things break, as they always do, I am the universal help line, 1-800-Dad-Help!
For example, I am the one who changes all the light bulbs. (Tip: if you change one at night, be sure to have a flashlight). I am the one who replaces all the batteries. (Tip: have a supply on hand before you change light bulbs at night). I am the one who finds the circuit breaker. (Tip: turn off the light switch before you change a bulb in the dark). And I am the one who calls the fire department.
I fix other things too. Toaster not toasting? Me. Washer not washing? Me. Microwave not waving? Me. Me. Me. When things break, it’s all about me.
On a good day I call a repairman. On a bad day, I am the repairman.
Such was the case about a week ago when I discovered water in our bathroom. It turns out the trap under the sink was loose. (Tip: “trap” is a plumbing term for something called a trap).
It was a simple job to tighten it with a monkey wrench. (Tip: a monkey wrench is something a monkey uses).
Using the wrench I twisted the trap connector counterclockwise until the whole pipe clanked to the floor. (Tip: to tighten, turn clockwise).
Once I had it tightened I tested my handiwork by running water in the sink and checking the trap below for leaks. (Tip: make sure your head is fully out of the cabinet before celebrating your handiwork).
Fifteen minutes later I had an emergency call from my daughter. She was waiting patiently for a ride to her soccer game. “Daddy!” she screamed, “It’s raining!”
Then she added, “. . . in the kitchen!” (Tip: don’t forget to turn the water off when checking for trap leaks in an upstairs bathroom).
I understand the saying, when it rains, it pours. Because thirty minutes later, as I was contemplating a rather large section of soggy sheetrock sagging over our kitchen counter (Tip: don’t stand underneath while assessing the damage), my wife called out from our home office.
The computer was not working. (Tip: run away).
As a fixit guy, I tend to look at these things philosophically. Oh sure, I could bemoan all the files and digital photos and months and months of work that are permanently lost when a disk drive starts to smoke, but why not think of the memories that are created in the moment?
The choice words, for example. Or the good example you set for your children as you launch a Dell Computer out the window. (Tip: open the window first).
After all, even when things are bad, we still need to stop and smell the roses. (Tip: tweezers are good for removing nasal thorns).
They say bad things come in three. That’s why I have been politely asked by my family to move out temporarily before the house goes up in flames. Again. (Tip: when grilling hamburgers, move the Weber way from the eaves).
But that’s another story.
A number of years ago, on a flat gray Tuesday, the first day of November, I drove my son to school. He was in first grade at the time. He was downcast and mopey; I assumed he was tired after a long night of Trick Or Treating in the neighborhood.
When we arrived at school he started to cry. I asked what was wrong, but he refused to tell me. I drove through the car line several times trying to calm him, but the more I probed, the more he cried. Finally I parked the car in front of the school and sat in the back seat with him. (Tip: if you are tall, move the driver’s seat up).
I tried every wrench in my tool box but could not loosen the emotional bolt that was stuck inside his head. I just couldn’t fix his problem, and I sadly envisioned a life where my son would never confide in me. It was more than Mr. Fixit could bear.
A tear trickled down my cheek.
“We can’t help each other if we don’t talk to each other,” I told him. “I want to help you, but I don’t know what’s wrong!”
Finally, in sympathy, he whimpered, “I will never see the house again. Ever!”
I understood. We drove to a quiet tree-lined neighborhood, parked the car, and slowly walked to a large, ramshackle Victorian at the end of the lane.
In the morning light Halloween doesn’t seem all that scary. The old Victorian, which the night before revealed the silhouettes of blood thirsty zombies peering from bedroom windows awash in flames of red and orange strobe lights, was now nothing more than a drab house in need of some paint.
A few lifeless Styrofoam figures lilted behind the windows, and a headless manikin draped in Ketchup-stained rags stood comically by the front door next to a pair of screaming speakers which were now eerily silent.
This was the haunted house he had begged to see, but was too afraid to approach the night before. The house he would never see again. The opportunity that was lost forever now that Halloween was gone. No wonder he was crying.
He stared calmly at the not-so-ghostly house until I asked if we could leave. I told him I was getting scared. He smiled with confidence, like a guy who can fix anything.
“OK, Dad,” he said, taking my hand. “You can drive me to school now.”
(Tip: if you park your car in front of a fire hydrant, it will be towed).
© 2009 Dadinthebox.com