A Poet, not a Mechanic

Poor Carol. Over 31 years ago she married a man without tools. I don't mean literally, I had a screwdriver and a hammer and a pair of pliers (why do they call it a pair of pliers when it's only one tool?). I even had a shovel and a saw. But, the problem was and is, I don't like using them. If there is one thing to get me completely irritated it is for something to break. I just don't have time for that. Things are supposed to work. Unfortunately for Carol I can live with a leaky faucet for months. I don't see a bump in my water bill so what's the big deal. Drives her nuts. A small leak in the roof? Heck, it don't rain here much. Now don't get me wrong, I can pretty much figure out how to fix most things as much as the next guy. I take no joy in it. I say she married a poet not a mechanic.

Now, I have friends that are just the opposite. My friend Charlie accompanied Carol and I, with his wife Cindy, to our cabin in Illinois. If you are ever lucky enough to have such a place, and I consider myself extremely lucky, I hope you get to visit yours more often than we get to visit ours. We only get back maybe four times a year. Usually for a week each. It goes without saying that a place like that always has something that needs to be done with it. Now here is the difference between me and Charlie. Charlie has tools. And, he likes using them. Ordinarily, left to my regular device I would contemplate the problem areas at the cabin for at least the first four days. I'd have to fish on it. Meaning, I'll think about what I have to do while I'm fishing or otherwise relaxing. Charlie has tools. He has already figured out the problems while we're on the airplane and wants to attack as soon as we are in the door. Charlie is constantly helping someone with problems. Mowing grass, putting in cabinets, tiling floors, hammering nails. He is one of the busiest guys I know. I love him but boy does he make me tired. And, look bad. Cindy once asked why I didn't do something.... whatever project at my house she saw needed doing. I pointed at my painting on the easel and said, "That is what I do. Not tools." Poor Carol.

Okay one more example to prove I'm in the minority among real men. On the way to quail camp I had a flat tire on my Suburban. Charlie was with me and my friend Brent (another man with tools) just happened to pull up at the right time. Before I could even get the spare out of back, I had been abruptly elbowed aside, shoved to a place where I could cause no harm and within seconds Brent and Charlie had the tire changed. I almost felt guilty. Almost.

After all, that was the most fun they'd had all day.