Mr. Fix It

Men are often defined by certain characteristics: strong, athletic, proud, protective, aggressive. I’ve always felt like I carry most of those characteristics. But there’s one, that ever since I was a little boy I seemed to lack: being handy.
I can’t fix sh*t! Never could. Couldn’t fix a flat tire on my bike as a kid. Couldn’t figure out how to put the arms back on my GI Joes. Takes me 45 minutes to an hour to change a car tire. Assemble Ikea furniture?? Forget it, I’d be better off buying it online and having it shipped in fully assembled from the warehouse in Sweden. My wife once had to assemble our son’s bed because I was convinced it was defected and missing pieces.
My dad, on the other hand, seemed to have been born with a tool belt. A roofer by trade, he’d climb 10-20 story buildings on a daily basis, patching holes, lining gutters, placing shingles. And he wasn’t limited to just the outside of the house. He’d lay carpet, unclog the kitchen sink, change the oil on the car. A real man’s man. I’d often think to myself, could we be any more different. I mean, aren’t some traits inherited?? Did those genes just skip me??
Our differences weren’t limited to our kinesthetic skills (or in my case, lack thereof). No sir, it seemed sometimes that the only thing my father and I shared in common was our last name. I was a nerd, a book worm, read all the time even made up my own stories as a kid; He could barely read. I once tested for near perfect vision, 20/15; My father almost went blind as a child, he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. I was quiet, shy, a housecat; He was the life of the party, always outside, making noise, having fun. My hair long and locked; his short or bald. Even our skin complexions didn’t match. Mom are you sure he’s my father??
Yet as I grow older, I am realizing what I’m sure he already knew, that so much of him is engrained in me. The differences now seem so miniscule. As I stood in my mother’s backyard today, weedwacker in hand, trimming her grass, as my father had so many times before, I couldn’t help but think about that little boy, who couldn’t fix anything. I cut the grass, trimmed the edges as she stood in the door way and looked on. I imagine, we both saw my father out there really, he in me, I in him. A couple weeks ago, her refrigerator died and she called me over to help her set up the new one. I had to take the hinges off of the door to get it to fit through the door way, shave a bit of the door to the kitchen that had swollen, then reattach the door to the hinges. I had never done any of it before but yet somehow, all of a sudden, I just knew how to. Which made me think: Maybe I wasn’t handy before because I didn’t have to be? In the back of my mind I guess I always knew, whether it be a hole in the roof, or a hole in my tire, that dad would be there to fix it. It’s funny how much we absorb from our family without ever knowing it.
Kaleb broke the leg to one of Noah’s action figures a few weeks ago. As I walked up stairs to see about the ensuing melee, I overheard Noah say to his brother, “Its okay Kaleb, I can give it to dad, He can fix anything.” He’s 6 and in his dad-hero worship phase, so right now I’m Mr. Fix it. I don’t mind, because for all of my life my dad was Mr. Fix it too. Now I guess it’s my turn. I imagine one day Noah will realize that we share more in common than those minuscule surface differences. More than simply a last name. He is part me, as I am part my father. So one day too he’ll be Mr. Fix it. Just do me a favor and don’t tell him about that tube of crazy glue hidden in my bedroom drawer!