Repairs, remembering
They don't happen often, these memories. While we got along just fine, my father and just I weren't that close. So yesterday as I drilled holes in a piece of aluminum I was surprised to feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks.
I was in the basement working on a funky homemade fix for my mother's broken bed frame, just the kind of thing that Dad would have done. He wasn't of the "fine woodworking" school, he graduated from the "make it work" DIY academy during the Great Depression.
That's what I learned growing up, and every time I work on one of my homely but functional repairs I can't help thinking of him.
Thanks, Dad, for teaching me how to make my own way in the world.
