THE ALLEN WRENCH AND ME
When you are raised in a household that is unrelentingly female, there is a lot that you never experience. I could talk of masculine mysteries endlessly, mysteries that are still being revealed to me after all these years. It’s always an adventure. Early on, I learned that there are people who belch at the table, forget what a napkin is for, sleep to radio broadcasts. How odd.
I also discovered that some of the male species seem to have an uncanny gift for handling tools. As for me, I could scarcely distinguish between a wrench and a screwdriver. But oh, this man of mine! He seemed to have been born with a pair of pliers in his hand. Gradually I realized the financial advantage of marrying a man with a mechanic for a father, a man with motor oil running through his veins. He could fix anything. I made weak attempts to help. “Rose, quick. Go get the needle nosed pliers.” Should I look in the sewing basket?
I wanted to learn, I really did. But there were always babies to change, suppers to cook, noses to wipe. Years went by while I remained frozen in mechanical ignorance. Then, just last week, the revelation came. We had ordered a small desk for a corner office. The box sat near the front door for a couple of days, just daring me to give it a try. Finally I opened it, trembling visibly. Would the instructions be in Chinese? How many screws would vanish into oblivion? Would it turn out upside down, its legs jutting into the air, mocking me? And did I really need this funny little “L” shaped thing?
But I dug in. And something started to happen. There were steps, 1 2 3 steps. Not so bad. And my little “L” shaped friend, the allen wrench, began to work for me. Here a screw, there a screw. Within a few moments I had a desk! Just in time to surprise Mr. Fixit himself. Oh, he tightened and tweaked a few things, but the job was done. And so was my fear of tools. It’s true! You’re never too old to learn.