Repairing What is Broken

I have always enjoyed repairing broken things.  Like many who grew up during the Depression, my Mom and Dad were both faced with deprivation, and it resulted in a frugal lifestyle that persisted throughout their lives.  Repairing things was a habit and a way of life for them and one that I inherited.  If a garden tool broke, my Dad would repair it before considering replacing it.  If a seam became unraveled, my Mom would take needle and thread and do the same; she made most of her own clothes, in fact, with her trusty sewing machine.

This habit has persisted, often taken to an extreme that many would not endure.  I still have a bamboo rake with the handle attached with baling wire, and Martha can attest to how long I kept our old vacuum cleaner going with duct tape and hose clamps before finally replacing it.  We take recycling seriously, as a matter of principle, as a matter of respect for the world we live in.

At my worst extreme, I have been known to go to the landfill and come home with more than I took.  It is astonishing what some people will throw away, and I have rescued perfectly good wheelbarrows, doors, windows, and handrails from being pushed into the dumpster and buried in the County landfill.  In fact, most of our garden shed or "Folly" was constructed around the windows and doors we salvaged from here and there.

Without the help of a friend who saw me struggling with the task, I never would have been able to drag the thirty feet of ornate iron handrail out of the metal dumpster last year, which is still propped up against the wall along our driveway and is being overtaken by weeds.  I still haven’t found a use for it, but my only outraged thought at the time was “Why would someone throw that away!”

This week, Martha found this beautiful little lantern at a thrift store in Clayton; its sides are made of rice paper and it has a small light inside, but when turned on, it blinks on and off randomly, caused by a defective toggle switch, I am certain.

So today I tried unsuccessfully to repair it, disassembling the switch with some precious tools that I keep in my desk.  I concluded that the switch cannot be repaired, so I will replace it with one from the hardware store.  But in taking it apart I remembered again all of those things I delved into as a child, curiously removing screws and poking around inside radios and small electronic engines, marveling at the parts exposed inside like organs, the coils of copper wire wound tight, the transistors and resistors and capacitors.  And I used some familiar well-worn tools that reminded me of my heritage as a handyman.

That is my Dad's set of small screwdrivers at the top, which were always kept in the upper drawer of the sewing machine cabinet, with the brand name "ARCHER" on the package, telling me it came from Radio Shack, an electronics store I came to know well in my youth.  It was from my Dad and my older brother Fred whom I learned to solder electrical wires.  My Dad even assembled an Archer stereo amplifier from scratch, and I have found that these vintage kits are still in demand on eBay.

At the bottom is a pocket knife which belonged to Martha's Dad, given to me after his death, sharpened so many times that it is half its original width.  He was a skilled handyman, an inveterate tinkerer, whose expertise extended well beyond home repairs to such things as Model T and Model A Fords, and to this day I wish I could discuss this or that home project with him; he would invariably have a good suggestion to make.

So in my hands I held my heritage as a repairman, tools once held by my own father and by Martha's father, tools that repaired what was broken - not just from necessity, but from the joy of discovery, the fearlessness of getting under the hood of things.  That is a noble occupation, after all, and one in which I am thankful for having been well tutored and encouraged.