Chapter Four
When Something Is Broken, Fix It
It was no secret around town, Grandpa could fix anything. And, well, if Grandpa couldn’t fix it, then, I’m sorry, you’re wrong — it’s just not broken (okay, slight exaggeration). But, here’s the truth… Grandpa had magic in his hands. He was a mechanical genius. Matter of fact, if the President, himself, would have caught wind of this talented man many years ago, then, I’m quite certain that he would’ve wanted my grandpa to lead his Mechanical Genius, Magical Hands Team, or MGMHT, for short; he’d have been traveling the country, or maybe even the world, fixing everything from broken down presidential vehicles, spaceships, and secret laser weapons, to maybe even the economy. But, unfortunately, here in the real world, that never happened, MGMHT doesn’t exist (that I know of), and none of the Presidents ever knew my grandfather (otherwise, the world would be void of mechanical problems).
Growing up around a man with magical hands and mechanical genius, obviously, had its perks. For starters, most of our broken toys (which seemed to outnumber the non-broken ones), were either super-glued, duct taped, wired together, or had fabricated parts made out of left over wood, pipe, plastic, or metal that Grandpa would keep laying around for such occasions. I suspect that Grandpa was a toy maker in his past life, as he would surely know the ends and outs of every broken toy that we brought to him. And, for that, he earned a reputable, respectable, reputation among us grandkids.
But it wasn’t just toys that he had mastered. No, what Grandpa had excelled at best, was working on vehicles. More than likely, he was born with motor oil in his veins, a gearbox in his head, and a spark plug for a heart; in other words, he was built for it. And for this reason, still to this day, he is the first person who looks at my truck when something is wrong (and judging by the trucks I drive… he’s looked at them a lot).
I remember my first vehicle… hell, who doesn’t? I remember being 15 years old, pushing a shovel all summer long for my father, trying to save up enough money to buy that beat up, old Blazer that he had pointed out to me on our way to work one morning. I remember Grandpa coming out with me and looking over that rusted prize closely for any leaks, knocks, or skipping gears, before I handed that gentleman my hard earned money. Satisfied that it was a decent “first vehicle,” he nodded his head in approval, and I handed that man his full asking price. Then, I sat shotgun with Grandpa as he drove it back home for me.
I would soon become very familiar with pulling that Blazer into my grandpa’s garage. Every time I came over to visit, some of his first words were, “how’s your truck running?” (He would often call it a truck, for some reason. But, I suppose that the elderly have earned the right to get away with certain things. So, I would just go with it).
“Well, it’s making a noise in the front left tire area,” I’d say, (or something along those lines).
**Wait. Before we even get into anything mechanical, I think it should be made well known that I, unfortunately, did not receive any of my grandfather’s love for the mechanical operations of a motor vehicle. In fact, I loooaath even the thought of airing up my own tires. But, don’t get me wrong, I have changed headlights, tires, oil, and oil filters, and even watched/helped/mostly just watched my brother change my alternator before. But, the truth is, that gene was never passed down to me, it actually skipped over me and went straight to my brothers.**
Grandpa would counter with a seemingly obvious answer, “Bearings are going out. Let’s go have a look at it.”
It was as if he was thrilled for me to come over only so that he could see what happened to be wrong with my vehicle, this time. Hey, who could blame him? He always had the mind to fix things rather than to buy it new. Besides, this was Grandpa’s way of showing us how much he cared, how much he loved us. The scuffs on his knuckles and the dirt on his hands from the hours spent fixing our trucks, were the clear and present, “I love yous,” that he wore proudly and honestly for all who noticed, to see.
We would head into the garage, where he kept his plethora of neatly separated and organized tools hanging on the walls, or in bins, or cupboards, or one of the many tool boxes or tool cabinets that were tucked and lined along the length of his garage. Until my oldest brother, Jeremy, started working on all of his trucks in there, Grandpa had every tool that you could ever possibly need to do work on a vehicle. (Throughout the years, many of these tools have become Jeremy’s property due to his struggle of remembering to put things back when he was done with them. And, with that said, Grandpa has gone ahead and given Jeremy most of what’s left of the tools that he didn’t forget to return, anyway). But, back when the wrenches were still where the wrenches were supposed to be, Grandpa would pop open my hood and show me how to check the fluid levels of everything that was important. He would pull out the oil dipstick and investigate it, he would look at the color, he would take in a couple of big whiffs, and then he would have me smell it, too.
“Smell that? You’re burning oil,” he’d say.
I’d nod my head in agreement, blatantly lying to my grandfather.
“Pshh, heck yeah, I smell that… burning oil,” while in my head I was thinking that maybe he has sniffed a little too much oil in his day, because honestly, it just smelled like regular old oil to me.
He would check the antifreeze, the transmission fluid, the brake fluid, the air filter, and my tire pressure. This was all standard practice to him, but to me, this might as well have been rocket science. Either way, there I was beside him (on a stool), peering over the engine, trying to take it all in, halfway listening to what he was trying to teach me, halfway thinking about the new girl that I had a date with later that night.
Yes, it was common for me to visit the grandparents before dates. Because, number one: Grandpa would make sure that my Blazer, Jeep, truck, four-wheeler, bicycle — or whatever I’d be driving — would make it to wherever we were going to go. And number two: somehow, the word would have already gotten back to them that I was seeing someone new and I would, undoubtedly need to fill them in on who this (lucky) lady is, and, ultimately, get their approval, first. If you haven’t been paying attention, my grandma and grandpa’s opinions have always been important to me.
And, so it would be, that, no matter what the task, no matter what the job I, or we, embarked upon at my grandfather’s house, he would, without a doubt, be in charge of having an opinion. Okay, perhaps, less eloquently… he was the boss. Now, don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t exactly hard to work for, by any means. No, he was quite simple, actually… just as long as you did it his way. You see, the older you get in life, apparently, the harder your head becomes.
Now, Grandpa has always been a bullheaded man, God love him. And, to be honest, there have been more times than I care to count where I have been accused of having my grandfather’s firm will. So, it is something that I, full-heartedly, understand. But, you see… what they don’t tell you about a stubborn old man (again, God love him), is that… the older they get, the more they seem to want to try to do things themselves.
There have been more times than not, when I have showed up unannounced, that I catch him in the act of doing something that an elderly gentleman should not, necessarily, be doing. This could be anything from cutting, splitting, and carrying wheelbarrow loads of firewood, to climbing up on the roof to clean the gutters, chimney or sweep off the branches. These are all things that I, and the other grandchildren, along with his daughters and their boyfriends or their husbands, or even our friends, have all accepted and volunteered to do as our seasoned chores. But, then there’s Grandpa, who (despite the lashings he gets from his loving wife), still to this day, at 82 years old and with a cane, thinks that he is going to shovel a new drainage ditch for the water to run away from his garage door.
This is why I check on them often; because, a handyman’s work is never done, even when a handyman has lost the ability to squeeze his handies. If I have learned anything from my grandparents at all, it has been to GIVE and LOVE GREATLY, to help others when you can and to always… ALWAYS be there for the people that you love.
Like, the day that I pulled into his gravel driveway, with the dogs barking and howling, drowning out Hank Jr.’s “A Country Boy Can Survive,” and I pulled up beside his black S-10, which was loaded down with plywood and tools meant to replace the floorboards in his chicken coop. And, from there, I watched as he shuffled from the shadows of his garage, in his untied work boots, his favorite flannel shirt and work jeans, with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, grinning that ornery “hey, you caught me” grin, while holding the cordless drill in his hand.
I jump out of the truck and yell at the dogs to shut up!
“Grandpa! What the hell are you doin’? I shout, as I walk over and investigate the plywood and screws in his truck.
Grandpa chuckles. “Ahhh, just working on the chicken coop.” He stands in the sunlight, just outside of the garage with his beer gut exaggerated in his defiant stance.
“You know, I’m just a phone call away, Grandpa?! How many times do I hafta tell ya?” I lovingly scold.
He grins, turns around, and shuffles back into the garage mumbling something.
“Well? Why didn’t you call me? You know any one of us would’ve came out to help.” I press. “See, this is why we just can’t leave you alone,” I joke.
Now, over at his work-bench unscrewing screws from a piece of scrap wood he had lying around, he answers without lifting his head. “Ahhh, I didn’t wanna bother you. You’re busy.”
I help hold down the board as he takes out the last few screws and laugh at his stubbornness.
“You know me, Jeremy, or Jason would have this knocked out in a few hours, right?”
He scoots over to one of his many tool cabinets and starts pulling out drawers, looking for God knows what, and then sighs, “Maybe Jeremy could bring back my good socket set, too.”
He opens up another drawer and pulls out an older set (he’s got, like, 107 sets).
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure he’ll bring it back as soon as he’s done building mud trucks. Now, why didn’t you call us?”
He just grunts. So, I make the phone call to Jeremy and Jason.
*****
Jeremy was out of town for work, but Jason met me there the next morning.
It took no more than a few hours for me (mostly) and Jason (not as mostly) to shovel and sweep out the coop, to pull up those old rotten floor boards, and then, to measure, cut, and screw down the new ones. But, in those few short hours, I couldn’t help but to think about the history of this particular chicken coop… how it had withstood the “Flood of ’98,” and, how even the “tornado,” not long after, couldn’t bring down this old hooch. And yet, here we were, just me and my younger brother (who thinks he’s the boss), and Grandpa (the actual boss) — who keeps checking in on us every so often, secretly tossing small pieces of scrap wood into the wheelbarrow, and then, sneaking off with the bigger ones when we weren’t looking — here we were, becoming a part of something bigger than just some damned old chicken coop. We were becoming a part of something that would stand to outlast even the final scurrying chicken, the last handful of feed thrown from an old man’s hand or from the excited young fingers of my little cousins whenever they’d come and visit from the city. Without a doubt, we were becoming a part of something higher, something that would, ultimately, become a part of us, a part of our description, a part of our space, and a part of our lives that we tell strangers whenever they ask, “Where do you come from?” Or when we tell our girlfriends, or wives, or grandkids, what our childhoods were like, with excitement and emotion in our voice, we will talk of those mornings that we woke up to the smell of Grandpa’s famous scrambled eggs and bacon, how we would gather at the table — Grandpa in his seat and Grandma in hers — how we would sit there and talk about school, or sports, or girlfriends until it was time to go feed the animals. Then, we would walk out into the freezing cold, the soaking rain, the burning summer’s heat in our unlaced boots, like Grandpa’s, up past the garage, down the hill to the door of that fenced in fortress, and then, inside to the clatter of ruffled hens, where we would toss handfuls of feed to a brood of fussing feathers… and without knowing it, without understanding it… we would fall in love with every second, every minute, and every memory of us being there.