At some point in my life – it may have been when I was a toddler playing with blocks – I figured out what I was not good at. I was not good at anything that involved working with my hands.
All the guys in high school talked about working on their cars: overhauling the engines, customizing the body, fixing the brakes. I wasn't good at any of those things.
Then when I went into the service at the age of 19, the Army, in its infinite wisdom, sent me to wheel vehicle mechanics school after basic training. I was an honor graduate, but no one ever graded me on the job done, just on written tests.
When I got to the motor pool, the sergeant made us all fall in. He asked for a volunteer. “Does anyone here type?” he said. I'd always heard, don't volunteer for anything, but I raised my hand.
“I need you for a day,” the sergeant said.
That one day turned into the rest of my time at the motor pool. I was exempt from KP and guard duty, and my uniform was always clean at the end of the day.
When I reported to my National Guard unit, they put me in the motor pool. No typist was needed. I was allowed to change oil, change tires, and drive the gas tanker, which they told me had a leak, so keep an eye on the back for smoke. I was the most alert driver in the company.
After I married, my sweet wife was always finding things for me to fix. She even bought one of those Reader's Digest books: How To Do Just About Anything, it was called. But it was written for people who can follow directions and use their hands at the same time. Being able to read is not the only requirement for being able to fix stuff.
Back when rugs were the fashion in bathrooms, we bought one of those fuzzy things for our tiny reading room. We drew off a pattern of the floor, and then I turned the rug upside down to cut it out because the rubber side cut more easily. Problem was, the hole for the toilet was in the wrong place when I tried to install the rug. Using dental floss, my patient wife sewed the hole piece back in. I got it right the second time. Our girls wanted a rabbit, and they wanted me to build a rabbit hutch. It took me most of three days to do that.
That rabbit never appreciated my efforts. He didn't like me, even though I, not my daughters, was the one who fed him every day.
One day, I’m going to write a booklet for people who aren’t good with their hands. The title will be, “Don’t do it yourself – call someone.”
Phil Hudgins is the senior editor of Community Newspapers Inc.