What a Tool

Tim Allen used to star in a TV sitcom called “Home Improvement”. In case you’ve never heard of it, you can take a look here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Home_Improvement. Those of you who are already familiar with the show as well as my happy infelicity with tools will have figured out where this is headed. In the show, Tim Taylor, the main character, hosts a home improvement show. Although an expert in the use of tools and construction, etc., he also constantly injures himself in ridiculous manners. I can only conclude that long before this show ever appeared on TV, my father was channeling it.

Let me talk about my father for a minute. He was one of the most intelligent people I have ever known. He was skilled with his hands both in large and small projects. As a boy, he built wooden airplane and ship models. To economize due to the cost of materials, he would build a model the exact size shown on the plan rather than expanding it. He and my mother, for many years, made custom party favors. But he was also skilled in constructing large furniture. He built a desk in my bedroom that ran the width of the room. He built a huge set of closets to store…well, this is where part of my OC/PR comes in. The bottom line is that he was very, very skilled with his hands and with tools of all sorts. He was also convinced that if I picked up a tool I would hurt myself. Now, I’m not talking about power tools like a circular saw or a drill. I’m talking about hand tools like screwdrivers, hammers, pliers or handsaws. How it was that he allowed me to use a craft knife to build plastic models I will never understand. So there you have the genesis of why I have come to describe myself as (and if you are offended by politically incorrect terms, skip to the next paragraph NOW) a tool-tard. (One of the women with whom I dance who is a great artist in many media is terribly amused by that term.)

While I lived at home, this inability was not a terribly debilitating defect. After all, we lived in an apartment building. The superintendent took care of the work around the building, my father took care of things inside. It was occasionally embarrassing, though. My mother was acting in a local amateur production of The Pajama Game that was being produced as a fund-raiser. My father volunteered to work on the sets and backstage crew. So did I. Answer? No, you may get hurt. That was bad enough, but a friend’s father was also working on the crew…along with his daughter who was three years younger than me. When I tried that argument the answer I got was, “Well she knows how to use tools without getting hurt.” Had I known the term at the time, I probably would have smart-mouthed, “Well, duh!” But I didn’t so I slunk off to a corner and read.

Once at Syracuse University and ensconced in my fraternity, things followed a similar pattern. The frat house was owned by the fraternity not the university so we were responsible for maintenance and up-keep. At the beginning of my sophomore year, we all came back early to re-paint the interior. (I recall the term that we used for the color: sh*t-brindle brown.) So, there I am, asking our house steward what I can do. He hands me a roller, a tray and some paint and he says for me to do the walls. Hey, no problem. Even I can figure that one out. Paint goes in pan, roller rolls in paint, paint goes on wall in even strokes. No problem. Right? Wrong. After a few minutes of this, for no obvious reason, it was suggested that I might be better at doing the trim with a brush. I say, no problem. Even I can figure this one out. Paint can is opened, brush goes in paint, paint is carefully applied to trim. After a few minutes of this, for no obvious reason, it was suggested that I might be better at painting the window frames on the windows that had already been taped. I say, no problem. Even I can figure this one out. Trim paint can is opened, brush goes in paint, paint is applied to window frames. No worries about getting paint anywhere else, the windows have been taped. After a few minutes of this it was suggested that I might be better at…going to Liquor Square and buying several cases of beer to bring back. All righty then. So much for painting.

The first house we owned was in Rome, New York. We moved in less than two weeks before our daughter was born. My in-laws came up from Connecticut to stay with us until after the birth. My father-in-law, who was also very handy around the house, took it on himself to do all the painting and wall-papering. I accepted this as being logical since my days were taken up by the Air Force and then going to the hospital. When I asked if he needed any assistance he very nicely said that he didn’t mind doing it himself. I thought he was just being nice and thanked him.

I learned differently several years later. After I separated from the Air Force, we lived with my in-laws while I was going to grad school. They had a nice big house with a nice big back yard and an above-ground swimming pool. In the summer of 1977, my mother-in-law announced that my father-in-law and I were going to build a raised deck for one end of the pool. I kind of liked the idea because, for the first time, it looked like someone was going to trust me with tools. So there we are, all the wood and all the assorted other stuff needed and I ask what I can do. He wanted to start me off with something simple, so he gave me a circular saw, gave me a quick explanation of how to use it safely and then sent me off to cut wood to size. I’m working for a few minutes, naively believing that I’m doing what I should be doing. The next thing I know, the saw stops working because someone pulled the plug. He takes the saw out of my hand and says, “I don’t like the way you’re doing that.” He then takes me to another pile of wood where holes needed to be drilled. He gave me a power drill, explained how to use it safely and leaves me to drill holes. I’m working for a few minutes, naively believing that I’m doing what I should be doing. The next thing I know, the drill stops working because someone pulled the plug. He takes the drill out of my hand and says, “I don’t like the way you’re doing that.” Now I’m starting to get a wee bit peeved. The next tool I am handed is a hammer. I tried to beg off on this because the limited experience I have had with nails is that there has never been a nail that I could not bend with a hammer. I don’t care if it is the most hardened steel on the face of the earth. Two blows and I’ll bend it. But he tells me to give it a try. So I start. Sure enough my technique was perfect. Bent nail after bent nail but I’m still barely getting the job done. The next thing I know, the hammer is pulled from my hand with the admonishment, “I don’t like the way you’re doing that.” There were several more tools we went through, all of which ended within a few minutes with the same, “I don’t like the way you’re doing that.” Finally, I said, “Is there anything you want to let me do?” He hands me a post hole digger and tells me to dig the holes for the corner supports and he marks exactly where I am to dig. So, I take the post-hole digger and begin digging the holes as I have been shown. The next thing I know, the post-hole digger is yanked from my hand and before I can say anything, I hear, “I don’t like the way you’re doing that.” At that point I walked away, walked in the house and was headed to our bedroom. My mother-in-law looks at me and starts to give me grief for walking away from the project…until I tell her what happened and that I’m done trying to help. She then went outside and gave him hell for doing what he had done. But the deck got built without my assistance and all I learned was the lesson that Mark + tools = bad combination.

I wasn’t just dangerous with tools like those. I had never lived in a house that had a microwave oven until we lived with my in-laws. At the time, the only hot dogs I liked were the Hebrew National Kosher hot dogs. (By the way, aside from being better parts of animals, Kosher meat products tend to have fewer by-products and factory-farm hormone crap.) Anyway, I knew that all you had to do was put food in the microwave, turn it on for a certain length of time and it would come out hot and ready to eat. So, I put two hot dogs on a plate, put them in the microwave, turn it on…and within a minute, there were sounds that sounded like gunshots from inside. I quickly turn it off and open the door and look. There are the hot dogs, with their ends exploded off and hot dog ick all over the inside of the oven. Yes, I performed a double circumcision of two hot dogs because no one had explained that Hebrew National hot dogs have sealed casings that need to be slit before being microwaved.

Later that same week, my mother-in-law asked me to vacuum the house. No problem. I used a vacuum cleaner as a kid and in my fraternity. This was an Electrolux canister vacuum on wheels. I start vacuuming and everything is going well until suddenly I hear a soft explosion from the vacuum and it shuts off. I look at the back and see that the end has blown off. Oh sh*t! I killed the vacuum! I’m frantic because I don’t know what to do when my wife walks in. Practically in tears, I tell her that I’ve killed the vacuum. Much to my surprise, she starts laughing. I ask what’s so funny and she explains that this particular model is designed to pop the back end and shut off when the bag inside is full. Yeah. That turned into a charming family story.

Cars are another of those things the maintenance and repair of which eludes me. I grew up a fan of auto racing but somehow the workings of the internal combustion engine and how to maintain said engine eluded me. Oh, wait. Maybe it was because if I offered to help my father the answer was, “No, you’ll hurt yourself.” So when the town adult education department offered a course in basic automobile repair, my wife and I decided this might be just the thing for me. It was nice. It was taught in the high school’s auto shop. I learned how to do tune-ups, how to gap plugs, how to set the timing and a host of other necessary basic maintenance jobs. So once the weather got better, I went to the local auto parts store and got the parts I would need to do a basic tune-up on my Datsun B-210. I did it exactly the way the instructor had taught us. I knew that you never take more than one plug wire off at a time. That way, there’s no question that you have them in the correct order. I was so proud of myself, I changed the plugs, set the points, changed the rotor and everything fit back together! I then got in the car and turned the ignition on…and it turned over. But it would not start. No matter what I did, no matter what I double-checked, it would not start. Finally, we called the local service station. They towed the car and promised to check it out. Later that day, we get a call from them. I’m expecting the worst, like it’s the starter or something bad. When I ask what the problem was, the voice on the other end of the phone says, “Whoever tried to tune up your car crossed all the spark plug wires. Don’t they know you only do one at a time?” OK. So much for basic auto maintenance. (That car, literally, was never the same. Every time it snowed, the points would burn out. I have no idea what I did to it but I’m sure I caused it.)

It has become almost a ritual. Every year at Christmas, I always buy some kind of cool tool for my wife. She knows how to use tools. Apparently, in Connecticut where she grew up, tools did not pose the same threat to children that they did in New York. Consequently, she learned to use them. (She has even built small walls. I’ve seen her do it. Of course I was, watching from afar so that I would be sure not to injure myself.)

I’m actually pretty good at assembling furniture like you typically get from Ikea. This has far more to do with the fact that I can follow a set of assembly plans because I have built hundreds of plastic models. Even I can figure out how Part C fits snugly into Part A. And those neat little Allen wrenches they give you (see I actually know the name of the tool) make inserting the screws correctly idiot-proof. But my wife usually cuts up the box it came in because there’s that whole sharp edge thing plus Mark that are a literally a bloody dangerous combination. (I once slashed my thumb on a dinner roll but that story will have to wait for another day.)

A number of years ago, we bought mini-tool kits in plastic cases, a red one for me and a pink one for my daughter. I have actually used that tool kit any number of times. I have discovered that I CAN drive a nail without bending...assuming that the nail is going into plaster wall. If I accidentally hit a stud, bend city. And I have a pretty good handle (no pun intended) on screws and screwdrivers. (Righty-tighty, lefty loosey.) I have tightened and loosened nuts with my pliers and even used the hex wrench. I have jealously guarded that tool kit because it is mine. And it’s the first one anyone ever trusted me with.