III - O Brother Where Art Thou?
I’m not a handy fella. Leaky faucet? Loose screw? Creaky hinge? I might be able to help… after a YouTube video and a silent vesper. It’s pathetic. I know this. Karma’s a bitch. Back in high school, I remember all the “stupid” kids not cut out for college went to vocational training off-campus at a school geared toward specific skill sets (i.e. plumber, electrician, welder, mechanic, etc.). The irony is those “not smart” kids acquired more useful life skills than the “smarty-pants” genre.
Can’t do quadratic equations? Oh well, grab a monkey wrench and settle into your mediocre existence, ‘kay? Not ‘kay. Look around, and you’ll find a dearth of competent, professionally trained tradesman eager to undertake the mundane everyday tasks for which many of us have diminished competence. Why? Because we as a society haven’t emphasized these essential trades. There are, however, legions of “half-assers” looking for side hustles to supplement their day job. Johnny Handyman is willing to landscape, cobble, roof, paint, plumb, install, or finish any number of miscellaneous chores for a king’s ransom. This might be acceptable if not for the unexceptional effort put forth. I dare say skills like plumbing and basic construction are near vital to modern existence, especially in rural land. Give me an expert plumber with some business knowledge; he or she will clean up in small-town America and beyond.
Why not study English Lit and the fundamentals of plumbing? Does not Socrates and a basic understanding of house construction make for a well-rounded modern Homo sapiens? And the “stupid” kids? Many weren’t stupid at all. They merely fell on different areas of the aptitude spectrum. Write a poem and change your own oil? Just tell me where to sign, ‘kay?
Back to me. If it can’t be repaired with superglue, might as well have your dog take a look. Maybe in the grand scheme, not such a tragedy. Adapt or perish. Phone a friend. Hit up Angie’s List. And yet, I felt this lack of expertise acutely throughout my fandango. Basic engineering skills are a tremendous asset when traveling in the world’s less-developed areas, as much for the wayfarer as for the denizens and other sojourners you encounter along the way.
Imagine the possibilities if you could perform simple (or not so simple) repairs on structures or mechanical devices? Help a fisherman with his clogged motor. Repair the staircase on a mountain hut. Re-shingle a poor man’s roof. Tweak a motorbike for a teenage boy on his way to the market. Assist a family with their broken-down vehicle on a deserted road. Help a lorry driver get his thirty-year-old jalopy started and over the pass. Fix the plumbing in a village community center… You get the picture. Oh, the connections you’d make, the experiences you’d have.
To reiterate, Hank the Handyman I am not. But I know someone who is: my brother. He’s one of those “not smart” people. Every time I encountered circumstances highlighted above, I thought, Bet Gil could fix that shit. Ah yes, insert clichéd “Jack of all trades” meme. Thing is, the cliché started somewhere and is alive and well in mon frère. I’ve been hard-pressed to find anyone more dedicated to finding new and interesting ways to repair things others would discard in frustration.
Case in point? We had a riding lawnmower that was something of a dinosaur. Compared to today’s options, it resembled a miniature version of the leviathans we have patrolling our lawns. First, it was my grandfather who kept the dream alive before passing the baton. (He was also responsible for passing the cliché.) My brother triaged the forlorn machine for years with sweat and sheer willpower. I did little to aid the effort, unless running over stumps, bushes, dirt mounds, and rocks counts. It would break down. He would fix it. Buy parts. Find parts. Make parts. I suspect as time wore on the process became the reward via a “The Obstacle Is The Way” mentality. Sure, it was nice to mow the lawn, but that was incidental to the real goal of keeping the fucker alive. Do it ‘cause you can, not ‘cause you must. I posit it’s the same reason people repair antiquated (i.e. useless) household items or keep non-classic cars humming years after they’ve outlived their usefulness or pass the point where saving money is a viable justification.
If I were a bettin’ man (and I am), I’d wager he could rescue the fossil from where it retired and revive its rusting corpse. You won’t hear the ocean, but you might hear my brother swearing like a truck driver if you place an ear near the engine block.
He performed similar life-saving procedures on a 1970-something Ford Bronco worth a cool $500 (at best). Let’s call it a fixer-upper. Point at a location, it probably needed a repair. Drafty in the winter. Sweltering in the summer. Handled like a WWII tank. Guzzled fuel like an addict. Purred like a lion put through a wood chipper. The lawnmower was a luxury he could afford to live without. Not so with the Bronco, his only wheels. So, he was all in… heart, soul, and modest bankroll. Its appearance belied the colossal triumph behind its maintenance. It wasn’t a dilapidated SUV; it was a miracle driven by the Energizer Bunny incarnate.
Remember the original Big Wheel Spin Out Racer made by Hot Wheels? Large wheel in front with pedals and two smaller wheels in the back? It rocked and so did I… until I punctured the plastic front tire. Thankfully, my Big Wheel was no match for my Big Brah. He slapped a bicycle tire on that muther, I was ready for the Paris to Dakar Rally. If I were a bettin’ man (and I still am), I’m guessing the tire is still attached to the wheel wherever it lies.
From mechanics to vulcanology. My sixth-grade science project was, drumroll please, a volcano. Unoriginal? Guilty as charged. What wasn’t so banal was its function. Those other pussies went with the baking soda/vinegar eruption model. My brother had a different approach—sparklers tied together like dynamite with smoke bombs for emphasis. Good thing demonstrations were outdoors; my mini-Pompeii was a blatant fire hazard. Flames shot a good two-and-a-half feet off the top, captivating friends and nearly giving my teacher disaster pants. What d’you expect? It’s a fucking volcano, ya heard?
Gil was also a builder of cities, destroyer of worlds. In his youth, he’d sketch heavily armed futuristic metropolises on the eve of invasion by an alien armada. When hostilities escalated, he’d simulate catastrophic explosions (lasers, missiles, etc.) with elaborate sound effects as projectiles and light beams (i.e. pencil lines) found their intended targets. He never knew ahead of time who’d be victorious, the outcome subject to the fog of war. After the conflict concluded, he’d redraw the scene to showcase the devastating consequences and to see who or what was left standing.
I ate it up. He’d draw pages and pages of civilizations on the brink, then present them to me on my birthday. I would drop everything and begin strategizing and preparing for military action. Other presents took a back seat until a victor emerged. It’s like buying elaborate toys for a two-year-old only to watch bemused as the kid wrestles an empty box or tangles with shreds of wrapping paper. Can’t put a price on imagination.
