One Heart Uses Tools

I have a toolbox. A Stanley.

It contains: Screwdrivers with tips shaped like math symbols: plus and minus. Many wrenches of various sizes with ends shaped like c's and o's. Also wrenches that pinch, with wheels you turn to make them pinch smaller. Pliers. A hammer. Nuts and bolts. And the prize:

A heavy metal tape measure that pulls out and locks in place, so you can walk through the world defending the precise dimensions of your personal space.

Or herd peacocks. Really. Works better than a stick, Keith says.

There is no Swiss Army Knife in my toolbox. This is Keith playing Dad. I won the knife in a contest and gave it away. His refusal to replace it says: “You made your bed, now lie in it.”

I muss the beds and lie as I please. I’ll buy my own Leatherman, thank you.

* * *

You might think that because I don’t know the names of things that I don’t know how to use them.

I do. For example, I can:

Air up a tire, and change one.

Tighten belts using a crowbar and screwdriver.

Replace hoses, air filter and spark plugs.

Change the oil in a 1969 Mustang. Including the oil filter. And the stripped-out drain plug, doped up with bright blue insta-gasket goop.

Shoot the zerks. (Imagine swimming the butterfly stroke on your back under a car. This is how you scoot from wheel to wheel. In your hand the grease gun. At each wheel, a couple of fittings, called zerks. Fit the gun’s nozzle into each zerk, pull the trigger. Emerge swaggering like John Wayne, t-shirt torn, hair matted with gunk and gravel. Growl to the guy under the hood, “I got the little bastards.” That’s how you talk in the garage. It’s the code. There is much more to working on cars than knowing which tool to use.)

Rebuild a carburetor. A dad-and-daughter project, unsuccessful. The mechanic said the kit we used had a broken float. Never mind that. We did our part.

Change the valve cover gasket in a 1967 Dodge Dart Swinger. Stop laughing! It was my first car; it cost $200. The job took eight hours. Michigan could have done it in 20 minutes, but I’m glad he didn’t. I like trying things until they come right. Michigan showed me what to do. He gave me all the time I needed. Then he made dinner, and taught me how to cook rice.

* * *

My toolbox is bright orange. There is nothing girly about it. All of the tools are Champion or Craftsman or Stanley. No cushy grips. No hot pink.

Which is not to say I’ve given up using my high heels for a hammer. That’s just plain fun.

And ingenious.

If we used tools only for their intended purposes, we would miss many opportunities. Such as building a better peacock-herding stick. Or dancing tango moves to alternative music. Or (discovering too late that the corkscrew did not survive the summer’s multiple moves) using a plus-sign screwdriver and a hammer to open a bottle of wine.

Caveat emptor. In some cases, the results may be disastrous.

Which results? In which cases?

I leave that to you to decide.