The Tinkerer

My father was a tinkerer. He had this little workshop in the basement. The room was mostly below ground, with one high rectangular window. The room was always dark, even on the brightest of days. On those bright days you could see every dust particle that floated in the air in the stream of sunlight that came through that window. My father had a bare light bulb that he turned on by screwing it in by hand, turning it off by unscrewing it. He had a soldering tool, a wood burner, old mayonnaise jars filled with nails, screws, nuts and bolts, a saw, a screwdriver, a hammer, some twine, some paint, some turpentine and a vice. He fixed the toaster once, my mother's electric frying pan and the iron. His garage work area consisted of a push mower, a shovel, an electric hedge clipper, a ladder, a bench, scissors and a clipper. He mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, pruned the trees, painted the rocks, and made a pond with an old kitchen sink. He worked 9 - 5 and a few nights a week. He seldom got phone calls, never knew a Home Depot, never had fast food or cable TV. Yet, he was satisfied. What he had was all he needed. His wife, his home, his children, his family and his small set of tools. He tinkered with his tools and he was satisfied. It is not in the amount of possessions you have, but what you do with the ones you do have.