Ye Olde Repair Person



I don't think ours was labelled this clearly.

    In the 5 months since we moved to Indiana, our computer monitor died, the cd player bit the dust, the television stopped working, the jigsaw wouldn't cut, and the new saw we bought fell apart in our hands the first time we used it. Of all of these modern marvels, only the jigsaw was still under warranty (go, Black and Decker) but they didn't fix it, they sent us a new one (the new new one was exchanged at the store).

   This chain of broken has made me long for the golden days of my youth when THINGS COULD BE REPAIRED.

   You young folk may think it's a myth, but I stand as witness that, in days of yore, not only did appliances operate as advertised for several years but that when there was a problem, a repair person came to your house!

   Ah, the repairman. Thought by some to be a figment of delusional senior citizens, this creature was for real and true. In our family's case, the saint of handiness was Bernie.

   Our console television got heavy use. Jack LaLaine jumping jacks in the morning, episodes of the Mickey  Mouse Club after school, news and Bonanza at night. Expanding our world by three channels in breath-taking black and white. But sometimes that world had wavy lines and fuzzy reception.

   Then we'd call Bernie. His arrival was met with glee by us kids. Bernie came in with his tool box; one of those large metal kits with pop-up drawers full of tubes and electronic gizmos. He'd pull the set out from the wall and take off the back exposing the wires and doohickies that made the magic. And he'd fix it! He was the Albus Dumbledore of television repair and we adored him. I can only imagine the mountain of patience that man must have had to work with an audience of juvenile fans watching his every move.

   I don't remember the other fix-it guys that populated our world back then, although I'm sure there were many. My dad himself was often called out to repair juke boxes and pool tables (he owned a vending business). But I'm afraid the house-calling repair person has gone the way of the 5 cent fudgcycle and the milk door.

   When did we stop trying to fix things? When did we give up and start filling our landfills with plastic junk, our lives with black and white ideas and doomsday despair? Where are the Bernies of the world to connect a wire here, replace a tube there, and give us clear reception, at least for a time. We have to believe that what is broken can be fixed; it's not impossible. Bernie would tell us that.