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.

Fitting into my genes

Along with Howdy Doody, roller skates and the neighbor's talking crow, the background of my childhood included the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, fallout shelters, and air-raid drills. Yes, we really did prepare for a nuclear war while at school by kneeling in front of our lockers and holding our hands over our necks.

My mom decided the fruit cellar, a room off of the basement, was our safe room for disasters. Mom was too much of a pessimist to think even a well-built shelter would help us survive those Russian bombs so I don't think her preparations ever got farther than some bottles of water and jars of her chili sauce (Mom's chili sauce was never canned, just ladled into jars, so they represented danger of another kind).

My mother was a complex woman. She escaped a hardscrabble, abusive homelife by packing a suitcase, tying it closed with rope, and riding the train 20 miles south to the bright lights of Oneida, NY.

She and Dad were opposites. Dad was gregarious, easy going but with a quick temper. She was introverted, a worrier, and internalized her emotions. The one thing they did share was being short, a trait all of us kids inherited.

There are four of us siblings and I often wonder what we picked up from genes and what from environment. I've got my mom's eyes, straight hair, and thighs. I too am introverted and quiet and subject to mood swings.  But while she told of hiding in her bedroom when chicken killing time came, I've dispatched birds on my own and have no qualms about doing more. She liked beauty parlors and perfect nails, I don't feel right if there isn't dirt under mine. I'm her match in stretching the family budget but have never equaled her housekeeping.

My sisters and brother are also a mix of nature and nuture and as I get ready to move four states away from them all, I'm glad to have had them all in my life. My brother is the image of Dad and shares his vocabulary but is more openly loving with his family, my older sister has my Mom's classy style but is a real people person, baby sis seems to have gotten the best physical characteristics of both but surpasses us all in brains. I miss my parents but Mom and Dad live in us all and I hope their heritage lives on in our children.