Power Tools. . .

I grew up in a family with no boys. It was just my mom, my sister and me. And my daddy. No brothers, no sons. I must have been in first grade when my mom made a little Charlie Brown out of paper mache' and we called him our brother. Not in a weird way, just in a funny-family-joke kind of way. Somehow I think I felt responsible for being a girl and not a boy and, even though I didn't get this impression from my parents AT ALL, I got it in my 7-year old brain that I should somehow try to be the son my dad never had. . .


I tried to show an interest in the things my dad was doing, especially when he was under the hood of the car. I remember the day he showed me the difference between a flat blade screw driver and a Phillip's. I thought I was pretty smart.


I have an old booklet that I made in the first or second grade titled, "All About Me" and on the page that asks the all-important question: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I wrote, "Mechanic" because I knew my dad would be impressed . . .

I really did enjoy working with my dad and learning from him so it wasn't just about trying to be something I wasn't in order to please him. . .

But the funny thing is, every time I use a power tool, I think of my dad. I want him to give his nod of approval to my ability, however small it might be. . .

I'm convinced that my daddy is very happy with his two girls and probably didn't give much thought at all to what it would have been like to have a son. But it's funny how I really want him to know that I can find my way around a power tool . . .