It’s quickly becoming the time of year when people begin
thinking of elaborate, meaningful, expensive gifts that they can give another
person. The spirit of love, generosity, and gratitude guides us
towards video game systems, cheeky coffee mugs, early editions of favorite
books, or Cosby sweaters given ironically to humorless, unappreciative recipients. Some gifts
are simple and provide endless joy, like a pair of yellow Spiderman saucer sleds given to two little boys. Some
are more elaborate and involve weekends away with people we love.
When I was a boy, my mother bought a junior carpenter’s
workbench for me as a gift. It came with adorably kid-sized tools that, while nominally functional, were not meant for serious work. I set the workbench up in my
bedroom, eagerly planning the wondrous items I’d produce with its limitless
capacity. The arrhythmic, staccato tapping of my tiny hammer, coupled with the
ineffective and interminable sawing generated by the miniature, plastic-handled
saw thwarted my efforts. Toolboxes became unbalanced, miniature footstools.
Birdhouses became horrifying lessons in the fragility of life. Thumbs were smashed and sawdust covered my
low-pile bedroom carpeting in a dusting of frustration.
It was at that point, well before I had even been on this Earth for a decade, that I knew I wasn't much of a handyman. That recognition didn't stop me from trying to build new and more unsafe creations.
In high school, I went on a mission trip to Matamoros, where
part of my service involved helping to frame and sheet-rock the walls of an
interior room. Between the uneven cuts of wood and hammer dents in the gypsum, it was
determined that I was better suited to paint the walls of the entryway. It didn't take long for my joyful carelessness to allow thick, grey enamel paint to stick in my hair and on the floor. I didn't care. I was productive and handy. I was doing the Lord's work. I was Michelangelo, by way of Tarzan, and this was my Sistine Chapel.
Faced with the task of painting
the ceiling without a ladder, I carefully arranged a set of folding chairs in
just such a way that I could use them as scaffolding to reach the high
corners, so long as I kept one hand on the trusses above. Eventually, It got to
the point where I couldn’t safely reach all parts of the ceiling, so I devised
a plan to dangle from a nearby truss, paint the remaining spots quickly while I
had paint in the bristles, and drop to the ground in the knowledge that I had
outsmarted my limitations. At least that’s
the way it was supposed to go in my head.
My cunning plan didn’t take into account the amount of
brushstrokes it would take to cover the bare spot, nor how long I could keep my
hand gripped on the rough, steel truss supports. As the weight of my body transferred
squarely into my left palm, I felt each burr and splinter of steel grind
themselves in deeply, no doubt causing a horrifying infection. Frantically, I slashed the brush against the ceiling.
Hasty strokes forced the brush to drip more of the paint down to my hand,
instead of onto the ceiling and I lost my grip on its handle. As I dropped to the ground, the
director of the mission came around the corner to see the mess I had made of
the scene. Tiny, grey globs of paint were all over the floor, my face, and a
nearby window. As his face exhibited a colossal battle between explosive anger and cultivated patience, he politely asked if I'd rather sweep the floors in a different part of the building.
My technical skill was on display once again in college,
when my truck’s battery seemed to be on the verge of failure. One friend told
me to pour a can of coke over the corroded terminals, which I thought sounded
patently idiotic. Another friend suggested simply buying a new battery, but I
knew I could revivify the old one. My brother, who had come up to visit for the
day, suggested I clean the terminals with a steel brush. There are specialized
tools for that task, but I discovered a much cheaper alternative in a long lump
of steel wool.
Chandler took to the task of cleaning one terminal and I thought it
would be efficient and helpful to grab the other end of the steel wool and clean
the other terminal simultaneously. A few seconds later, his girlfriend alerted
us that smoke was rising from front of the battery. I looked down, saw glowing,
burning steel, and suddenly remembered everything I knew about electrical
conductivity. Thankfully, that task only took a few seconds and I intelligently removed my end from the terminal as my brother began to justifiably panic in a storm of profanity and swatting at sparks on his jeans.
In my adult years, the evidence against me continues to pile up. A cat condo emerged from a former bunk bed frame, so overbuilt and unnecessarily heavy that it was more functional as monument to my ineptitude than it was a functional piece of pet furniture. Decks were installed, but somehow tilted and creaked if one's weight was transferred to a precise spot. A laptop computer was rendered useless by futzing around with it in the process of trying to clean it. Pool leaks were patched with enough silicone sealant to make Pamela Anderson jealous and zip ties were lasting, proud solutions to problems better solved by spending $15 at the hardware store. Sometimes, I am able to outsmart my limitations, sometimes not.
Today is my mother's 61st birthday and I love her very much, even if she loves Barry Manilow and radishes. Even if my personal decision making abilities are vexing and I don't see her as often as she'd like, I'm sure she loves me too. She was about the age I am now when she bought that junior carpenter’s
workbench for me. While it's hard to wrap my head around that chronological fact, it's even harder to remember all the gifts she bought me over the years and if any of them were as educational and character building as that one.
The workbench, ignoring its role as the scene of my earliest mechanical failings, was a fine gift and I am grateful to my mother for purchasing it, even a quarter of a century later. The gift itself wasn't what was important, though. It was a chunky, ugly contraption made of particle board that warped and cracked when shifted around. What was important were the traits that the gift awakened and nurtured in me.
In spite of a hundred sliced thumbs, scuffed knuckles, and defeated trips to the hardware store, I still believe that I'm capable of building and repairing items. In spite of mountainous evidence to the contrary, I still believe that I can succeed if I try to solve the problem in a different and more inventive way. That sense of curiosity and optimism, given by my mother through a junior carpenter’s
workbench, is the kind of gift we should all look to give to our loved ones this holiday season.
In between the Scylla and Charybdis of shallow consumerism and thoughtless obligation, perhaps we might stop and contemplate what traits our gifts might nurture in the minds of their intended recipients. There's nothing wrong with a shiny toy that inspires flights of imagination. There's nothing wrong with a sweet stocking stuffer that imbues a temporary sense of satisfaction and well-being. Somewhere amongst those items, there's also room for a gift, like a junior carpenter's workbench, that might awaken something grand and lasting.
Happy Birthday, Mom. Thanks for all the gifts and kindness over the years. Happy Thanksgiving and safe travels to the rest of you out there.
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