North Star Writers Group

Some men and women can repair almost anything. If their cars stall in a shopping center, they just pop the hoods, jump out, fiddle with a few wires and bingo! The vehicles are purring again.

If my car stalls at shopping mall, I jump out, hail a cab to take me home and then I call an auto mechanic.

My go-to guys for non-automotive-related crises are my sons-in-law Steve and Tom. Steve is a really nice guy. He’s also a plumber. Tom is a really nice guy, too. He’s also a carpenter.

“Hey really nice guy,” I said the other day after dialing Steve’s number. “How are things going? And how about those Browns, huh?”

“Your toilet’s plugged again, isn’t it?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“Call it a wild guess,” he replied.

As always, I tried to defend my actions. “I’m sorry,” I told Steve, “but you know how I hate to mess with anything electrical.”

“Bob,” he said, “a toilet doesn’t run on electricity. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right over.”

After my wife Sally and I downsized and moved into a smaller house, Tom phoned every day to see if we needed anything done.

Then, after we asked him to install light fixtures, fix a garage door, move lawn furniture and fill a sandbox that’s roughly the size of Miami Beach with sand, the calls mysteriously stopped.

In fact, the last time we phoned his house just to chat with our two grandchildren, we heard a recorded message that said, “Hello, you have reached Tom’s residence. Unfortunately Tom is out of the country. Please leave a message and he will return your call as soon as he gets back from Switzerland. Have a nice day.”

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This is Column # BB63. Request permission to publish here.