My father can fix anything. He can make the cabinet door work again, the toilet, the light switch. He has toolboxes of cold metal wrenches and sockets and screwdrivers that turn any bolt or screw, whining saws that cut wood into any shape, and gauges with dials that rotate in clicks and snaps to tell him what’s wrong with any cord. He has hammers of steel and rubber and wood. Pliers that cut, bend, and twist. Clamps, drills, straps, punches, tapes, glues, oils, and jellies. A filing cabinet of tiny drawers filled with washers and nuts and hinges and bits of colored wire that he rolls between his thumb and forefinger until he knows which is right for the job.
I follow him around the house, handing him tools and watching him put them to work. His arms and hands, rigid wit...
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- My father passed away in 1991, two weeks before Christmas. I was 25 at the time but until then I had not grown up. I was still an ignorant youth that only cared about finding the next party. My role model was now gone, forcing me to reevaluate the direction my life was heading. I needed to reexamine some of the lessons he taught me through the years. One of the earliest memories I have of my father is when he would take me to the park and we would play baseball. My father was eager to teach me everything he knew about the game, and I was eager to learn.... [tags: essay about myself, Personal Experience]
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