A Monkey Wrench in the Works

I'm not a mechanical person. By that I don't mean that I'm not a robot; I'm not, but that isn't the point that I'm trying to make. I mean that I am not gifted from on high with the knowledge that is required to fix things, be they electronic, analog, or wood, for that matter. I spent a great deal of my childhood trying in vain to recall what exactly a monkey wrench looked like. I could use it in a sentence, but when sent to fetch one from the overflowing toolbox that equipped my father’s every home repair project, I was more or less reduced to shoving my hand in and grabbing the first thing that fell into it.

Now obviously, sometimes that would be a screwdriver or some such, and I would intuitively know, cunning creature that I am, that a monkey wrench would not probably come in flat-edge or Phillips configurations. Thus the hunt would begin again. Too often, though, I would not be able to readily name the tool that I had found, and so would hopefully proffer it to my father, who would then be reduced to saying something like, “For crying out loud, Katherine, that’s a socket wrench!”

I say this by way of explaining my firmly held belief that all around us are magical wonders. For example, when I fly, I find it necessary to pull firmly upward on the armrests during the entire flight, afraid that, should I stop believing in the airplane, it will fall. This is why flying is so stressful for me. I mean, what if those around me are some sort of airline infidels and start doubting whatever imps are at work holding up the wings? Then where would I be? Plummeting towards the Atlantic, most likely.

Now I want you to understand, before you start deriding the public school system, that I was home-schooled for five years; this is not my mother’s fault. The belief in magic, I mean. Many, many teachers of science and mathematics, including my poor mother, struggled in vain to acquaint me with the use of physics and geometry to understand how the world works. And I did all right in math and science, mind you, but at some point my poor mechanically challenged mind could no longer follow the complicated explanations, and so I had to fall back on the thought that somewhere there must be a supernatural force at work.

I marvel at people like my father and my dear husband, who can wrestle electrical wiring with their bare hands and win, or who seem to instinctively be able to discover which blackish lump beneath the hood is the one that tells me whether I have enough oil. I mean, I look under there and it just looks like one of those modern art pieces, as though if I look hard enough I will see some creatively desecrated crucifix, in the fashion of so many starving artists these days.

I just can’t conceive that all those parts are supposed to do something, or that they all somehow make my car go when I tell it to. I always have just a moment of doubt, before I turn the key in the ignition, that the car will obstinately decide that it no longer wants to run errands with me, because it knows I am just going to abandon it in some hot parking lot while I examine all the charming blouses in the shops downtown. There is no reason for this hesitation except that I cannot quite puzzle out why it should go when I tell it to and stop in the same fashion.

You can imagine, then, my trepidation with computers. I don’t mind using them – and they’re useful for all sorts of things. Writing this chapter, for instance, and writing letters to people in Australia that I’ve never met but that seem simply delightful. But a computer involves all sorts of scientific concepts that are beyond my ken. When mine suddenly goes on the fritz, as it is wont to do from time to time, I am helpless but for the thought that I should perhaps offer some sort of peace offering. What, I don’t know. A new toner cartridge?

My dealings with the technology at my disposal, then, are necessarily limited. I have my favorite programs, which I use gingerly, as one might use Grandma’s china. I am flummoxed by even the smallest misbehavior of these programs, and completely undone by even the slightest reprimand that there has been an “exception at” some string of numbers and letters that must mean something to someone.

One benefit, though, of not knowing the mechanics of things electrical and technological is that I don’t seem to take them for granted. I am always mildly pleased when, say, the toaster continues to work in the morning, or that the coffee maker continues to make my coffee every day despite the fact that I’ve overfilled the poor thing twice and I accidentally reproved it the other day for not reminding me to fill the hopper with coffee before starting it.

So perhaps you will not think me quite so mad now when you see me get the children out of the car on a shopping expedition. Perhaps you will sympathize with me as I lock the doors carefully and, just before setting my sights on the grocery door, give the car a quick little pat of reassurance. You see, I’m not a mechanical person.