My Father, the Handyman

My Father, the Handyman

My father’s baking skills were legendary. Whenever we had guests for dinner, his bread was the star of the evening. He never used recipes. With time, his breads became more and more unusual, until one evening he added figs to his dough. Another time, it was medlars. Luckily, the large clock in the hall stopped working soon after the medlar experiment. My father knew nothing about clocks, but he firmly believed you could fix anything by studying its insides. He managed to fix the clock by removing a large coil, which he concluded had caused the clock to malfunction just by being there. When I was 14, my father decided to build a house in the country. He knew nothing about building, so he decided this was a good time to learn. He wanted it to be circular like a tent, but his architect friend said there was no way he could make it stand. His next project was an octagon, but that too was refused. He ended up with a drawing of a hexagonal house, which was a bit too ordinary for him, but his friend gave it the green light. In the years to come, he had the pleasure of building it, brick by brick. He told me he had never been bored in his life. There was always something that needed fixing in this world, whether it was people, or things.  My father has been gone for 27 years, but the clock is still working, even though that coil has been removed. I imagine some of his patients are out there too, though they must be quite old now. The house is still standing too. No one bakes these days, though I have been meaning to learn.  

GloPoWriMo Day 20 - a handmade gift