Toys and Tools

Oh, to be young again. Can you recall those carefree days of your youth when a toy was anything you put your hands on? As a child your imagination ran wild. Toilet paper tubes were made into binoculars. As you got older, you graduated to the paper towel tube and made it into a telescope. Later yet, you discovered the wrapping paper tube and sword fights ensued. Blankets and chairs were tents and hideouts, and cardboard boxes were a free-for-all.

As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.

“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.

My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.

“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.

It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.

Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.

This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.

“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.

Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”