He could fix anything. A squeaky door? He’d hear it from two rooms away. A wobbly table? He’d eye it, grab a napkin, and shove it under the leg. Problem solved.
I once brought him a broken lamp. It was a sad, tangled mess of wire. He looked at it, grunted, and handed it back working in under five minutes. Magic? Nah. Just pure, stubborn competence.
I, on the other hand, can barely assemble IKEA furniture without crying. He never judged me for it. But he did give me that look. You know the one. The “bless your heart” look.
His Superpower: Silence
He wasn’t a talker. That was my job. I’d ramble about work, politics, or my latest gardening failure. He’d just nod, sip his coffee, and say, “Hmm.”
But that “hmm” was everything. It could mean “I agree,” “I think you’re full of it,” or “pass the biscuits.” It was a multi-purpose sound. A Swiss Army knife of approval.
He taught me that being present is more important than being loud. And honestly? I’m still bad at that. But I’m trying.
