My children have three Grandpas. They have my Father, my
Father-in-law and their Dad. My husband is a 34-year-old Grandpa. He gardens.
He can fix anything. He saves everything and he does quirky little things that
only a Grandpa does like create makeshift tomato cages out of scrap metal.
Yesterday he took his Grandpa tendencies to a whole new level.
I was walking out the door headed for clogging practice when
I remembered that I had forgotten, for the fourth consecutive week, to take my
shoes to the shoe repair shop. For those of you unfamiliar with clogging shoes
(and I bet there are many), the taps are connected to the bottom of the shoes
with small nails. The soles of the shoes are about as thick as a piece of
cardboard and the point of the nails in my right shoe had poked through the
padding and into my foot. It was painful and I was forced to clog in tennis
shoes, one of the seven deadly clogging sins. I told my husband about my
problem and he said, in a commanding voice, “Bring me the shoes.”
His face lit up and I was skeptical but I decided to humor
him. Maybe he could fix my shoes. He managed to save our lawnmower from
complete ruin several times motivated solely by his own unwillingness to drop
$150 on a new mower. My clogging shoes cost about $75. I knew that was
motivation enough to at least give fixing them a go. I brought them into the
kitchen and waited for him to return from the one domain in our house that I do
not enter willingly: our detached garage. It is filled with enough random crap
to make my head spin so I choose to deny its existence.
Amongst the random crap exists a cobbler’s hammer. Did
anyone know that there was such a thing as a cobbler’s hammer? I didn’t. I
pictured the shoe repair with some magical little tool that could exert enough
force to smash a nail inside the 1.5 inch toe area of a shoe. I’m an idiot. My
husband took his rusty old cobbler’s hammer (a large, heavy two-sided hammer),
took the laces out of my shoes and whacked them with enough force to make my
daughter cry. That was all it took. The shoes were fixed. My husband had been
waiting ten years for the opportunity to put that cobbler’s hammer to use. I
hope it was worth the wait.