My father could fix anything. A true tinkerer. Perhaps that’s where I get it from.

When that old stereo failed to belt out the arena rock at a suitable volume, he loved taking the panel off and diving right in. He taught me how to solder. How to clean components. And sometimes he made it up as he went along. Occasionally there was a piece or two left over—and in a drawer. But whatever he fixed worked!

Yet, I don’t ever recall him building anything. Rebuild, yes. I remember how much he loved restoring that ’49 Chevy pickup. And the ’71. He loved his Chevrolets made with real steel.

Admittedly, I wasn’t around much. Maybe he did light construction I was unaware of. Framed a wall. Finished a room. I vaguely recall he wasn’t a fan of swinging a hammer—or at least smashing a thumb. Wait, that could’ve been me…

Imagine how blown away I was as a child, when I saw someone actually use graph paper to sketch out a room. A house. With numbers and calculations and everything. And then build that internal wall. And stand it up. And it actually fits.

Truly building!

So many power tools. And he taught me how to use them. Safely.

Because he loves all of his fingers and toes too. His brother had one finger missing from an accident. And no teeth. But I digress.

I recall building the house they still live in as money permitted. There was no real hurry—that drafty trailer house his grandmother left him provided some shelter. It was a truly glorious day when we moved into that new construction.

And how well constructed it was. I may never know how much of that was by design. Versus by accident.

Not drafty at all. In fact, the entire house made a “Woosh” sound whenever a door—or window—opened. A change in air pressure. Not the most desirable quality when I or my little sister, with our simmering teenage hormones, decided to be sneaky fuckers and slip out of the house, unnoticed, only to find we were locked out upon our return.

Certainly, worse punishment than coming home with a light on… yet, the point is how well constructed something only a handful of people can build.

I’m no longer a child. Yet, I was truly a li’l shit during the time in my life when I was asked to help work on the house. That and gardening. And hunting for fresh meat. The little things that’d be nice to know for… survival.

No, but I can probably fix that seven foot long console stereo that no longer works. Or that jukebox that plays 45’s… even if those are getting hard to find. Hell, I can probably get that ancient iPod buried in your desk working. My 20-year-old one has had parts… replaced.

Perhaps, learning to fix things and make them last… forever… attributes to my sense of scarcity. But I digress again.

Currently, I am faced with an opportunity. A truly new direction. Project management for a physical project. Running a staff/household where there will be gardening. And light construction. Work hard. Play hard. And plenty of time to watch my own dreams unfold.

And I’m terrified. Even if I fantasize about building my own place one day. And lament not having paid attention. At least I can read a blueprint. And understand why certain components are placed where they are, demands from the physical world. Plus, this opportunity will require me to let go of my judgments. And to see the abundance in the universe. And to build something tangible. Not just ghosts in the machine. All good things!

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to build something. And discover abundance along the way. And leave something behind that can’t just be deleted with a keystroke or a click.