Things My Father Fixed Without Saying a Word

My father old man wasn’t much for words. In fact, if he said more than ten in a day, we used to joke that he’d need a nap to recover. But somehow, he managed to teach me everything I needed to know — not just about fixing things, but about facing life like a man.

He passed away three years ago, in his favorite recliner, watching an old Western with a half-eaten sandwich on his lap. Just like he’d have wanted. No drama. No hospital beeps. Just John Wayne, a roast beef sandwich, and peace.

But before he went, he left me with a toolbox. Not the rusty red one in the garage, though I got that too. I mean a mental toolbox — lessons disguised as sarcastic one-liners and greasy Saturday mornings under the hood of the truck.

Lesson One: “Don’t complain. Fix it.”
When I was 14, I crashed my bike into the neighbor’s mailbox. I limped home, wheeling my bent-up ride behind me, ready to cry and blame the wind or the dog or gravity. He took one look and handed me a wrench. “Don’t complain. Fix it.”
Didn’t even ask if I was hurt. Later I realized that was the point. Life doesn’t care how you feel about a problem — it only responds to what you do about it.

Lesson Two: “Tighten it once, then shut up.”
I was notorious for overthinking everything. Dating, college choices, even what socks to wear. One day while fixing a leaky sink together, I kept adjusting the same bolt. “Tighten it once,” he said, “then shut up. You’ll just strip it if you keep fussing.”
He wasn’t just talking about plumbing. He meant life, decisions, relationships. Sometimes, good enough is good enough. Make your call, stand by it, and move on.

Lesson Three: “Never trust a man who doesn’t own a shovel.”
This one baffled me for years. But after I met a few smooth-talking, all-show-no-go types in my twenties, I understood. If a guy doesn’t know how to dig — literally or metaphorically — he’ll probably leave you buried when things get hard.

Lesson Four: “Say what you mean. Mean what you say.”
Dad wasn’t poetic. He didn’t do long talks. But when he spoke, it meant something. He once told me he loved me after I totaled my car in college — but in the same breath, he said, “You’re paying the deductible, though.” That was his version of balance.

Lesson Five: “Make your coffee strong, your word stronger.”
He drank it black as sin and bitter as truth. But it wasn’t about the coffee. It was about being solid. Being reliable. He said a man’s word should mean more than his handshake, his business card, or his bank account.

When he died, he didn’t leave behind wealth. Just a workshop full of old tools, a stack of notebooks with to-do lists, and that familiar scent of oil and sawdust. But somehow, that was enough.

These days, when I catch myself frustrated, or second-guessing, or just being soft in the middle of a tough moment, I think of him standing in the garage with a coffee mug and a raised eyebrow, probably muttering something like, “Well, figure it out, genius.”

And I do.

Because that’s what he taught me.