Mr. Fix It

It’s amazing what my husband can fix.

Of course, George has always been mechanically minded.  Owning and operating an automobile repair business for thirty some-odd years might have had something to do with it.

His motto has always been, if it’s broke, try fixing it first – and over the years, he’s saved us more money than a Conservative minority government in a recession. Take, for example his golf cart.

Now, if anyone loves golf and golf paraphernalia, it’s George.  His clubs and cart are the tools that allow him to stride up and down those fairways with reckless abandon, thoroughly enjoying the pure rush of adrenaline he gets from making a “good shot”.   In fact, George would cancel life saving surgery if one of his golf buddies suggested that they could squeeze in 18 holes that day.

So when his aging golf cart gave up the ghost, he knew it was time to take serious action. 

I should tell you, though, that this cart had been through some pretty major surgery of its own in recent years.  One wheel had fallen off, and George replaced it with another – never mind that it didn’t match the first.  When subsequent parts and pieces broke, he duct taped them together in such a way that even Red Green would have been proud.

But even repairs have a life expectancy, and George came to the conclusion that he may have to replace this cart.  So off he went in search of the perfect club caddy.

One day when I got home from work, he announced, “I got myself a new golf cart,” proudly indicating the Bag Boy in the corner of the garage.  Fully expecting him to tell me he had driven to Golf Town, or to the local Canadian Tire, to find his purchase, I began mentally tallying up the “hit” our bank account must have taken that day.  Naturally, no brand name cart was going to come in at anything under a cool “C-note”.

“I went to the used sports equipment store downtown and paid 10 bucks for it,” he beamed with enthusiasm. “Ten bucks?”, I repeated incredulously. “How did you get away with only paying ten bucks for a Bag Boy?”

“It was broken,” he said, with that wicked, self-satisfied grin.  “And I fixed it.”

There should be a Nobel Prize for Recycling. Something named “Better Living Through Repairing.”

If there was, he’d win it. 

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