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Column

The moral: Call the right man with the right tools

There’s nothing like a Toffee Bar Mocha Latte to cure writer’s block. If this doesn’t do it, I’m in big trouble.

I really have a story to tell, but I am struggling to write it without inflicting reader’s boredom (or writer’s doom). I’m thinking that I need to slow down a bit. When I get a burst of energy, I try to take advantage of it and then overdo. For each energy filled day, I need six to catch up. So if I have two in a row (which doesn’t happen often) I’m dormant for 12. Not a bad exchange, if you ask me.

Unfortunately, while I’m sitting in a catatonic state, the dust is accumulating, wash is piling up, cat hair is balling up in the corners, my to-do-list is growing, and Jerry is starving to death.

Speaking of Jerry, his big outings these days are his two therapy sessions each week. His shoulder is slowly improving, but not to the point where he can lift his arm, or hold it up. In the meantime, his left arm has been rendered as useless as his right one due to overuse.

We now have one good arm between us. Thus, when the new accordion-blinds came in, it was up to my one good arm to get them hung in the two windows in the spare bedroom. Simple, right?

Four little screws – that’s all – one for each bracket. How hard can that be? Just mark the spot, drill a hole, get out the Phillips screwdriver, and start turning that screw in. That skinny little screw was the longest, most stubborn I’ve ever seen. I found that it took more than just one good arm. I had to throw my whole body into this project.

The Phillips bit on the drill immediately started reaming out the head of the screw. Back to muscle power. Finally, I managed to get one shade up. By then, I was sweating bullets, my hand was red, sore, and promised to turn purple by the next day, my biceps were sagging, as well as my stamina and patience. And, I was only half done.

Determined, I pushed (on my bruised right hand) and turned that third screw, heaving my all into the project. Much later, the screw was within 1/16th of an inch from its destination. That sucker wouldn’t budge!

“OK, Jerry, I can’t do this anymore. I’m calling Gabe to see if he can stop by and get it in.”

One little text and five minutes later, our great-nephew Gabe was at our door. Gabe is in Cross Fit. As he came in the house, I looked at his biceps and said, “Oh yeah – that’s what we need!”

He walked in the spare room, went straight up to the window, and attacked that obstinate screw. It didn’t budge.

“I can’t do it. It won’t move,” he said. “I need the right tool. I’m going back home and getting ours.”

I have to admit, there’s sweet consolation in this scenario, for a mere girl. (Smiley face)

In no time flat, Gabe was back armed with their impact driver.

“I’ll be back up in a minute, Gabe, I have to put a load of clothes in the washer.”

Minutes later, I walked in the room.

“Jerry, where’s Gabe?”

“He left. It’s all done.”

I worked three and one-half hours getting two screws in and one 15/16ths of the way in. Gabe had the last two screws in good and tight within one minute. I could have been writing for the BCR that afternoon.

The moral: BEFORE investing blood, sweat and tears in a job, “call the right man with the right tools.”

• • •

Big news, folks. Jerry and I are rich! Got a call from Clearing House! Or do you really have to save the letter from them saying you’ve almost won? Don’t worry, I won’t spend it until they show up at my door with lights and microphones in my face, and hand me that two-foot wide, huge check. Then we can buy our own fancy tools. In the meantime, while I’m awaiting for them to arrive, I’ll just call Gabe. Love that man!

Don’t forget to F-R-O-G.

Note to readers: Earlene Campbell lives by the FROG motto — Fully Rely On God. She lives in Princeton and can be reached at earlenecampbell@rocketmail.com.

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