My mom claimed I was born with a screwdriver in my hand, butt first...
One of my first Christmas gifts was a blue-handled screwdriver from the little blue metal tool kits that were popular in the '60s. I kept that screwdriver with me every minute of the day and slept with it by my head.
Unbeknown to my parents, there was a switch plate and an AC outlet located adjacent to my crib within reach through the vertical bars.
You can imagine the horror and shock when my mother discovered I had removed both the electrical receptacle and the switch and put them back in reverse locations!
I somehow used my trusty blue-handled screwdriver to remove the face plates and all the HOT wires on the sides of the devices and successfully switch them and reconnect all the wires without being shocked or killed.
Of course I was too young to know this story actually happened, but I was reminded of it by my father for the next twenty-plus years, so I know it is true!
...Then there was the time I wanted my slot car to go faster by wiring it to a fork and inserting it in the hallway AC outlet. Pop!
I was that kind of kid, too. My parents used to tell relatives who asked what they should get me for my birthday or Christmas to just make sure it had a wire or battery, could be taken apart, or was potentially explosive. (Chemistry sets were a blast back then -- literally.)
This tendency to tinker with things was helped along by my uncle, who was whatever the Navy called electronics technicians during WWII; a semi-retired TV repairman named Nick who lived next store and who would sit me on his lap while fixing televisions in his kitchen, starting when I was an infant, explaining everything he did; and a car mechanic named Keirnan (who also holds the distinction of being the only black guy named Keirnan I've ever known) whom I
pestered helped fix cars on the weekends from age 6 on.
It was Nick who taught me about flyback transformers, the old-school way. When he lifted me off his lap to use the head, he pointed to the second anode lead and said "Don't touch that." And when he heard the chair knocked over and the back of my head hitting the wall, he yelled "I told you not to touch that" from the bathroom.
With my uncle's encouragement, I built my first radio when I was 6. By the time I was 10, I was fixing TV's for neighbors. It was usually a matter of either cleaning tuners, adjusting pots to correct drift, or tracking down errant vacuum tubes and replacing them. When I was stumped, Nick would help me out. And when I was 14, I was doing tune-ups on neighbors' cars (and "test-driving" them). Keirnan had already taught me to drive down by the docks on weekends starting when I was about 10.
Which reminds me of my road test when I was 16 or 17. The examiner gave me a sideways glance and asked me how long I'd been driving. I answered honestly and told him since I was 10. Amazingly, he passed me anyway.
I wouldn't change any of it. Between what those three men taught me about electricity and cars, what my father taught me about carpentry, and what I learned in high school shop classes, there are very few things I can't fix myself. There are things that I
choose to pay others to fix because I don't have the tools or because they're unpleasant jobs that I don't care to do myself; but in almost all cases, it's a choice.
Rich