Mechanically Dyslexic
When my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was alive, she would comment on my mechanical skills saying thet I was mechanically retarded. I told her that I preferred to be called mechanically dyslexic. She wasn’t far from wrong. My brain was wired to be creative and not logical. My carpentry and electrical skills are minimal at best. I managed to install several ceiling fans in my home without setting a fire, blowing a fuse box, or electrocuting myself.
Yesterday was an example of my lack of mechanical dexterity. I accompanied a friend to West Virginia. She was to have a procedure that required anesthesia and she asked if I owould drive her back home afterward because she would not be allowed to drive for twenty-four hours. Because we are good friends, I readilly accepted. She drove ther truck down to the hospital because she likes to drive and sfter all, it was her truck.
When the procedure was over, I was told to go outside and fetch the truck. No big deal, right? But because I’d never driven her truck, I had to first adjust the seat. I couldn’t squeeze my long legs and chubby body beneath the steering wheel. Once that was accomplished, I looked at her keyring to find the magic key that would start her vehicle.
There were about ten keys hanging from the fob on a ring, most looked like house keys or keys to a padlock and none would fit into the trucks lock. I tried. I kept sorting through them, looking at the ring and the fob. There was nothing that resembled a key that would allow me to start the engine.
The starting system on my car was completely different. I needed to have my fob in my car with push button starter on my car’s dashboard and there was nothing that resembled a key or the push button start with her keyring. When I looked up, I could see her waiting in a wheelchair at the hospital’s entrance. With no other options, I decided to leave the truck, walk upa and ask her which key.
She had seen the truck hadn’t moved and was wondering why? When I handed her the keys, she pressed a small, unmarked raised chrome button on the fob and much to my surprise, a hidden key emerged like a miniature switchblade. I was thoroughly impressed. I’d never seen a key like that. The rest of the drive home was uneventful. We stopped for breakfast and chuckled at my mistake.