When I was a kid, it seemed to me that my dad was constantly out in the garage working on some mechanical project. I was his gofer on these projects, and I especially remember the pressure of being asked to fetech him a specific-size crescent wrench.
In the corner of his shop was a huge, steel cabinet with assorted drawers, one of which contained about six thousand crescent wrenches. The sizes on these grease-covered tools were sometimes difficult to read, and it was always with an edge of trepidation that I would hand him any wrench. My dad, however, through some mystery of nature, always knew exactly what size he needed for the job at hand. It only took him a nanosecond to say, “Nope, that’s not it.”
I started thinking about those famous “bolts” in the neck of Frankenstein’s monster, and that in turn sparked the memory of those stormy lightning-filled nights when my dad, with his own little Igor, tried to bring life to a dead lawnmower.
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