I Am Not a Mechanic

I can cook and bake from scratch; I can sew; I can sing; I can draw a half-decent picture; I can write a story; I can speak to a crowd without getting nervous. But I am not a mechanic. I cannot hammer a nail in straight no matter how often I try. I am just about as bad trying to take nails out with the other end of the hammer. I know a car won't run without gas and where to put gas in so it will keep going, but that's about it.
So why was I standing on a bucket shining a timing light down into the bowels of a truck this afternoon? Only because there was no one else here to do it.
Gerald explained over and over how things worked under that hood and what we were trying to accomplish. He was going to make some adjustments on another part and I was to shine the timing light way down there "where that jagged line is and tell me if the mark moves." I saw the jagged line but I could not see the mark. He shut the truck off, crawled underneath, and put his finger on the mark. Oh! That faint little line. OK. Now I see it.
So he starts up the truck and I shine the light way down south. But the light flashes with every revolution of the gizmo and I cannot see the mark when it is running.
Finally, I am dismissed with, "Go back in the house. You did what you needed to do."
After raising five sons, I have heard enough talk about cars to know setting the timing is a delicate matter and he does not yet have it where he wants it. But I go back in the house smiling inside at the irony of the situation.
In the house, I am in familiar territory and know what I am doing. Don't ask me to help with something mechanical unless you enjoy getting frustrated. I am not a mechanic.