I walked into the kitchen the other day, only to discover that my sins had found me out. 

And who else to show me, but my dear lovely wife.  It’s a wonder some unseen force didn’t stop her mouth cold when it came to uttering the words that sealed her life with mine.

Her life since that day has surely had its questions, much as her parents have had.

She had notified me, only a few times, maybe 3 or 4, that her oven door handle was getting quite loose in its fastening to the door and wondered if I could take a look at it.

I told her I could.

I know I did. 

But I didn’t.

And so, on the aforesaid day, the day of my reckoning, I walked into the kitchen with a light and merry heart.

Until I saw the oven door.

It didn’t resemble itself anymore.  It was completely divested.  If a Western Kansas tornado had ran its path through our kitchen, it couldn’t have done a better job of dismantling that door.

And there sat my dear wife, on the floor, with pieces of it in her lovely hands, and a perplexed look on her sweet face.

Me.  Me to the rescue. 

I could do this.  Hadn’t I worked at John Deere for 7 years and been referred as a somewhat competent mechanic?  (Of course, depending on who you asked.)

We’d have this in a couple of minutes.

The challenge soon presented itself in the form of a small marital spat.

My good wife had taken it apart, and she felt compelled to tell me what piece went where.  I felt just as compelled to tell her that something wasn’t adding up with her descriptions.

For one thing, she was quite sure she knew which hole that the screws were to go in.  The problem being, the hole didn’t have any threads.

I pointed this out to her. (Very kindly of course)

She just as righteously told me that was exactly where she had taken it out.

We carried on, back and forth for a few minutes.  She was guiltless, like usual, and I was guilty, like usual. 

Crowding my mind was the continual thought that if I had tightened that handle earlier, it would have taken only two twists with a screwdriver on two very visible screws and . . .

I didn’t blame my good wife for taking it all apart.  She was doing the best she could.

I finally said we might have to call the local hardware store service man out to put it back together for us. 

Our back and forth solutions weren’t solutions, after all, and 20 minutes into the project we were no farther along than at the beginning.

But then I saw it.  She had been right all along about where those screws went.  She didn’t realize, though, that she was holding the piece they screwed into against the door backwards of what it should have been. 

In a couple of minutes, we had it.

And I was able to play the hero after all, because the spring hinge required me to hold the door piece in place with my forehead and chin, whilst aligning the hole with an icepick with one hand and angling the screw through and starting it turning with a screwdriver with the other hand.

All in one motion.

Just now, the cat aroused himself from the invoices he was laying on and gave me a look. 

I had better get busy, or I’ll have another oven door on my hands.