Flash Fiction by Anthony Schneider

I had an uncle who could fix things. He fixed transistor radios, using scraps of tin foil, ends of toothpicks and chewing gum. Irons, toasters, hair dryers and the like came back to life with his delicate ministrations and, possibly, a new power cable or fuse.

He fixed broken furniture, staircases, sheds, dipping into his canvas bag of brackets, his jam jar full of screws and nails, with his trusty saw and bits of wood, various glues, his dusty drill and a lick of varnish or paint.

He specialized in old clocks, grandfather clocks and what have you, antiques. The big pendulum regulator wall clock in the church rectory had never worked, or so it seemed. Even a broke clock is right twice a day, said every priest and many a parishioner. Well, they had to stop making that joke, after my uncle got the pendulum swinging again.

Grandmothers, it turned out, grew attached to their grandfather clocks. If there was insect damage, from woodworm or powderpost beetles, he’d slice out the infested wood and replace it, mixing brown, red and black paint to match the old clock’s color. He would take out the weights, re-hang them, and put it all back together again. Before long the thing would be ticking merrily, pendulums swinging, glass dome sparkling.

He could not fix a marriage, not his own anyway. His wife said their romantic love had ended. You’re a fixer not a finder, she said, not unkindly. So he packed up his tools and clothes and found another, smaller house, with another, smaller workshed.

He couldn’t fix his mother. She died of cancer after a long, hard battle, and he couldn’t fix that.

Text © Anthony Schneider