I remember one day back in the summer several years ago when my garage door stuck halfway open (or halfway closed depending on your outlook on life), and I was unable to get my car out. I immediately called my Father, because, as luck would have it, he used to be a garage door repairman.
My Father, although now ‘getting on’ in age, has always been an extremely active, fit and popular member of the local community; the sort of person that would do anything to help anyone and would never moan or complain.
My Father arrived, gave me a big hug and got straight down to work. Most of his life had been spent working on steel doors, the sort manufactured by Crawford Marvel-Lift, mainly steel panels with complicated springs, levers and catches, which is exactly what got him involved in this business in the first place.
My garage door, however, was made of wood, although it did still rely on a series of levers, springs and counter weights to ensure its smooth up and over operation. The problem here though, which my Father quickly identified, was a broken wooden panel which was jamming the door and preventing it from moving any further. The only answer apparently was to replace the panel with a new one which my Father would have to craft from whatever material he could find lying around.
At this point, I had to leave him to it as I had some other things to take care of. I made off to the house and suggested that he call me if he needed anything, knowing that him calling me for help would be the absolute last resort and he would rather spend the extra time solving the problem himself.
Some time later I wandered back towards the garage to find my Father clearing up after himself and putting away his tools. He proudly showed me his successful repair job and explained where he found the material to make the new panel.
It was at this point that I realised he had somehow found an old childhood desk of mine which had long been lost in the back of the garage. In fact it was a desk that my Father had originally made me when I was only 6 years old. So, there we stood, my garage door fixed with a piece of wood which had now been lovingly crafted by my Father for me twice over the space of around 40 years – how’s that for enduring love?