I may have related this elsewhere, to some extent, but not with today’s perspective.

We’ve all heard the adage, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

I find that phrase to be utter anathema.

I know people who are content to comply with this world of planned obsolescence, those who sigh and buy the next version of something when the original is just a little dog eared or prone to outage, yet “serviceable.” (See also, Contrived Durability, Limited Lifespan, even Perceived Obsolescence…warning: this is a rabbit hole that will chafe even the most compliant consumer falling all the way down where we’re going.)

Similarly, I know people who Do Not Dabble. They are fine with shrugging off the Responsibility of Repair, these being those who say, “I’m a Doctor, Jim, I’m not an engineer.”

Meanwhile, I argue that the broken need mended. The obsolete need revisited and resurrected. The Misfit Toys, after all, do rally and save the day!

The charge is ours, every man jack a repairman.

And while that might not be wholly unacceptable, I must, of course, press on. You see, I find that every thing can benefit from additional attention…yes, even things that are currently functioning within spec…as per design parameters…according to Hoyle. (BTW on Hoyle…)

Here’s the curious thing: I do not know why I can not leave everyone else’s well-enough alone.

It’s not like I’m good at fixing things.

I live on a “hobby farm” (sidebar: no hobby horses here, by the way) and on that farm I have a project, or two, or ten. I have hoarded up so very many One Day’s and Wanna Be’s and stored up so very much Potential Energy in my collective crap that it gets trippy. It does. It trips me up sometimes. Once in a while with glee, but more often with guilt, for I feel I’m neglecting things when I’m not fixing them. All this is to say I start more projects than I finish, and I intend to accomplish some fix on All The Things if ever I get around to it.

And now here it is, just past 345 words into this blog post that I am surprised to find the impetus of the whole thing.

Just last Saturday, we were on a family trip that encompassed Minden, Nebraska, and the folksy Pioneer Village Museum. It’s the kind of place that boasts of being “Authentic Americana,” the sort of stop you would find at my favorite travel site, Roadside America, which does, indeed, give Harold Warp’s Pioneer Village quite the send up. (Poke around that site and don’t miss the Muffler Man coverage.)

The Harold Warp Pioneer Village complex comprises 28 buildings on 20 acres housing over 50,000 irreplaceable items of historical value, and while that is, indeed true, something of a midwestern Smithsonian by my measure, its effect on me was not wholly what Mr. Warp intended. (Read up on his intentions, noble as they are, for yourself on site or on the website on your own dime.)

As we meandered from building to building, I was reminded over and over at just how gosh-darn rock solid things were made. I was increasingly irritated at our throw-away society and our shameful disregard for preserving our planet and our self-respect. I was fuming by about the 10th building, after seeing things hand-fashioned of iron and iron will and leather and sweat equity. I am certain one could take a 100 year old plow, say, from that museum, strap it to a horse, and get to work with it. Can’t say the same of my smart phone nor my plastic Ford. Landfills, meanwhile, are burgeoning over with waste, some of it toxic, all of it due to our negligence and—

I was on a nostalgia bender, fueled in part by the hard evidence all around me that the good ol’ days were stocked with, truly, pretty durable goods. In those times, I might have fit in. I might have been a traveling tinker. Maybe a cobbler. Possibly a blacksmith. I could have worked with my hands and supported the longevity of many things.

I think I was fixin’ to go on a tirade. As we neared the museum’s exit, I was already composing a diatribe that I could have belted out for all the 265 miles home.

My family was spared, however, simply because of a bowl of wooden tokens in the gift shop—that’s right, the token “Round Tuit.” Dwelling on all that goofy pun could bring me took us all home with me largely muted and reflective.

I wish I would have bought the bowlful. They are cheesy and dated and elicit the dad-joke-groan; however, they also epitomize a mindset I still value.

I don’t need the reminder of the wooden token. I know there are so many things I always claim I’ll accomplish whenever I get “around to it.”

I did, finally, get around to it and write a novel or two.

I know that is why my farm and home may be cluttered with so very many projects that I will not live long enough to see to completion. I know it’s why I’m a fix it man. It’s also why I write (openly, publicly now, with ever-less embarrassment).

I think by fixing things, by creating things…somehow maybe I’m going to live past my extended warranty.