Jury rig and jerry built are two terms that sound similar, have roughly the same meaning but have two different origins. Jury rig is a nautical term and refers to repairs made while at sea. Jerry built comes from World War Two and was used to describe the German efforts to repair their various war machines. To jerry build something has a more make-shift, splash-dash, low quality element to the definition. It’s easy to see why. It’s hard to pay attention to the finer details of an engineering problem when you’re in the middle of Stalingrad.
There’s quite a bit of jerry building in the American character. Take for instance the transcontinental railroad. A monumental task of engineering, true, but the emphasis was to get the project completed. Short cuts were taken. Later, various parts were shorn up using the railroad itself to complete the task. This proclivity for “ad hocness” is reflected in American politics as well. FDR jerry built a federal policy out of an entire alphabet of agencies in order to tackle the problem of the Depression. And there is also a certain making-it-up-as-you-go-along element in the current administration. But that’s okay as long as something ends up working.
My dad was a jerry builder of first rank. Though his engineering projects were smaller in scale (mostly of the cost saving variety), they were non-the-less impressive.
His simplest apparatus was “the prop.” For example, when a couch leg snapped off dad would analyze the situation and then prop it up with a book or two. Some lesser quality JB engineers would leave it at that. But dad would be concerned enough to find the exact height necessary to avoid wobbling; he would test and adjust until that exact height was achieved. His favorite tools were volumes from the Golden Book Encyclopedia ®. When he was finished his prop would often last until the couch was carted off to the Salvation Army the next week.
Our house resembled a museum of Rube Goldberg throw-a-ways. When a refrigerator door failed to latch, Dad fixed it in no time flat with only a fist full of rubber bands and a small canister of Playdough ™. When the hall light when out, he was Johnny on the spot with an extension cord, a shop lamp, and a few of mom’s hair clips. I once saw him repair a three inch diameter hole in our screen door using a tube of model glue and a spool of black thread.
There was no household engineering dilemma that could defy him. I swear, if you gave him a Slinky ®, a pair of panty hose and a dab of peanut butter dad could fashion a better mouse trap.
In 1995 my mom died. Dad was consumed with grief. Occasionally, with the passage of time, there were flashes of the old dad. But, for the most part, he seemed lost in a gray fog. When things broke, they pretty much stayed broke until my brother Lowell had them repaired. My dad had fixed hundreds of things over his life, but the loss of my mom was something that broke him.
Dad passed away in September 2005. After the funeral I stopped by the house to have a cup of coffee with my brother, Lowell. When I arrived, Lowell smiled.
“Bro,” he said, “I’ve got something I want to show you.” He grabbed a flashlight and I followed him down the basement. “Check this out,” he said pointing the beam at the basement ceiling.
It took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at, and then all the pieces fit. Apparently some venting had needed repair. Dad had applied some elbow grease and fixed it using a plastic milk jug and massive amounts of duct tape.
I couldn’t help but smile.
JB Engineer First Class, to the last.
Next:
Charles Dickens and the Middle Class Way of Christmas
No comments:
Post a Comment