My Word's Worth: a weekly column by Marylaine Block

vol. 5, #32, March 20, 2000

SOMEONE ELSE'S PLANET

We had a plumbing emergency this weekend. Of course on the weekend; never yet has my furnace or water heater gone out, or my electricity died, or my toilet exploded on a weekday when professionals are on call at normal, non-overtime rates. But I did think that with better equipment I might conceivably be able to handle it myself, so I went out to Lowe's hardware superstore. And walked into an alternate universe.

There were entire aisles full of things I'd never seen before, with names I'd never heard before. I couldn't even have deduced whether some objects were part of the universe of plumbing or lighting or carpentry were it not for one or two identifiable objects in those aisles. This is despite the fact that I bought my house 18 years ago and learned right away that my hammer and screwdriver wouldn't do, not all by themselves. I have acquired a sizable tool kit and learned to cherish my needle-nosed pliers above all things; I have made small repairs to bikes and lawnmowers, assembled furniture and grocery carts, connected together stereo systems and computer components. And still when I venture into a hardware superstore I feel like a dimwit, as lost as Columbus when he landed on the wrong continent. More lost, even, since I at least KNOW I'm on the wrong continent.

It isn't just the words I don't recognize, like dado and fascia board and soffit and spandrel and closet auger (though I bought one of those). It's also the words I DO know, that mean something else altogether in hardwareland. To me, a biscuit is made out of flour and shortening, not wafers of wood; a blanket is insulation for people, not attics, and made out of wool, not fiberglass. To me, cripple is a rude word for the handicapped, ballcock assembly sounds vaguely indecent, and butt is a noun, not a verb. I sort of know that batten is something you put on hatches, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't recognize either of them.

And then there are, glory be, the words I DO recognize, like caulk -- until I find out there are at least 63 different varieties of it, for different purposes, and I am lost again.

As for auto maintenance, I don't even try. It would be nice to know what the mechanics are talking about when they say I need a new rack and pinion assembly and some kind of work on my transmission and power steering hoses and such, but I don't kid myself I could do any of this maintenance myself -- after all, it's only in the last 10 years that I've learned to pump my own gas (or needed to learn).

This alternate universe is almost entirely a world of men. Most of the customers are men. The people who are confidently asking by name for the bits and pieces and tools they need are men, while most of the people asking hesitantly for the thingamabobbies that cut off the water are women. Yes, of course there are women mechanics these days, and women in all the building trades; women are perfectly capable of mastering these skills. But somebody has to teach us how to be competent, and that's my question: how do men learn all this stuff?

Why they learn it is fairly clear, I think -- little boys, even those raised by feminist mothers, like to tinker and take things apart and rebuild them. They are comfortable with grease and dirt. Odds are, they figure some things out just by experimenting. But who teaches them what the parts are, and what all the different tools do, and how to diagnose what's wrong with machines and buildings? It's easy to say this is passed on from fathers to children, but not in my family -- my dad wasn't very adept at that sort of thing, and my ex didn't teach his electrical knowhow to our son.

Now maybe guys would be just as puzzled about the things I was taught to do. Maybe they'd be baffled when told to blanch vegetables, or macerate fruit or melt chocolate in a double boiler or cook the pasta till al dente. Maybe they'd wonder what our odd little devices -- the garlic press, the potato masher, the olive oil sprayer, or the pastry blender -- are used for, just as much as I wonder about the uses of grommets, and maybe they'd be equally floored by knitting and purling, or casting on and binding off. It's possible that my world would be an alternate universe for them.

If so, it's probably because families traditionally assigned specialized functions to each adult. After all, it's more efficient if some learn to do one kind of thing really well, while others specialize in something else, because then they can simply exchange their services.

Unfortunately, more and more of us are living alone, or raising kids all by ourselves. Men living alone are going to have to figure out how to saute or simmer or broil (or at least microwave), and learn which fabrics require drycleaning. Women on their own are going to have to learn how the toilet works, where the fusebox is, and how to turn off the gas, electricity and water in an emergency.

So I go back to the question: who's going to teach us basic competence? Some schools do still teach home economics and shop -- in my school, boys and girls had to take BOTH classes. That's a start. Maybe scout groups teach these kinds of skills (though I recall my scout days as being long on things like making pomander balls, and short on things like baking bread and making soup). Many stores have started teaching people basic skills like plumbing, sewing, woodworking, cooking and gardening so they can use the stores' products. Libraries and adult education courses are also doing their bit.

But I'm thinking that this is yet one more reason why families are worth the work it takes to hold them together. Not even just nuclear families, but extended families -- mom might not cook at all if it weren't for frozen food and microwaves, but granny knows how to make pot roast to die for, dad knows how to rebuild cars, and grandpa knows how to build a cabinet and install a hot water heater. Not only would we get the benefit of each other's skills; we'd have someone to teach them to the kids. We wouldn't have to grow up incompetent; we wouldn't have to grow up not even recognizing each other's universe.