But then. .  .  .

I met a young woman (had a class with her) back in the late 1960s). She skied a lot. On her way back from a skiing weekend, her car, an Alfa Romeo, fritzed out on her. A male friend who was with her wanted to have the car towed back to town. She said, "No, that'll cost a fortune. I think I know what's wrong." The friend snorted derisively. But she got out and got under, "I was right," she said, as she crawled out from under the car. "And I can fix it myself. But we'll have to leave it here for now." The male friend was highly dubious. They managed to hook a ride back to town. Lotsa other skiers coming back from the pass.

The following Monday after work, she made a purchase from the service department of the foreign car dealer where she usually took the Alfa for service, got another friend to drive her back to her car parked off the side of the highway. She got under again and replaced a busted universal joint. Herself. Then she drove the Alfa back to town.

Nuthin' much purtier that a nice-lookin' woman dressed in her grubbies, with her hair all tousled and a smear of grease on her forhead.

My wife, Barbara, is a whiz at repairing leaky faucets. And a whole lot of things.

Don Firth