My father died of heart failure at a relatively young age (56) ten years ago, but because it’s his birthday (and because the most exciting thing I did today was clean the shed gutter), I’m going to share a bit of Waldbieser family history.
I inherited whatever writing ability I have from my dad, but he was definitely not what you’d call handy. Case in point, this story, which has become a family legend. My father once bought a bookshelf, the kind you assemble at home with a hex key. Or rather, the kind most people with even an ounce of aptitude for building things do. Alas, not my dad.
Never one to read directions, he struggled for a few hours with screws and boards, called us kids for advice, and finally cursed it all. So it was a surprise to see the shelves in his living room one day. But on closer inspection, they weren’t assembled so much as they were propped up by the boxes of books inside. That’s right, instead of the shelves holding up the books, the books were holding up the shelves.