The complaints were registered in rapid fire fashion. “Dad, the side gate to the backyard won’t latch.” “Dad, the back gate is broken.” Really? Two gates broken. A backyard full of boys. I suspected foul play.

Grabbing my tool box, I headed back. As I tightened bolts and bent metal back into shape, I smiled. My dad had done this for me. Many times. He had also made repairs. Countless repairs of items that I had broken in my carefree youth. Plus, I never remember him complaining. I never remember him saying, “David, you knucklehead. What were you thinking?” I just remember him fixing it. No blame. No guilt. Just making it right again.

One time, I had broken a second story window, while throwing snowballs (okay, more like ice balls) at the house. If ever I deserved a what for, that was it. I deserved to be taught a lesson. Looking back however, I just remember him fixing it. Fixing it and moving on.

As I repaired the mysteriously bent fence, I smiled. I smiled and just fixed it. I love my boys, just as my dad loved me. It was time, time to move on. My dad had done a good job, I had learned my lesson well.