Usually, you’re just going about your day, operating on all the assumptions that go with it. When you turn on the bathroom switch, the lights will come on. There are enough eggs in the refrigerator for both of you. Your car will start when it’s time to go to work. Everything is just fine. 

Then one day you are on your beach vacation, staying in an adorable rustic bungalow, the kind of place where you shower outside and find a bright green frog the size of a quarter peeking out of your loofa. 

It is day four, and the only decisions you really have to make are what time to go set up for another day on the beach and whether this will be one of your “eat out” nights or will you cook spaghetti or chicken Tikka Masala at home. It’s tough, this vacation life, when life’s biggest hassles are the application of sunscreen and trying to keep sand out of your sheets. 

Except. On day four, you are packing the cooler with drinks, sandwiches, and crackers while your spouse is packing the trunk of the car with floats and towels, and you decide to eat this one plum you saw just sitting there on the counter before taking off for the beach. But when you turn on the faucet to wash it, there is no water.  

And there’s your frozen moment. You stare at the faucet and at the plum underneath it, still purple and still dry, and you turn it on again, as if maybe the problem was with your form. Then you do it three more times, as it gradually becomes real to you that THERE IS NO WATER. 

When the moment thaws a little, you do a quick brain scan to determine whether there is any chance in hell that you might know what to do in this situation, some previous “out of water” emergency that you figured out how to fix, maybe by checking a breaker or something. 

Nope, nothing.  

So you do what you always do in times like these. 

“TAMMY!!!!” 

In 20 years of marriage, it has long since become clear that Tammy is the fixer in the house, while I am more of your classic “call the man” type. My dad was the same way and so, for that matter, was my mother.  

There were no fixers in my home growing up. If something went wrong with anything — the car, the stove, the lawn mower, the dog — what we did was call someone with expertise in that particular area. A mechanic, a repairman, a veterinarian. In short, people who knew what to do. 

Also — and this part is just as crucial in terms of my essential worldview, such as it is — I developed my “call the man” philosophy from a specific episode of “The Andy Griffith Show,” the one where Aunt Bee buys a side of beef and the freezer stops working, so she wants to store the meat at Mr. Foley’s, who is a local butcher, even though she did not buy the meat from him. Andy’s not having it, telling her at least half a dozen times to “call the man” to fix the freezer because he can’t fix it and neither can she. Gomer Pyle comes over to try, but only manages to make things worse. 

In our situation, I’m Gomer, staring dumbly at whatever is wrong, like a cow watching a helicopter that won’t fly. But not Tammy. 

Tammy grew up in a different kind of house, one where even if you knew the man to call, there was probably not enough money available to pay him, so you better damn well learn to fix it yourself. So that’s what she does. 

There is nothing she won’t tackle, which I am sure would include a helicopter if we ever buy one. I’ve seen her fix garbage disposals, refrigerators, laptops, vacuum cleaners, automobiles, iPhones, door frames, faulty locks, warped floors, and dogs. And children. Nearly forgot those. 

She’s fixed them up dozens of times, but they’re grown now and off doing their own thing, and now, at this particular moment, we don’t have any water. 

Unfortunately, after 15 minutes of troubleshooting, she couldn’t really guess what was wrong with the water at the bungalow, so I called Jerry, the owner, who said the problem was probably an issue with the water pump. He’s an electrician and thought maybe he could explain it to us, but then again we would have to remove the lid from the wiring panel and then snap a hinge, which could be a little dangerous since we would be messing with some very high voltages. I wouldn’t even know how to explain what he told me to our resident fixer. 

I was already brainstorming ways to get by for another three full days and nights with no water while Jerry was apologizing for the inconvenience, when Tammy yelled from the pumphouse, “Think I got it. Give it a try now.” 

“Hold on just a minute, Jerry.” 

I walked over to the sink, turned on the faucet, which seemed to hiss and then spit at me, and then the water poured out. When order is restored, it’s really kind of glorious. 

“Never mind, Jerry. Tammy fixed it.” 

“She did? For real?” he said, laughing. “Tell her I could just kiss her. That will save me a trip, or an expensive call.” 

Tammy popped into the kitchen, grinning. Of course she was. The fixer, taking a little bow. 

“Nice having water again, right? You ready to go to the beach?” 

I washed that plum and ate it on the way. I said this little prayer: thank you, Lord, for the fixers.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Haywood County. This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)