How they acquired such ability and, no less important, the self-confidence to use it, is a dark mystery. Needless to say, I am not a member of that high-competence group of fixers. When it comes to repairs, I am essentially clueless.

Making repairs is a little too close to making things, to putting projects together, to assembling individual components into a useful or beautiful end result. Incompetence at one likely means a lack of skill at the other as well.

For one thing, I've always had trouble following instructions. Or, perhaps more accurately, I've been reluctant even to look at them. What's lacking, too, is an intuitive grasp of how things work, or should work, perhaps augmented by some actual study of the subject.

When you have trouble even finding the on-off switch of devices, the chance of a successful repair is slim indeed.

Surprisingly, I do have a small tool kit. I can even tell the difference between a regular screwdriver and a Phillips-head version. I've been known to wield a hammer without pounding my thumb in the process – though I might miss the nail completely now and then.

On the other hand, I'm far removed from Tim the Tool Man, as portrayed by Tim Allen on the old Home Improvement TV sitcom. I couldn't qualify to carry his tool belt.

Looking at a troubled device, some folks simply know what to do – or at least, what to try – to get a failed product working properly again. Or if the answer isn't immediately apparent, they are able to analyze the problem – and the solution – through reason and logic. Evidently, possible solutions just find their way into such talented folks' heads. We incompetents simply don't know anything – not even enough to blunder through a feeble, futile attempt.

One friend, for instance, is a scientist doing research in France. In addition to his vast expertise in his professional specialty, he's a fearless fixer of inoperative devices. When his DVD player stopped functioning, for example, he simply dove in and began to disassemble the unit, having deduced that it was likely a mechanical failure. Sure enough, a tiny component in the disc-carrying mechanism had worn down and could no longer do its job. Despite having no particular knowledge of DVD players or any similar device, Ken was able to repair the damage and restore the player to normal functionality.

Had it been up to me, I'd still be gazing at the player, with no idea how to begin. Or more likely, I'd be down at the store buying a new one – which is what's expected of us in today's non-repairable consumer society anyway.

Farmers, of course, must know how to fix just about everything. They can't call for help with every little thing that goes wrong. My good friend Al Spence, for instance, who raises cattle in rural Manitoba, is able to give his herd the necessary injections, assist at birthing calves, grow and distribute feed, till the soil, watch and analyze the weather, and be ready to repair and maintain all the equipment needed to keep even a small farm operating. I get exhausted and feel frightfully inferior just watching – or thinking about – him in action on a daily basis.

Two friends from my teenage years serve as prime examples of young people who were fearless in their attempts to repair anything. While still in high school, one of them worked as much as 80 hours a week repairing TVs, driving a company car to people's homes every afternoon and evening. While most young folks I knew were content with listening to music, these two started a business of their own, making tape recordings of concerts.

Note: This chapter is intentionally incomplete at this point, intended to serve as a sample.