My father repaired radios and small appliances out of our garage in Cookeville for almost thirty years.
People brought him toaster ovens, record players, lamps, box fans, and little kitchen radios they probably should have thrown away. He fixed most of them anyway. He kept screws in baby food jars and wrote names on masking tape so he would not mix up anybody’s things.
He was patient in a way I did not appreciate when I was young. If something could still be useful, he believed it deserved another chance.
Tennessee was home to him because it was full of people who still knocked on a neighbor’s door before buying something new.