My dad was handy. He build extensions on the house, made a rocking crib when Lucy was born, and made millions of shelves. He had a full shed of tools, but he usually had a toolbox in the house for quick jobs.

Living in an apartment, I am not going to have a shed with a table saw and rakes, but soon after I got to Korea I bought a toolbox.

Whenever I can do so, I buy tools to put in it. But mostly the only thing I ever use is the screw-driver.

It has two hammers, a saw, assorted wrenches and Allen keys, some bike tubes, WD-40, batteries, and all the screws and bolts I pick up as I am walking around campus.

Eunjoo asks me to fix one of the bedroom doors– it is sticking. It sticks because construction in our apartment is shitty. The doors are too heavy for their settings, so start pulling off. You have to take out the hinge, move it a bit, and then reattach it in new holes. This I can do.

I'm excited to use my screwdriver, but– I've learned this from my Dad– you have to curse a bit.

"Ah, bloody hell," I say, a good wholesome British curse, "Is that bloody thing sticking again?"

I breath the sigh of the unwillingly martyred as I push up from my seat at the table. "Where is my toolbox?"

Of course I know where it is. It's tucked away in its spot under the bed.

I'm hoping that the screwdriver isn't there, so that I can curse about "These damn kids, always into my tools." But it is there. I will have to put it away in the junk drawer so that I can curse about it next time.

I go to the door. I draw the job out, moving things about unnecessarily to work up enough of a sweat that it drips off my nose.

Finally finished, I ask Eunjoo, "How's that?" I demonstrate how the door now opens and closes smoothly.

"Great!" she says, she understands that this is part of the drama. "Girls! Daddy fixed the door with his big screwdriver."