This short story is from <Heartwarming Collection of Short Stories for Seniors: 2 Books in 1> by Bradley Windrow. It is perfect for seniors, even for dementia patients. Be sure to read until the end, as there’s a special gift waiting for you! hope you enjoy it!
Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep. –Scott Adams
Margaret stood in the living room, eyeing the slightly crooked shelf with determination. Bob, her husband, sat on the couch, smirking over his newspaper.
“You sure about this, Margie? You know you’re not exactly a “handy” person,” he teased. Margaret crossed her arms.
“I can fix a crooked shelf, Bob. It’s not rocket science.” She said. After all, how hard could a little DIY be? She’d watched a few tutorials online, and those people made it look easy.
“Well, don’t come crying to me when it all goes sideways.” Bob chuckled and leaned back. With Bob’s tools, Margaret grabbed a screwdriver and went to work. The first task: tighten the screws. She fumbled with the screwdriver, twisting and turning with all her might, only to realize the screws weren’t fitting correctly. Not to be discouraged, she rummaged through Bob’s toolbox and found some spare screws. They weren’t the right size, but they were close enough. What could go wrong? Margaret proudly twisted in the new screws, only to step back and watch the shelf tilt even further. Bob peeked over the edge of his newspaper.
“Looking good, Margie,” he joked with a grin. Margaret grabbed a nail and a hammer.
“This will do the trick,” she muttered, more to herself than to Bob. With a steely focus, she lined the nail up against the wall and raised the hammer. She swung. The nail skidded right off the wall, and the hammer followed through, slamming into the drywall with a loud thud. A gaping hole appeared where the nail was supposed to go. Margaret stood frozen in shock, and her mouth opened slightly. From the couch, Bob lowered his newspaper just enough to glimpse the carnage. He whistled, and his head.
“Nice hole. Maybe we could use it as a mouse door,” he quipped, his grin widening. Gripping the hammer tightly, Margaret shot him a glare that could melt steel.
“I don’t need your commentary!” Margaret snapped, now more determined than ever. She mixed up some plaster to patch the hole. Unfortunately, she had a heavy hand, and by the time she was done, the wall looked like it was growing a lopsided plaster mushroom. Bob peeked again.
“Quite the masterpiece you’ve got going there.”
“Oh, shut up,” Margaret muttered, glaring at the tilted shelf, which now looked like it was trying to escape the wall.
Then came the grand finale: the power drill. Margaret had seen people easily handle drills online, and she was sure she could do the same. But in her flustered state, she drilled too deep and hit an electrical wire. The lights went out. The room was plunged into darkness.
“Margie,” Bob calls out from the shadows, “you still think you’re handy?” After a minute of fumbling around, Bob came to her rescue, flashlight in hand.
“Need some help, honey?” Bob suggested, trying not to laugh.
“Fine, you win this round.” Margaret sighed, handing him the drill. While he worked to repair the damages, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“At least I didn’t burn the house down, right?”
Bob grinned. “That’s my handy lady.”
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