I always believed my father could fix anything. And, mostly, he could. He didn't (and doesn't) always read the directions or do things the way other people do, but, in the end, things that didn't work before, do when he's done. When I was about 4, he was fixing the TV. I was sitting at the window next to the TV, not helping, probably not even watching, and definitely not listening since he swears a lot when he fixes things. He was using a screwdriver to fix the fuzzy lines in the TV. Somehow, all he ever needed was a screwdriver, or a hammer, or, if those weren't available, a butter knife. That day, he only had the screwdriver. It wasn't working. Whether out of exasperation or because the swear words weren't working, he decided it would be a good idea to poke the TV. Did I mention it was still plugged in? He hit something inside the TV and then he hit the wall. And then the window came down. On my hands. But I distinctly remember that the TV worked after that. This was a photo of the wires on the back of my TV. I emailed it to him so he could help me fix it. It works now. And no one got electrocuted. I trust my dad to fix things for me even now. But I still distrust open windows.