Owen installed the chair stair life with nary a snarled curse in the air. Not only did he install it, but he never looked at the instructions until he got the electrical stuff and wanted to make sure he was attaching the connections correctly.
“How can you remember all that stuff?” I asked.
I am awed because I still can’t figure out how to put the ink cartridge in my printer — and have actually never known how. Printers are beyond me. And if that sounds ridiculous, don’t judge me. We all have limits.
My son put together the entire stair lift from pieces. He remembered how it had looked before he took it apart. All of it. Where the screws and bolts went. Where the switches needed to be placed. “I took it apart,” he pointed out.
“Taking it apart and then remembering how to put it back together — without even referring to the directions — is … amazing.”
I don’t think he sees it as amazing. He’s always been able to do that. Therein lies the difference in the way our brains are wired. I remember concepts. Ideas. I connect them. He remember how things work. And how to connect them. If we are all abandoned on a desert island, I’m pretty sure his abilities will be of far more use than mine.