I bought this at a garage sale because I loved the late 1950’s graphics, not out of any familiarity or affection for this type of book which never graced the bookshelves in my childhood suburban home, being Jewish and all. If something broke, my dad called someone to fix it. The mechanical gene that my dad lacked bypassed me as well. In the first day of shop class in junior high, I was struck in the head by the back end of a claw hammer, being hopelessly in the wrong place at the wrong time, watching, while other boys confidently used the tools.
The kind of “father-son bonding in the workshop” pictured below looks so foreign to me, it might just as well have occurred in a parallel universe.