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I am a fixer. Not of college basketball games, but of broken things around the house. It started when my daughter was small. With her hands pressed together side-to-side to form a little basket, she would hold up pieces of a plastic doll that she had popped apart. I would inspect this jumble of plastic arms, legs, torso, and head and she would say, "Fix." Usually, I fixed.

I'm still inclined to put back together what fate hath rendered asunder. It's not necessarily the intrinsic value -- monetary or sentimental -- that drives me to repair things; it's that I consider a broken object a personal challenge to be met with a well-equipped toolbox and a tube of epoxy glue.

There are limits, of course. A broken dinner plate is not truly fixable. Even if it's not a "company" plate, you wouldn't like to sit down to dinner serving pasta out of a bowl that had an epoxy seam in the shape of a crooked "Y" running across the middle. And I wouldn't attempt repairs that require actual expertise and special tools, like watch repair. I will, however, change the watch battery if I can pry the back off the stupid thing without destroying the case.

There are size limitations, as well, on what I will tackle. Repairing tiny things that I need a magnifying glass to see properly, like the clasp on one of my wife's favorite necklaces, is a problem. I'll give it a shot but will usually end up at a jewelry store in Freehold saying, "Fix."

The march of technology has also been a hindrance. Before the introduction of transistors and "chips," I could repair a TV set or radio by soldering a joint or replacing a tube. With today's micro-miniaturization, the heart of an electronic device like, say, a universal remote control that has quit being universal, is a piece of silicon maybe half an inch square. The remote stops working if an accidental fall to the wood floor knocks two atoms out of place. Relocating atoms is beyond my skill level. Anyway, I don't have a pointy-enough tweezers. Some things are irreparable. Please, let it be in warranty.

Before tackling more demanding repair jobs, I have to observe my wife's invocation of the physician's creed: "First, do no harm."

Me: (Carrying toolbox, righteous look on face) "Hon, I'm going to fix that leaky faucet, now."

Her: "The one that's been dripping since before Passover? I know you mean well, but the last time you tried to fix a leaky faucet, the ceramic part broke into six pieces... and did you remember to shut the water off this time?"

Me: "Um..."

To digress a moment, that "did you remember" preamble to a spousal question is fraught with danger. Usually it will come up when we are 20 minutes into a car trip. (At least here, I sometimes get to ask the question):

-- On the way to see a show: "Did you remember to bring the tickets?"

-- On the way to one of our gourmet dining outings: "Did you remember to bring the coupon?"

-- "... turn off the oven?"

-- "... lock the back door?"

There was a time when I would even take on the repair of a major appliance, like a dishwasher or clothes dryer. All the parts are big, and there is usually a diagram of its workings on the back of the unit. What could be so hard? All I had to do was pull the machine out of place and check the diagram showing where all the parts are.

Then I would crawl under it on my back, and if the problem was that it didn't drain properly, I would just find the thingee named on the diagram, "drain control," or the like, then run to the parts store to get another one, screw it in, reconnect the hoses, and it's done. Simple.

That was then. The problem these days is the part of the process involving the pulling out and the crawling under. If I tried that now, the most important part requiring repair would be somewhere in my lower back. Where's that manufacturer's service number?

Lately however, with many broken items, I am beginning to adopt a more modern philosophy and just throw them out -- or, which amounts to the same thing, "Please put it in the garage, Hon -- I'll take care of it next week."

But if ever again a little girl hands me a broken doll and says, "Fix," it would get fixed.

Bernard Jacks is a freelance humor writer who lives in Marlboro. His columns have appeared in the New York Times, Smithsonian Magazine, and other publications.