WD-40 and Lug Nuts

Daddy and I were never especially close, but he made sure all his daughters knew how to fend for themselves. Poverty and East Texas pride demanded it. If something broke, you fixed it. There wasn’t money to pay someone else, so you either figured it out or lived without.

One hot East Texas afternoon, Daddy’s old Chevy sat slumped in the driveway, its front tire flat against the gravel. He stood there with his arms crossed, a faint smirk on his face, and tossed me the tire iron.
“Go on,” he said. “Change it.”

I dropped to my knees, sweat already trickling down my back, and jammed the iron onto the lug nuts. I pulled with all the strength my scrawny arms could muster. Nothing. Not even a wiggle. I tugged harder, gritted my teeth, and felt the metal bite into my palms. Tears stung my eyes, not just from the strain, but from the embarrassment of failing with Daddy watching.

He chuckled, not unkindly, and pulled a rusty can from his back pocket. The sweet, chemical smell hit me as he sprayed each bolt. Pssst. Pssst. “WD-40,” he said, handing it over like a secret weapon. “Now try.”

This time, the first nut gave with a sharp crack, loosening in my hands. I looked up, grinning despite myself, and Daddy just nodded like it was no big deal. That day I learned two things: always keep WD-40 handy, and if you don’t know how to do something, figure it out as you go.

That lesson followed me into every job I ever had.

Years later, as a receptionist at a tech company, they bumped me into Tier 1 support, the bottom rung of IT. Suddenly, I was answering calls about slow computers, broken printers, and lost emails. I thought I knew nothing.

Until one woman called, furious that her “foot pedal” wasn’t working.
“Your what?” I asked.
“My foot pedal,” she snapped. “The thing that moves the little arrow around.”

It took me a second before it clicked, she was talking about her mouse. I had to gently explain that no, you don’t press it with your foot like a sewing machine pedal. You hold it in your hand and move it across the desk. She tried it while I waited, and when the little arrow zipped across her screen, she gasped like I’d just performed surgery.

Then I gave her the golden fix we used on almost everything back then: “Go ahead and reboot your computer.” Sure enough, it worked. She hung up grateful, convinced I was brilliant. To her, I was a tech wizard. To me, it was one more reminder that half the time you just figure it out as you go.

Whenever I got stuck, I fell back on that reboot trick. Ninety percent of the time, it worked, and I sounded smarter than I was.

Then came the day an engineer shoved me into a cramped office lined wall-to-wall with towers of dusty computers.
“Reformat the hard drives,” he said, waving a hand.
“I don’t know how,” I admitted.
“You’ll figure it out,” he shrugged, and left.

I stared at the blinking screens like they were in another language. Finally, I flagged him down, begged him to show me once. He sighed, demonstrated quickly, then disappeared again. By the end of the day, thirty computers sat freshly wiped and humming, all courtesy of “Pam the engineer.” That accident of survival got me promoted to Tier 2, and later, shoulder-to-shoulder with the Tier 3 guys, flipping through their heavy Novell manuals late into the night. Certifications followed, but the real learning had already happened. I just kept stepping in before I felt ready.

No matter where you come from, every part of your story can be used, survival becomes resilience, and resilience becomes strength.

That same pattern showed up everywhere. Like the first time I flew alone for work. Airports were foreign territory to me. I wandered through the fluorescent maze, clutching my boarding pass like a lifeline. At one point, I spotted a bright red phone mounted near the bathroom doors. Homesick and nervous, I picked it up to call home and check on my son.

A sharp voice barked in my ear: “Ma’am, this line is for emergencies only.”
My stomach dropped. I slammed it down, cheeks burning. Lesson learned.

Then came the car rental encounter. Cash in hand, ready to roll.
“I’ll take the keys,” I told the clerk.
She arched an eyebrow. “Credit card?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ll pay cash.”
She shook her head firmly. “No card, no car.”

I had never even owned a credit card. My poor boyfriend (Tim) had to overnight me one, find a cheap hotel that would take cash, and I missed two appointments before finally pulling out of that lot in a rented sedan. Mortifying? Yes. But unforgettable.

Over and over, life reminded me: it doesn’t wait for you to be perfectly prepared.

And here’s the truth most people miss, motivation doesn’t come first. It doesn’t meet you at the starting line with a pep talk. It shows up after you’ve already stepped in, sweaty palms and all. You move, you mess up, you learn, and that’s when confidence sneaks in, almost like it was waiting for you to dare.

I’ve made more mistakes than I can count, but each one was part of my training ground. That’s why I raised my kids to know: the only way to learn is by messing up. And sometimes, the best lessons come not from planning every step, but from figuring it out right there in the middle of the mess, with a can of WD-40 rattling in your back pocket!