Struck by Cupid’s wrench

WHEN I asked my wife what she wanted for Valentine’s Day, she said, “Dirt.”

It was not a reference to gossip or pornographic videos but a request for the stuff we walk on. She meant, well, dirt.

“You have a half-acre of dirt,” I said. “It’s everywhere.”

“That’s not dirt. That’s clay. I want rich, living dirt. The kind you can eat.”

We saw a TV segment on a farmer testing his soil by tasting it. He put it on the tip of his tongue and pondered its quality, the way one might consider a new wine. Cinelli would not go that far, I’m sure. But she was serious about wanting a truckload of topsoil.

Many women favor jewelry or maybe a romantic weekend at the ocean as tokens of their man’s love. Cinelli’s requests over the years have included a circular saw, a cordless half-inch drill, a leaf chopper and a tool bench.

She is extraordinarily feminine but knows that if anything is going to get done around the house, she’s going to have to do it. And good tools are not only required for certain jobs but also are valued as possessions.

For instance, the Gordon wrench. It is a hard plastic device that fits the water turnoff valve under one’s sink. Bob Gordon, a retired Irvine apartment manager and handyman, invented the tool after years of scraping his knuckles using ordinary wrenches to accomplish the shut-off.

I gave it to Cinelli on Valentine’s Day, along with a written promise of dirt. I would have just ordered the dirt and had it delivered, but it probably would have been the wrong dirt. Her requirements are specific. Topsoil must contain 20% of this and 30% of that and maybe a dash of this and that.

She loved the Gordon wrench.

“Oh, boy,” she said, “now when water is pouring out of a broken pipe or a detached hose I can crawl under the sink and stop the stuff pouring into my face with one simple twist of the wrist.”

“It’s also good on toilet valves,” I said proudly.

“Just out of curiosity,” she said, “have you ever even been under a sink?”

I had to think for a moment.

“No,” I finally said, “I don’t believe I have.”

“Have you ever turned that little handle behind the toilet when water and God knows what else was overflowing out of the bowl?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Well, then, I guess we’ll just keep the balance of chores around the old household, eh? You sit around and ponder your muse, and I’ll do everything else.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As I thought about it later, I began to wonder exactly what was under the kitchen sink. So as Cinelli was out in the yard digging a posthole, I lay on my back and worked my way into the space below the faucets.

I took Bob Gordon’s handy little tool with me and am pleased to report that it fits the turnoff valve perfectly. For those who have never been there, such as haiku poets and oratorio composers, there are a good many pipes and tubes under a sink. One can imagine water swirling into the icemaker and freezing into cubes for later use in something liquid and delicious, or pouring into the dishwasher, slapping away bits of broccoli and pork chop juice, and pouring them out into the septic system, kind of like the dancing waters at one of those holiday fountain displays.

“What’re you doing under there?”

Cinelli had reentered the house.

“Just checking things out,” I said, noticing how there is a kind of echo to the voice when one is speaking in enclosed places.

“Checking out what? A new storage possibility for your gin?”

W.C. Fields filled a basement with bottles of gin, fearful of another period of prohibition. I do not drink gin. Gin is for Englishmen and tenured professors of Chaucerian literature. I have a little vodka now and then, and maybe some aged scotch or fine brandy.

“You don’t even like closed-in places,” she said. “Come out before you have an attack of claustrophobia and bump your head about in a panic.”

I managed to shuffle my way out and lay on my back for a moment, looking up at her. It’s an interesting perspective, like a child considering his daddy.

“Whatever compelled you to suddenly crawl under the sink?” she asked down to me.

“I don’t know,” I said up to her. “I just began wondering if that Gordon wrench actually worked. It does.”

“I’m proud of your efforts,” she said. “You have a good time on the floor while I finish digging the posthole. For the next gift-giving time, I want an electric posthole digger.”

I lay on the floor for another minute or so studying the light fixtures. I had never realized we had stained-glass lampshades in the kitchen. It’s amazing what one can discover from a horizontal perspective.

I think I’ll go lie on the table in the dining room now and check out the hanging lamp. That should be fun.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.