Your share of genius

This piece I wrote in 2004 was originally published by MIND Bets, the newsletter of Suthern Nevada Mensa:
http://www.southernnevada.us.mensa.org/0304_mindbets/archive_012004/how.php3

“Redneck” is not an adjective most people associate with Mensans. On the contrary, most non-Mensans, no matter how smart they allegedly are, think of Mensans as sherry-sipping, opera-going, bridge-playing, erudite, refined (if occasionally snotty about it), lightning quick and only ill-mannered when they win Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit games, at which time they are indecently smug. (I know better, but I don't want Mensa's Advocate [think Homeland Security] on my tail about Acts Inimical to Mensa.)

On the other hand, most people think of what I call the “yellowhammer” when they hear the word “redneck.” And the yellowhammer — the banjo-picker on Deliverance, whose parents probably shared the same parents — isn't who comes to mind when I call someone a redneck. See, I've met yellowhammers. They're about useless, unless you need a fence corner stretcher, while a redneck invariably has all manner of handy talents. I used to think “redneck” = “yellowhammer,” I admit it: Now I know better.

I would never have called Mo a redneck, but he calls himself one — and he could pass the Mensa test but refuses to take it. (I already think he's the smartest, and he's too smart to mess up that situation.) He earned an A. A. degree in aerospace engineering, he can drive or fix anything that runs, and he designed and built our home without a mortgage. But he comes of humble, hardworking stock: “Aw, shucks, ma' am,” he grins. “Ah'm just an old West Texas redneck.” Yeah, right. And I'm Momma Theresa, tennis shoes and all.

What I really am, besides Mrs. Mo, is a writer and copyeditor. And before I tested positive for Mensan-ness a few years ago, I wrote a short piece for my local weekly newspaper, called “You Might Be A Redneck's Wife If .” It was full of the kinds of habits and skills you pick up when you're married to a triple Leo (Type A++) excavating company owner/operator with a strong sense of command. (Of course, it hasn't hurt that he has also wrangled, fixed and fenced cows, driven and mechanicked trucks and equipment, demolished and built buildings, and troubleshot and crewchiefed just about everything the USAF flies.) I got what I thought were amazingly few chuckles (or come-ons) in response to the article. I speculated that this paucity of feedback indicated how few cowboys (or real rednecks) remained in traditionally rural but growing Azle, Texas. Then I met Mensa, the High IQ Society(SM) and figured it out.

There were plenty of rednecks, plenty of good ol' boys left in Azle. They just felt threatened that some girl had the gall to tell them that, if a woman appreciated what they think of as their best qualities, she'd clean the engine grime out from under her fingernails by building something with mortar. Their wives weren't too tickled about it, either. That's when being Mensa material came in handy: Shortly after I wrote that article, I found my car full of dirty shop rags and a worn-out tire one day when I came out of the Kwik Shop. Realizing that I'd been patterned by a pro tracker, I changed gas stations, banks and grocery stores immediately.

What scared them was just a list of the things I'd never have figured out in a scholar's ivory tower, but have learned from watching and helping my beloved redneck do what he's a genius at. It has since dawned on me, however, that every very smart person, certified genius or not, probably has been curious enough to fill a whole new portfolio with skills and accomplishments that originally belonged to every person he or she ever loved and every job we ever had. Those knowledges would frequently astonish even close acquaintances, not to mention strangers.

For example, I find troubleshooting an interesting challenge and am always tickled to be asked to help. But who would think to ask the slightly plump, graying Grandmama ahead of him at Auto Zone what might cause that clicky squealing 10 days after installing a new CV joint, much less what bodily fluids can take the place of brake fluid in a pinch?

Conversely, no one looking at Mo's boots, boot-cut jeans, western shirt and crumpled Resistol straw would suspect it, but he recognizes all the Carmen music. He also knows that certain rare Georgette Heyer romances cost $75 and up — and that they're worth it. He can tell a genuine Webster dictionary from a pseudo-Webster, and he has developed a very good eye for the value of genuine Regency furniture and certain nautical watercolorists' work. He built the house, so I know how to straighten real old finish nails; I continually redecorate it, so he knows faux effects. We owned a bar, so I can tap a keg, stop fights and do inventory; I did the promotion work, so he knows advertising language.

What's more, such secondarily acquired knowledge can come in handy first-hand. Finding myself substitute teaching one day, I stunned a real teacher by quelling a class of high-school students with command voice and The Look (to my relief). I had successfully used the same high-handed attitude on waiters and watched Mo use it on a certain half-Brahma bull. Turn about, I have seen Mo use a familiar eyebrow lift on high-handed bureaucrats, then turn and grin so that only I could see.

More practically speaking, troubleshooting and preventive maintenance became second nature early in the mission. I would rather run back into freeway traffic than call Mo and tell him the engine seized up because I forgot to check the oil. So that's not going to happen — that's at least one of my used cars saved, not to mention two of my daughter's. He's never going to hang a shelf or a picture without my final okay, if he can help it; I won't store the antique plane on its blade, and he won't store the unabridged dictionaries closed, on the shelf. That's close to a thousand not spent on repairs to unlock a silent spouse's mouth. And we decided, close to our first anniversary, that we would never be or threaten to be “spring-loaded to the 'I'm outta here!' position.” That's one marriage saved. (I'm sending the recyclable anniversary card idea to Hallmark. Mo loved it.)

So what if diesel fuel has sometimes been essential to doing the laundry or cleaning the floor? So what if some of my pans have been used to test a thermostat? The counter people at parts and hardware stores treat me respectfully, and even Mr. GoodPliers doesn't try to sell me anything I don't need: This twinkly-eyed Grandmama can reload, troubleshoot and drive a grease gun. Not only that, but learning all these skills has taught me where to find the answer to just about any mechanical problem you can name. See, I've learned the most essential skill of all: Inside every genius lives a mensch with one fine practical ability. Speak to this king (or queen) appreciatively, and he will help: If he doesn't know the answer, he will even tell you; and you both will enjoy looking it up.