Dad A cloud of thick, antifreeze scented, steam poured from under the hood of my 1955 Ford convertible. The joy, and simultaneous bane, of my existence had sprung another cooling system leak and overheated just as I pulled into my parents driveway. I’d already poured in two cans of “stop leak” and, at the recommendation of some local teenage expert, a can of condensed milk. It was 1962, the summer before my senior year. My car and I were both broke and unless I could solve my persistent transportation problems, it looked very much like a beautiful, blue eyed blond named Karen was about to add my heart to the list. “Hi Joe,” my Dad said, as I dragged my pitiful post pubescent self mournfully through the living room where he sat reading the newspaper. I usually hated it when my Dad noticed there was something wrong with my car. He’d always suggest that I take the time and effort to fixit the right way. Somewhere far off in the deep cosmos, where time and speed and space take on each others roles and run playfully up and down the calendar of eternity, it was probably already known that Joe Kirkup Jr. would not learn to fix things the right way for at least ten more years. But my Dad, bless his optimistic heart, was always hoping for a miracle. “Hi Dad.” “Is that steam or smoke?” he asked, dropping his paper slightly and looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Steam, my radiator’s leaking.” My Dad was a Master plumber, a Master steam fitter and a certified welder. He possessed more skill and knowledge in one of his few remaining hair follicles than all my car expert buddies combined. For some reason, related probably to the adolescent weaning process, I never wanted to call on him for help till every automotive wives tale and shortcut had been tried and discredited. At that moment, however, a fleeting remembrance of Karen’s angelic countenance and heady perfume overrode my genetic predisposition for independence and I spoke those fateful words that spelled no turning back from the dreaded “right way.” Dad, do you think you could give me a hand with it?” My father’s response to any call for assistance was with his standard disclaimer. “I’m not sure I can do anything with it, but let’s take a look.” Two slight burns, six bolts and one skinned knuckle later I had the radiator removed and placed on my Dad’s downstairs work bench. I knew from experience that the “right way” took time so I called Karen to grovel and ask for a stay of execution. Her reaction was not what I expected. “Your Dad is going to help you?” She sounded sort of happy and incredulous at the same time. “Your Dad is such a neat guy.” It hadn’t really occurred to me that my Dad was any different from fathers in general. I just assumed that all such men lived lives of total selflessness with nary a thought for anything except their families. Of course my Dad was going to help me, the problem was he didn’t know any short cuts. The concept of “strategy” is completely indefinable to males under twenty. The only approach to any problem, situation, undertaking or puzzle is always action. My Dad spent a maddeningly slow ten minutes cleaning the radiator, turning it this way and that and just plain looking at it. His thick powerful hands tested certain places for weakness while intense gray blue eyes focused with patient concentration on every possible aspect of the problem.” I dunno,” he said finally, “you’re probably gonna have to get a new one.” “Okay Dad,” I said, quietly trying to hide my disappointment. Still turning and looking, he offered the second stage of his standard disclaimer. “Maybe we can patch this one up till you can get a replacement.” Experience with this man had taught me that whatever he temporarily” patched up” looked like it would last well into the next century. I helped him as he carefully and methodically went about making the necessary repairs. Every piece was thoroughly examined and then perfectly cleaned before reassembly. Every action was considered and deliberate. Every result was predictable and without flaw. Gradually the waves of hysterical impatience that had washed intermittently across my hormone tortured brain faded as I watched him proudly in awe and admiration. At that moment I thought that all my Dad was doing was teaching me to repair an automobile radiator. He was actually showing me how to raise a son, the right way.