In high school, there was no shop class. Sometimes I’d work on a project in the garage with my dad. Most of his tools are older, corded, and often uncooperative. I remember using saw-horses that wobbled— and a slightly rusted Skilsaw— to cut down ply for a Boy Scouts derby car. It had a hand-brake and a rope for steering. My dad seemed to stub his fingers and rake all the splinters into his hands anytime we worked with wood or tools. There was always a lot of cursing and frustration; and sometimes I hated being out there with him. Now, more or less, I look on those memories fondly…