My father was eligible for armed services during World War II; however, he was not drafted because his work at the United States Rubber Company was considered a national security priority.  As a chemical engineer, he developed with colleagues a rubber membrane that dissipated the heat of enemy fire entering airplane fuselages.  He loved the challenges of an engineer.  He enjoyed the camaraderie of his team members.  Every day was an adventure.  His group supervisor, however, noticed his work, resulting in a promotion at an early age into management.  With the typical financial responsibilities of a young parent, he reluctantly accepted the promotion.  For the rest of his life, he lamented it.  Although he benefited from a succession of promotions in company leadership that provided security and educational opportunities for his family, his happiest days were doing hands-on research and development.  Not surprisingly, his relationships with many of the engineers and scientists from the early days of his career were lifelong.

Although my father’s promotion into management was an experience of complicated emotions for him, it was an unequivocal blessing to his sons.  He found sanctuary on the weekends by working on cars.  It afforded him many opportunities to employ his engineering knowledge and mechanical skills.  As a result, my two brothers and I received a beautifully restored sports car upon each of our graduations from college.  Dad emphasized often that the cars were a profession of his love for us.  We joked in response that he loved restoring cars as much as he loved us.

My oldest brother, Ned, and I sometimes assisted Dad in performing mechanical repairs.  This work was the genesis of my father’s belief that I was mistakenly switched at birth.  Ned displayed exceptional mechanical skills.  Like my father, he could take anything apart and put it back together without a manual or illustration.  He was particularly proficient in rebuilding motors – – the more complicated the better.  My father and he were a great team.  On the other hand, I was not so gifted.  I always needed a container for the screws and bolts I took out for a repair but could not find their way home again.  As always, Dad was patient, bearing my limitations in silence and congratulating me for my small accomplishments.

In the fall of 1969, my father and I were finishing the restoration of a 1959 MGA Mark III, which was his graduation gift to me.  He had spent months on the car.  Obtaining the special recessed grill, alone, took him seven weeks.  He completed the mechanical work, had the car repainted in glorious white and the interior refinished in contrasting black leather.  The car exemplified my father’s perfectionism.  It was beautiful. The only remaining work was the repair of a slight tear in the black convertible top.  Dad spent the weekend developing and testing a chemical mixture of latex and lacquer that would seal the tear, match the color of the top and endure a broad spectrum of temperatures.  He warned me that the mixture would stain permanently anything it touched so we had to proceed cautiously in applying it.  It was a two-person job.  One person had to stretch the canvas while the other applied the mixture.

When the time came to repair the tear in the roof, my father stood by the driver’s door with the latex-lacquer mixture and a small brush in hand.  I sat in the driver’s seat with both hands raised, stretching the canvas top to close the tear from the inside while my father applied the mixture on the outside.  The task was more difficult than we anticipated, but we managed with extra effort to complete it.  I was relieved when Dad exclaimed, “Done!”  But my relief was temporary.  I saw that I had left a thumbprint of the black mixture on top of the newly-painted dashboard directly above the tachometer.  The mixture had seeped through the tear onto my thumb without my realizing it.  I must have left the thumbprint on the dashboard when I was exiting the car.  My impulse was to wipe the thumbprint in an effort to remove it.  Dad warned me not to touch it.  It would smear, and a smear would look much worse than the print.

I was upset.  I understood the magnitude of my mistake.  The thumbprint was indelible.  I could feel tears welling in my eyes.  I sat down on a nearby stool, unable even to mutter an apology.  I felt reckless.  I felt stupid.  Ned would never had made such a mistake.  Most important, I hated disappointing my father.

Five minutes passed as I sat motionless.  My father beckoned me back to the car.  He pointed to the dashboard.  There were now two thumbprints – – a left thumbprint and a right thumbprint.  My father had dipped the lower part of his right thumb into the mixture and pressed it on the dashboard.  The two thumbprints looked symmetrical, even purposeful.  Dad announced that now no one could claim to own the car but us.  We laughed.  He then took me to the local dairy bar for a sundae in celebration of the car’s completion.

Fifty-two years have passed since that day in our garage.  Dad died in 1991.  The many years of missing him have burnished my admiration for his patience and his kindness.  On Father’s Day, I drive to the local dairy bar and savor a sundae in celebration of his life.

Yours truly,