My father was not a businessman but a handyman, a blue collared hope chest to those he loved, gruff and sturdy with stony hands and crystal wit, sharp as the chisels that sat in the bottom of the rough- hemmed toolbox he fused to his gait rarely used but sharpened, always present a testament to the unrefined repairs he had constructed himself through, my father was always fixing never perfecting he taught me how to do that how to be imperfect yet functional, a fire that warms not burns, a home in winters that drag on past spring and that I am not, but I know how to be because he told me, he told me, he taught me to be good even quietly, work hard even though it is hardly even you that can notice what difference it makes be strong for the weak because it is you you are strong for that way he told me and I know now I always must try to be a handyman not a businessman, a blue collared hope chest to those I love.