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Like many a dad, my father was handy.  He could fix things.  As a farmer and father of twelve children, nine of them boys, it was a necessary skill.  He fixed tractors, cars, windows, electrical problems, washing machines, broken chairs, you name it -- he fixed it.  But over the years one of the main things he fixed was a plethora of broken chairs, broken by boys leaning back on them, plopping on them and probably throwing them at each other.   I don't recall my parents ever having a full set of matching table chairs at anytime when we were living at home, and probably not for a long time after we were all gone. No matter how old my father got he still continued to fix things around the farm.  He had given up farming in the late 60's and taken a county assessor job in town so most of his repair work was contained to lawn mowers, gardening gadgets, cars, farm building maintenance and odd jobs for my mom in the house.  My dad always kept things in ship-shape order and was very efficient and often said, "Efficiency, is just smart laziness." One winter after he had retired my mom asked him to fix yet one more kitchen table chair.  A rung on the back of the chair had come loose and it had become a bit risky to sit on.  Because the kitchen table in our house had always been the center of our family life at the farm and it hosted hours of book reading, coffee klatches with neighbors, meals with loved ones, and aided in solving all of the world problems, it was a priority for my mom to get fixed.  She had people to feed and friends to entertain! As I mentioned above my...