My dad was a welder, and he definitely had his own way about him.
Once, when my oldest boy was somewhat less than two years old, I had reason to walk down to my dad’s shop to talk to him about something or other. I was carrying Richard, because the ground and debris down there wouldn’t be safe for a child.
I was standing there talking to dad while he was working on a truck for somebody. The body was off the truck, and it looked like maybe the frame of a pulp-wood truck, being a dually on the back and kind of a long frame on it.
Anyhow, he was trying to get the gas tank off the frame. It was on the inside of the frame, bolted through the frame with a big nut on the outside. He was working on it with a box-end wrench, and not having much luck. While we were talking, he throws down the wrench and reaches around and puts on his cutting goggles. Then he picks up his torch and ignites it.
I said, “Dad? Are you planning on cutting that bolt off that gas tank there?” and he said “Yes, why?”.
I said “Wait a minute.”
And I carried Richard out away from the shop, about 50 or 60 feet away in the driveway. I turned around, and shouted at him, “OK – Go ahead!”.
He looked at me; and he looked at his torch; and he looked at this gas tank. Then he cut off the torch, took his goggles off, and went and got a cold chisel to cut the nut off.
It’s amazing he lived long enough to have children, much less grand-children.