The Fix-It Man
My father herded my three sleepy-eyed younger siblings toward the backseat of our blue Olds 98. I followed him to the car, carrying a cooler with one hand and opening the right rear door with the other. "Thank you," he said. "Youre a gentleman and a scholar and a man of great learning." We both grinned. He had been feeding me that line since Id entered high school. It had grown from clever to corny, but we still enjoyed sharing it. "Ill load the ice chest. Why dont you check with your mom and see if shes ready to go?"
　　It was August 1970. We were embarking on our annual summer excursion to southern California to escape the Phoenix heat for a week. I was only 16 but nearly a 10-year veteran of many overland journeys to the Pacific. On those first trips, when my dads hair was thicker and mine shorter, he would have carried me in my pajamas to the rear bed of a station wagon for our predawn departure. But as we pulled out of the driveway on this morning, I buckled in directly behind him, my wiry frame clothed in cut-offs, a T-shirt, tube socks, and tennis shoes. We traveled north on Interstate 17 for several miles before turning west. My mother sat up front in the passenger seat adjusting the air conditioner vents on the dash. As soon as the sun cleared the horizon, the UV rays pierced the right side of her face and she opened the vacation with a familiar refrain: "This is the last summer Im going to spend in this heat." My sister lip-synched the words from the backseat, then buried her face in a pillow. My two younger brothers dozed open-mouthed between us.
　　I stared out the window and wondered what it would be this trip: alternator belt, vapor lock, air conditioner freezing over. Despite my fathers best efforts, mechanical trouble seemed to lie in wait, coiled by the highway, striking without warning, crippling our car in the middle of the desert. Still, I wasnt too worried. The breakdowns all ended the same way: Dad sliding behind the steering wheel and saying, "Looks like I fixed it." He prided himself on being prepared and it was a trait he passed on to me. But I dont think he learned that as an anesthesiologist. I think it was his nature and it served him well, at home or at work. He had meticulously readied the car for our voyage. Tire pressure, oil level, coolant level, and transmission fluid—they all checked out. Flares, jumper cables, motor oil, antifreeze, extra water, belts, and hoses—just in case. He packed Craftsman tools, an electricians repair set, and a roll of tape. He seemed to carry two everything, including a backup to his backup plan.
　　We stopped in the small town of Wickenburg just long enough for breakfast, then picked up Interstate 10 where it began on the other side of town. We raced against the Earths rotation to pass through the Sonoran Desert before the sun reached its apex. From behind my father, I leaned into his reflection in the rear view mirror and studied his concentration. He kept both hands on the wheel, eyes darting behind prescrpition sunglasses to the instrument panel, the road ahead, and the rear and side view mirrors in a constant cycle of monitoring. I learned later that he employed similar actions every day at work. For 10 years  he had scanned the ECG, checked the blood pressure, and observed the surgical field. What better cross-training for systematic alertness?