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Fathers were powerful. They became powerful because they worked. And they worked at being powerful.

Fathers had been given Sandow developers by their fathers. They stretched the developers, building up their biceps. One spring. Two springs. Five times. Ten times. Fifty times. One arm. Two arms. When their muscles were fully formed they could extend five springs fifty times. Then, panting slightly, they would flex their muscles, command their sons to feel the tough knotted bulge that throbbed like outsize ganglions on their upper arms.

Fathers would use this ganglion when they Indian wrestled. It never let them down.

And they would display this ganglion as a goal, a holy grail, an end. Dreaming of it, their sons would tentatively pick up the tentacles of the Sandow developers and attempt to stretch them. One spring. Two springs. Two times. Five times.

From time to time fathers would inspect the small tight bulges on their sons' upper arms and then insist their sons punch their hard flat stomachs with all their might. This never made fathers flinch. Only laugh at their invincibility.

Fathers rode rafters. They could swing claw hammers in a perfect arc driving four-inch nails deeply into the four-by-twos. Bang. Bang. They would never miss. The nails would be sucked in by the wood. Fathers could saw in a perfect line as if they were slicing bread, each thrust in perfect rhythm. They could cut dwangs. They knew all about soffits and skirting boards.

Fathers understood precision. They used steel rulers. Slide rules. They used a spade as if it were a scalpel. They were as watchmakers with the engines of their cars. They used feeler gauges and timing torches.