In the summer of 1990, after I finished eighth grade, my dad decided it was time I learned to work. From as young as I can remember, I’d been tagging after him in his basement printshop, and loved helping him run the offset press. But now, he said, I was ready for more. My apprentice-master would be Ullu Keiderling, a white-bearded family friend with a blue work apron, strong Teutonic accent, and keen sense of punctuality.

The “apprenticeship” was really an informal arrangement in which I joined Ullu, a skilled craftsman, whenever I could help out on what he was doing. He showed me where he worked in the mornings: the corner of a large workshop where he built devices that aided disabled people in walking. It was an assembly job, using a standardized design and mass-produced parts, but the device was complex: bicycle wheels, casters, cotter pins, spring buttons, guide rods, and upholstered trunk and limb supports.

You’d watch him, head bowed, intent, competent, and you’d know: here’s a man who is good at his work.