Today is my dad’s birthday. The most common gift he asks for is “a few hours of your time,” which always sounds sentimental. But more often than not what he means is there’s a stack of wood or something he wants me to move.

The latest is a printing press that he used back in the ’70s and which is currently sitting in a garage in Pennsylvania. He’d like it to be here instead. But seeing as how there’s nowhere to put it right now, I’m temporarily off the hook.

Happy birthday, dad.