I believed him and ended up in the hospital. That was years before he married a black girl and left her for a New Yorker, before I knew I'd be the second grandchild to divorce. Now, it's twenty minutes after sunrise, and I'm running the engine, waiting for the frost to blow off. These last ones never seem to warrant going back for the scraper. I'm entertaining myself with the patterns in the stitches of my shirt, the thousands of threads that fall into black and gray chevrons. There's a rip in the arm that my grandfather offered to fix but lost his kit before he could. I wish I knew more of his tricks, like adding salt to coffee grounds and how to keep the girls guessing and the answers to stains from red wine and sweat, but some stains set too quickly for cool water or baking soda or vinegar. What takes twenty-one years out of twenty-seven feet of intestine and twine? When the glass is clean, shift into gear, drink salty coffee, and drive.