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My grandfather Irv was fifty-one years old when I entered the world on a cold January evening in 1977. He had been working his whole life fixing and maintaining mechanical equipment, starting as a car mechanic and then later helping to keep the ancient machines in an old crayon factory running.As a child, I remember studying his hands, as we sat at the veneer-topped table in the small kitchen of my grandparents’ home. I spent a lot of time there growing up, while my mom was at work. Those hands …