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The word cool is complex. A comfortable temperature. A calm state of mind. Something excellent and awesome. A presence that people aspire to attain but can’t always handle. Cool can be easy to grasp but difficult to capture. Few own it.

Most people enjoy cool weather. Some of you probably purchased a cool outfit or two, but uncool attire is usually more affordable. We know that maintaining a cool composure requires a little self-control. But, becoming a cool personality is never a promise.

Unfortunately, the ingredients for cool are rarely the same. Once someone locks in on a formula for the attitude market, flattery demands imitation; but a new recipe is soon required. The masses are drawn to things like phrases and hairstyle and wardrobe. Who knows what quirks and scars and gifts might make someone special? No individual exhibits every admired quality or has any of the qualities forever. But when you got ‘em, you got ‘em!

By the time I was in college, Steve McQueen was the “King of Cool.” He acted and raced. He wore suits and denim and spurs with equal grace. He had scripted poise and unscripted wit. “Nobody trusts anyone, or why did they put tilt on a pinball machine.” A bit cynical, but how cool is that McQueen quote?

His coolness reemerged last week when a vintage 1952 Hudson Wasp two-door Brougham coupe hit the auction block. It was a favorite that he drove until he died. It was his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ ride with under 65,000 on the odometer. Regretfully, I am going to pass on bidding even though most cars I buy have that many miles or more.

Yet, owning a Hudson Wasp would be as amazing as eating one hundred hard-boiled eggs (Cool Hand Luke), as unique as bringing justice to the West with a Mare’s-leg rifle (Wanted Dead or Alive), and as unbelievable as leaping WWII, barbed-wire fences on a 1961 Triumph TR6 Trophy (The Great Escape). If that Wasp elevated Terrance Stephen McQueen to KOOL, what could it do for me?

As I inspected the auction photo and a biography, I felt a surge of pride. Steve and my dad had a lot in common: good looks, adventurous lives, veteran status, and beautiful wives. And, surprisingly, they were both blessed enough to get behind the wheel of a car with wings on the front doors. McQueen had a Hudson. My dad had a Studebaker. It’s almost like they were cousins.

Now don’t go all sci-fi and picture a flying car. The wing on each front door was a triangular, glass air vent that a driver could open to defog the windshield, to let fresh air in, or to toss cigarette ashes and Wrigley gum wrappers out of. That vent was a highly functional feature that did not make it to this century, possibly because of littering issues.

My youngest memories of sibling rivalry in the family car involved arguing about who could roll down the windows. I don’t recall winning as much as wanting. “It’s hot in here” and “Something smells” initiated many a backseat brawl.

And the solution did not require a referee. In the pre-air-conditioning era my dad just calmly reached to his left and opened the wing window. The ensuing breeze took care of the problems. It was a better fix than pulling the car over and yanking our proverbial tails into knots.

In nearly every sense of the word Steve McQueen once owned cool, and so did my dad. It shouldn’t take a vintage vehicle with window wings to remind me of that about my father, but I’m glad it did. It’s always rewarding when his presence cruises in.