My roots began at a young adolescent age as rolling around in a gravel driveway or concrete garage slab, in a below-zero temps, fixing domestic daily drivers with my grandfather. Similar to how I often walked up hill in a blizzard both ways to and from school, I saw most of this as a chore. I would complain about seeing my breath and what I thought surely must be frostbite. I complained that the radio never quite came in. The whine of the AM frequency drove me nuts. I often couldn’t wait to get out from under the car I was working on. If I’d known then what I knew now, I would have valued that time, reveled in it, as it was some of the best and most valuable moments of my childhood. I learned that if you fixed it yourself, it’s like you got paid to do it. Not only in dollars, but in pride. Putting value on your own time invested in a project was taught to me as invaluable. Whether the reason was pride, passion, or necessity, you did it for yourself.
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