Tradesmen deserve our respect, thanks
For most of my life, I’ve watched my dad labor away fixing other people’s cars — usually at a steep discount — outside our home. Each morning, he would rise early, go to work — first as a mechanic at a service station, then later with the city’s motor pool — then come home and work into the night on various projects.
He kept food on the table, clothes on our back and a roof above our heads. Sure, it wasn’t a mansion, but it was a home –— one that we never feared the bank would take away.