A man pointed at my grease-streaked hands in a grocery store and told his son that’s what failure looks like. I kept quiet. But minutes later, his phone rang—and before the night ended, he was standing in front of me, apologizing.
I started welding the week after I graduated high school. Fifteen years later, I was still at it.
I liked the work because it made sense. Metal either held or it didn’t. You either knew what you were doing, or you left a mess for someone else to clean up.
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