My dad worked a maintenance job at Kodak fixing their large cooling towers and water systems.

He always wore a thick flannel shirt that smelled like cigarettes, and had a clicky-pen in one pocket and Good and Plentys in the other.

His hands were rough and calloused, with little half-moons of black grease just below his fingernails.

I learned early on that hard work was the ticket.

And that if I kept my head down and put in the elbow grease, I would be ok.

My work dives into my blue collar roots…what hard work means to me, and what it’s like to want more.