My Grandfather was a badass. Once, when he was 90, I was helping him move some branches and debris off his lawn after a storm. He could barely walk at that point, always used a cane, he was beat up. But, when you take into account the miles he put on those legs neither of us were complaining. I was up on a roof somewhere when I turned around to check on him. He was standing up, holding a log twice his size scooting over towards the tractor at a snails pace. I stopped complaining that day. 

That was work ethic.

That is my inspiration.

It was around that time he started to teach me about woodworking. We sat in his wood shop for hours, working on little projects. Sometimes he'd teach, sometimes we'd learn together. Ramping up my knowledge while his Body slowed down.  That went on for a few years before he couldn't join me out there anymore. Instead, I'd bring finished projects to him. He'd run his fingers over the freshly sanded wood, searching for imperfections. I'd wait around for the subtle nod of approval from a seasoned maker. My teacher.

Then he was gone.

I couldn't go out there for a year.

As time went on, I started to crave the creativity we had in there and, as luck would have it, a few friends started to ask me to create for them.

I turned the lights back on.