No Place in the World Anymore

My dad is a carpenter who is approaching the door to his 60s. He is the last of a dying breed.

Every morning he gets up before dawn, around 4 o’clock when most are still sleeping. He goes about his routine, packs his sandwich and chips like he has for the last forty years; he never buys lunch. He fills up his 10-year-old, two-gallon, Igloo jug that he won’t throw away because there is nothing wrong with it. He gets in his rusting truck with his thermos of coffee and heads to the job site. In his lunchbox along with his sandwich and chips, you’ll find a watch, a bottle of Advil that rolls aroun...