Most of the time, the journey begins far before we realize it. As a young child, I remember balancing on my tippy toes to see my father’s blueprints of power plants on his drafting table. When visiting my grandparents, I remember grandma’s ornate knit afghans and the excitement of riding in grandpa’s truck to the landfill. He would empty his trash, then scavenge for metals as I climbed the soft mountains of trash in search of my own treasures. In my thirties, I found a support letter my father wrote about my great-grandparents, who were jewelers in Spain. My journey, unknowingly, was already predetermined in my DNA.
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