For all of his working life, my dad wore a shirt with his name on the pocket. His mom died when he was a boy, and he completed only eighth grade before he had to drop out to make his own way. He could fix anything and figure out everything, though, including how to make a living and raise a big family. The jobs included running a convent laundry and the boiler room of a high school ? which put him squarely in the great tradition of the working-class, blue-collar American worker proudly scrapping his way into the middle class.
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