Growing up in the junkyard meant working in the impure and unclean. Actually, not just working in it, but embracing it.
It was routine to come home covered in grease, dust, oil, and sweat. After a long day of work with my dad, my mom would insist I go through the garage, take off my shoes, and wash my hands. Then — and only then — I could enter the house to take a shower.
Everything touchable in the junkyard was dirty, and a lot of that dirt and grime came home on me. Many of the metals, oils, and …