My name is Frank

 

My name’s Frank. I’m 64, a retired electrician.

Forty-two years I spent running wires through houses, fixing breakers, making sure people had light in their kitchens and heat in their winters. Never once did anyone ask me where I went to college. Mostly, they just wanted to know if I could get the power back on before their ice cream melted.

Last May, I was at my granddaughter Emily’s school career day. You know the drill —

doctors, lawyers, a software guy in a slick suit talking about “scaling startups.” I was the only one there with a tool belt and work boots.

When it was my turn, I told the kids, “I don’t have a degree. I’ve never sat in a lecture hall. But I’ve wired schools, hospitals, and your principal’s house. And when the hospital generator failed during a snowstorm in ’98, I was the one in the basement with a flashlight, keeping the lights on for newborn babies upstairs.”

The kids leaned forward. They had questions — real ones. “How do you fix stuff in the dark?” “Do you make a lot of money?” “Do you ever get zapped?” (Yes, once, and it’ll curl your hair.)

When the bell rang, one boy hung back. Small kid, freckles, hoodie too big for him. He mumbled, “My uncle’s a plumber. People laugh at him ’cause he didn’t finish high school. But… he’s the only one in the family who can fix anything.”

I looked that boy in the eye and said, “Kid, your uncle’s a hero. When your toilet overflows at midnight, Harvard ain’t sending anyone. A plumber is.”

Here’s the thing nobody told me when I was young — the world doesn’t run without tradespeople. You can have all the engineers you want, but if nobody builds the house, wires the power, or lays the pipes, those blueprints just sit in a drawer.

We’ve made it sound like trades are what you do if you can’t go to college, instead of a path you choose because you like working with your hands, solving problems, and seeing your work stand solid for decades.

Four years after high school, some kids walk away with diplomas. Others walk away with zero debt, a union card, and a skill they can take anywhere in the world. And guess what? When your furnace dies in January, it’s not the diploma that saves you.

A few weeks ago, that same freckled kid’s mom stopped me at the grocery store. She said, “You probably don’t remember, but you told my son trades are important. He’s shadowing his uncle this summer. First time I’ve seen him excited about anything in years.”

That’s the part we forget — for some kids, knowing their path is important and changes everything. It’s not about “just” fixing wires or pipes. It’s about pride. Purpose. The kind that sticks with you long after the job’s done.

So next time you meet a teenager, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?” Ask, “What’s your plan?” And if they say, “I’m learning to weld,” or “I’m starting an apprenticeship,” smile big and say, “That’s fantastic. We’re going to need you.”

Because we will. More than ever. And when the lights go out, you’ll be glad they showed up.”

"Where the Light Never Dies"

Where the Light Never Dies                                                                                                                 Inspired by Lewis Capaldi and Celine Dion.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yqef_2KNBdY

 

" Never Write Anybody Off, Ever "

 

“The Bus Stop Violin”

The wind cut through the high street as people rushed past the bus stop. Most hardly noticed the man sitting on an upturned crate, his violin resting on his knee. His coat was frayed at the cuffs, and his beard had gone white in patches.

Lena noticed him first because of the music. It wasn’t polished, but there was something raw and aching in the way he played Ave Maria. She slowed, fumbling for coins.

“Thank you,” the man murmured when she dropped a pound into the open case. His voice was soft, almost embarrassed.

“That was beautiful,” Lena said. “Did you study music?”

He hesitated. “Once. Long time ago. Before… everything.”

She almost walked on, but something in his eyes stopped her. “What’s your name?”

“David.”

“David,” she repeated. “Would you mind if I recorded a bit of your playing? People online should hear this.”

He shrugged. “If you like. Doesn’t matter.”

Lena took out her phone. David straightened, tucked the violin under his chin, and played again. This time the notes soared.

That night Lena posted the clip with a caption:

“Meet David. He’s homeless, but his music deserves a stage. Please share.”

Within hours it had thousands of views. By the next morning her inbox was full of messages: a retired music teacher offering free lessons, a local shelter offering a bed, a community orchestra wanting him to audition.

When Lena found David again at the bus stop, she held out her phone. “Look,” she said, showing him the messages.

He stared at the screen. “All… this… for me?” His hands trembled.

“Yes,” Lena said. “People want to help. They want you to play.”

He wiped his eyes. “I thought the world forgot me.”

“No,” she said softly. “Never write anybody off, David. Not even yourself.”

Months later, David stood on a small stage at a community concert hall. He wore a borrowed tuxedo, his beard neatly trimmed. In the front row sat Lena, grinning.

“Before I play,” David told the audience, “I want to thank the young woman who stopped at a bus stop and didn’t just walk by. She reminded me — and all of you — that no life is too far gone. Thank you.”

He lifted the violin. The first note rang out, clear and sure, and for the first time in years, David played not to survive but to be heard.