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My father has made most of the gravestones in this cemetery. He started to work for his father when he was ten. And although he was the second oldest of four brothers, he got to take the firm over. My younger brother and I spent many afternoons at the workshop. It was, and still is, located a couple of miles outside of the town where we lived. Our grandparents and cousins lived nearby and we did everything but work. When I look back on this time three episodes stand out: witnessing dad and granddad having a heated argument on the workshop floor; watching my car-crazy younger brother, probably thirteen or fourteen years old at the time, taking the keys to the sky-blue Plymouth Valiant and starting driving lap after lap around the workshop with dad running behind; and finally, dad explaining to us why neither of us were going to take the firm over.
my brother´s turn