I grew up the son of a bar owner outside Detroit. I was the ninth of 10 children, and the youngest boy. My father decided kindergarten was overrated and instead brought me with him to the bar every morning at 7 a.m. to open up.
He said I’d make something out of myself through hard work, not coloring in books. So I filled salt and pepper shakers and mustard and ketchup dispensers until it was time to attend first grade.
To see the rest of the story CLICK HERE