During my pre-teen years—perhaps before my age reached double-digits, while my two brothers were off doing other things, I frequently accompanied my Mom, Carol Healy, on shopping trips to Duluth, Minnesota.
Groceries. Clothes. Supplies.
On one such trip, I had been watching the peculiar, repetitive interaction of rain with windshield wiper blades when she posed life’s most difficult question. Well, at least at that time, it was.
It wasn’t about school. It wasn’t about girls. It wasn’t about sports.
Just a simple question.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
