I started creating jewelry a lifetime ago while I was still traveling. Not traveling in the way most would assume, but by extravagantly coarser means. I’m not speaking of passenger trains or airplanes. I’m talking about hitchhiking by day with shady strangers of questionable intent and slipping through dark freight train yards by night. Homeless? I suppose you could call it that, though it’s not the word I’d like to use. When you’re constantly moving, your home becomes motion. I felt at home in nearly any circumstance, despite the location. Still, I encountered thousands of bridges on my treks across the country; I slept beneath them just about as often as I crossed them.

In the beginning, the jewelry I made was embarrassingly crude. I started with a large handheld brazing torch meant for construction, the scant coins in my pocket, and recycled bits of random jewelry people had given me. I’d set up on the sidewalks in random towns as I’d pass through and put on a show of fire, flux, and solder. At the time, the pieces I made were just as likely to break as to hold together, but I still displayed them proudly on my blanket. Even if they were horribly oxidized, they still sold just the same. It had started as a hustle, a way to provide myself with the essentials without begging for them. However, the more I created, the more I learned. The more obsessed I became with the details.

Finding teachers as I canvassed the United States was surprisingly easy and always a blessing. I was willing, sociable, and worked hard. I soaked up knowledge quicker than a sponge and was eager to please. Looking back on it now, it’s a little painful, but I wouldn’t have chosen any other way to learn. The instructors I’ve had the pleasure and misfortune of meeting are the keystone of what I am today. They taught me the meaning of craftsmanship, the honor in taking pride in one’s work, and the double-edged sword in taking pride in oneself.