No job is
ever too
small.

Guten Tag, Wichita.

I grew up in Germany. My mom's German, my dad's a Florida boy who gave the Army thirty-plus years — which is how a kid ends up eating Spätzle on a base in Bavaria and watching Gators games at a weird hour of the morning. Two languages, two passports, one very strong opinion about how a job should be finished.

At twenty I moved to Austin. Learned the trades there, learned that a handshake still counts, and learned that a city can get too big for the kind of work I like doing — the kind where you know the customer's dog's name. So I pointed the truck north and landed in Wichita, looking for something more real. Found it. Cheaper barbecue too, and I say that as a man who lived in Texas.

Now I'm the guy knocking on your door, building this thing one house at a time. Weekends you'll find me at the smoker, on a pitch somewhere kicking a ball around with anybody who shows up, or out at Cheney with a line in the water pretending I know what I'm doing. If you see the truck in the neighborhood, wave me down — half my jobs start that way.