We didn’t grow up the same.
We grew up in the same house.
Mom was a banker.
Dad was an operator. A real one.
Not a title. Not a badge. Backbone.
I remember the day he asked me:
“Should I take the superintendent role?”
He didn’t ask my brother.
He didn’t have to.
My brother was already dangerous in his own lane.
Triple-ticket tradesman.
Hands that don’t shake.
Mind that measures twice and cuts once.
He doesn’t talk about capability.
He builds it.
Engines. Framing. Electrical.
If it breaks — he fixes it.
If it doesn’t exist — he builds it.
Dad used to say:
“Want to laugh? Call Scott.”
“Want a solution? Call Scott.”
But if you needed something built that would still be standing when you’re gone?
That was a Jeremy call.
We fought.
We competed.
We sharpened each other.
Thirty years ago in Prince George, that edge meant something physical.
Today it means something better.
It means knowing strength doesn’t wear one uniform.
Some of us build companies.
Some of us build structures.
Some of us build culture.
Some of us build things that don’t fail in the cold.
None of it works without the others.
That’s my brother.
That’s my standard.
That’s blood.
Respect to the trades.
You don’t post about it.
You just show up and build. Often.
Thanks,
Scott
