My main man, Wayman Harris, Sr.In the quiet, lush backwoods of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, there’s a little white rambler with red shutters perched atop a fairly steep hill. It looks like something cut and pasted from the front of a gift shop postcard, encircled by sky-high trees and surrounded by a sprawling yard that’s much prettier to look at than it is easy to mow. It’s the house my grandfather built, literally with his own hands. Back when he was a young man with a gold tooth, a wavy conk, and a mischievous smile, he kept my Nana in the family way for five consecutive years. So after long, laborious days working at a steel mill, he would punch out and get to building a home. Just like that. No 5-hour Energy, no Red Bull, no jolts of caffeine from some fancy-pants Starbucks drink.