Every weekend for as long as I can remember, my father would get up on a Saturday, put on a worn sweatshirt and he'd scrape away at the squeaky old wheel of a house that we lived in.
Todo final de semana, desde que me lembro, meu pai se levantava aos sábados, colocava um moletom surrado e ficava raspando a casa velha  e cheia de rangidos na qual vivíamos.