I grew up far from town, in the woods of Oklahoma—me and 8 of 11 siblings. Our world began and ended on that property, and we experienced something most kids growing up our age didn’t—adventure. There was an other-worldly sense to it. Being close to nature, seeing seasons change up close. While we all lived pretty close together in our home, if I ever needed real space and solitude, I could walk out the door, hike for fifteen minutes, and be so far away from the world my mind could wonder. Building tree houses, carving trails out with a machete, flipping ATVs, and shooting branches off trees, we grew up feeling confident and fearless: knowing we could handle ourselves in whatever adventure we found ourselves in that day.

But life wasn’t all wonder and woods.

We worked hard.

Outside our daily chores (reluctantly done) we would spend a few hours every day at the family business organizing tools, brush-hogging, tearing down an engine, or pressure-washing muddy dump trucks. I came to appreciate the satisfaction hard physical work gives you—complete productive exhaustion. Still, in my early teens, a big part of me wanted something else. Being so far from the world my peers in school experienced, I always wondered how enjoyable their lives must be. If you grew up in a large, hard-working, family you might understand this peculiar form of envy that tells you life would be better if you had fewer siblings. More attention from your parents, more gifts to go around, more space to pick up an after-school sport, or more time with your friends. Everyone else’s lives looked so easy. Don’t get me wrong, we had a lot of fun too, but after some time I came to realize how special our family identity was.

Being a Gibson means we work hard and play harder.

It’s a legacy I feel very proud of.