“Sir… Not in the Lobby.”

19 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Diabetic, Life, Uncategorized

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A funny thing happened at the doctor’s office today.

And no, this isn’t the beginning of a stand-up routine — although it probably should be.

I had my annual appointment with the urologist this morning. Nothing says “good morning” quite like discussing internal plumbing before 9 a.m.

When I walked in, there was a long line to check in. Apparently, everybody else decided today was “Let’s Make Sure Everything Still Works Day.”

Last year, they had six kiosks where you checked yourself in. I loved those things. Type your name. Enter your birth year. Scan your driver’s license. Scan your insurance card. Boom. Done. No awkward eye contact. No unnecessary explanations.

But apparently, some of the older crowd didn’t appreciate technology asking them personal questions. And if they asked for help, the folks behind the glass either didn’t know how the kiosks worked… or were honoring a sacred vow to never leave their swivel chairs.

So the kiosks are gone.

Now we’re back to two humans behind glass asking the exact same questions the kiosks asked — just at dial-up speed.

I finally made it to the front, handed over my cards, and was told to sit down.

I barely had time to pull out my Kindle before my name was called. That should’ve been my first warning sign.

The nurse met me with that little plastic specimen cup in her hand.

Men everywhere know that cup.

She said, “We’re going to need a urine sample. There are long lines to the restrooms in the back, so you can fill the cup in the lobby.”

I’m sorry… what?

Fill it in the lobby.

Now, I’m not overly modest. I’ve camped with teenage boys. I’ve survived scout trips. I’ve seen things. But I didn’t think the packed waiting room — complete with elderly ladies, a coughing man, and someone flipping through a 2017 copy of Field & Stream — needed a live demonstration.

Before wisdom could tap me on the shoulder, sarcasm grabbed the microphone.

I said — and I’m not proud of the volume level —
“You want me to give you a pee sample right here in the lobby?!”

The room froze.

Then came the laughter.

You would’ve thought I’d just announced a flash mob.

The nurse’s eyes got big enough to qualify for an exam of their own. That look said, “This man is one sentence away from being escorted out by security.”

She quickly snatched the cup back, took hold of my hand like I was a toddler about to wander into traffic, and escorted me to the men’s room — which, by the way, was in the lobby the entire time.

Apparently, “fill it in the lobby” meant “there’s a bathroom in the lobby,” not “sir, make it a public event.”

Details matter.

She stood outside the restroom waiting for me like I was taking the SAT. When I came out and handed her the cup, I apologized and told her I knew she didn’t mean what she said.

She laughed. The tension broke. My medical record probably now includes the phrase: Patient displays elevated sarcasm levels.

The rest of the appointment was uneventful. Lab work looked good. Everything’s functioning as designed. I’m cleared for another year.

So today’s takeaway:

  1. Listen carefully.
  2. Don’t project your sarcasm at full stadium volume.
  3. And if someone hands you a specimen cup, clarify the location before making an announcement.

Although judging by the laughter in that waiting room, I may have provided the best entertainment they’ve had since the kiosks were removed.

And for the record — everything’s flowing just fine.

The Number in the Corner

19 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Disability, Family, Leukemia, Life, Retirement, Uncategorized

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Photo by Jan van der Wolf on Pexels.com

In 2018, at age 55, I retired after 32 years with the same company.

Five years before that, the company decided to raise the retirement age from 55 to 65 with 25 years of service. Thankfully, I had already met the age requirement. I was “grandfathered in.”

That phrase never sounded so beautiful. I’d never been so proud to qualify for something simply because I was already old enough.

Ordinarily, I would’ve stayed until 65, so I wouldn’t mess with my Social Security. That was the responsible plan. But my body started holding meetings without my permission. Knees voting “no.” Back filing complaints. Balance requesting reassignment.

You can’t very well do HVAC work if climbing a ladder feels like you’re auditioning for a slow-motion fall.

I turned 55 on August 15, 2018. When I realized I had 42 months until I could retire, I started a quiet countdown.

Every morning, I took readings on the plant’s main HVAC equipment. On the wall was a massive 6 x 4 dry-erase board where I logged the numbers. Up in the far-left corner, I wrote one simple number:

42

On every 15th of the month, I erased it and lowered it by one.

Forty-two.
Forty-one.
Forty.

For three and a half years, that number sat there. No one ever asked what it meant. Not one person.

Either they didn’t notice… or they were silently rooting for it to hit zero.

I started that job on January 26, 1986. It was 19 degrees that morning. I know because my previous job was washing freshly painted utility trucks — outside — in January.

Whoever was lowest on the totem pole got that job.

I wasn’t just on the totem pole.

I was holding it up.

So when I walked into a heated building that morning, I felt like I’d been promoted to royalty.

I even took a two-dollar-an-hour pay cut to take the job. Two dollars an hour back then was real money. But I believed long-term it would pay off.

When I first started, I didn’t have any college education. Just a high school diploma and a willingness to work. But I kept getting passed over for promotions. One supervisor finally told me straight: “You’ll keep getting passed over unless you go back to school.”

That was hard to hear — but it was true.

An HVAC supervisor came to me and said that if I went back to school and learned the trade, he’d help me every step of the way. And he did.

So I worked full-time and went to school at night.

Those were long years.

I missed some things.

My son’s first baby steps were taken one night while I was sitting in a classroom trying to understand airflow calculations. I didn’t see them in person. I heard about them when I got home.

That part still stings a little.

You tell yourself you’re doing it for your family — and you are — but sometimes providing for them means missing moments you can’t ever get back.

I learned HVAC systems.

I just wish I’d learned how to be in two places at once.

For 32 years, I gave that place blood, sweat, and a few tears they probably didn’t log on the dry-erase board. I worked alongside some of the smartest people I’ve ever known. We solved problems together. Ate lunch together. Complained quietly together.

I went to their kids’ birthday parties. Camped with some of them. Attended funerals for their family members.

We weren’t just coworkers.

We were everyday life.

And then one day, I walked out.

Retirement is strange.

One day, you’re the guy everybody calls when something breaks.

The next day… nothing breaks that requires your number.

At first, I kept my phone close. Surely someone would need advice. Surely they’d call and say, “We can’t find this,” or “What did you do about that?”

Turns out, they figured it out.

Rude.

Before COVID, I’d stop in and have lunch with some of them. Now I mostly see them on Facebook. I still hear from a couple of guys, but it’s rare.

You work beside someone for 15 years and assume that bond is permanent. But when the daily routine disappears, you realize proximity and permanence aren’t the same thing.

I suppose I could call them. But they’re working. And when they’re home, they need family time.

And I’m retired.

Which means I now have plenty of time to think about things like dry-erase boards, 19-degree mornings, and baby steps I heard about instead of saw.

That number in the corner wasn’t just a countdown to retirement.

It was a countdown to a new season.

For 32 years, I was “the HVAC guy.” The steady one. The one who knew where everything was and how everything worked.

Now I’m the guy who drinks coffee in the morning without a time clock waiting on me.

And you know what?

That’s not a bad promotion.

I’m grateful.

Grateful for heated buildings on cold mornings.
Grateful for supervisors who pushed me.
Grateful I got to leave on my terms.

And grateful that even though I missed a few first steps…

I didn’t miss the rest of the journey.

When that number finally reached zero—

I erased it.

And walked out the door.

On my own two slightly creaky, but still standing, legs.

The Day Febreze Became a Household MVP

17 Tuesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Nature, Retirement, Uncategorized, Weather

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Four a.m. came early this morning… but who am I kidding? Four a.m. always comes early. I’m convinced 4 a.m. wakes up feeling productive and personally offended that I don’t.

The only reason I willingly get up at that hour is Bible study. Otherwise, if you see me awake at 4 a.m., something has gone terribly wrong — like I heard a strange noise, or I fell asleep at 7 p.m. and woke up confused and slightly offended.

Like usual, I sat there drinking my coffee while reading my morning devotion. There’s something peaceful about that quiet time… mostly because nobody else is awake to ask me where anything is.

After that, I went over the material for Bible study so I wouldn’t show up sounding like I just crawled out of a cave. Which, honestly, is exactly what my brain feels like at 4 a.m.

Since retirement, there are only two things that get me out of bed early.
Number one: Bible study.
Number two: Fishing.

Fishing and I haven’t spent much time together this year. I’ve only been once since New Year’s. The weather has been acting like it has a personal problem with me. Too cold. Too rainy. Too windy.

This week, the temperature is perfect… but the wind is blowing 10–15 mph with gusts up to 25 mph. Fishing in a kayak in that wind is less “peaceful day on the water” and more “Lord, if You get me back to the boat ramp, I promise to behave better.”

After Bible study, I met my brother-in-law and one of my fishing buddies for breakfast. Naturally, we talked about fishing. Because if fishermen aren’t fishing, we’re talking about fishing… or buying fishing gear… or trying to explain to our wives why we need more fishing gear.

We talked about kayaks and my plan to buy another one once I can raise the money. I refuse to go into debt for a hobby. I like fishing… but not “eat ramen noodles for six months” fishing.

Around 10 a.m., as I was leaving the restaurant, my wife texted me:
“The water is off.”

Not just our water. About 70% of the city.

That’s not a “someone hit a pipe” situation. That’s a “somebody is having a really bad day at work” situation.

I still had errands to run, so a couple of hours later, I made it home. We had a little water pressure, but not much. I immediately filled the bathtub so we’d have water to flush toilets if this thing dragged on.

Let me just say — that was one of the smartest decisions I made all day.

I called the water company.
They said about six hours.

Six hours came and went… still no water.

I called again.
Same report.
Just a new six-hour timeline.

That’s when you know you’ve entered the “Well… this is my life now” phase.

I have to admit, I was slightly entertained reading Facebook comments. Some folks were VERY upset about not being able to flush toilets and how things were getting… aromatic.

When people start describing their house as aromatic, things have gone off the rails.

Ten hours later, the water finally came fully back on.

The whole thing reminded me of visiting my grandparents when I was younger. They didn’t have indoor plumbing. They had an outhouse. If you had to go, you grabbed your courage and made the trip outside to the little wooden shack out back.

And let me tell you… I can still remember that smell. That smell had layers. History. Personality.

Suddenly, our ten-hour water outage didn’t seem quite so bad.

Fifteen Years, Thirteen Lives, Countless Memories

16 Monday Feb 2026

Posted by in Nature, Photography, Family, Weather

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April 11, 2026, will mark 15 years since theF5 tornado that forever changed Pleasant Grove, a small but strong community in Alabama. Fifteen years sounds like a long time — until you realize grief, memories, and fear don’t really follow a calendar.

Shortly after the tornado struck, I wrote about what we experienced. Back then, everything was raw. The sights, the sounds, the loss — it all felt like it was happening in slow motion. Today, the emotions are different, but they are still there. Some wounds don’t close completely. They just learn how to live beside you.

That day, 13 people in our community lost their lives. Thirteen families had their worlds shattered. Homes were gone. Landmarks were gone. In many ways, a sense of security was gone, too. When people talk about storms, they often talk about property damage and wind speeds. But storms leave something else behind — memories you never asked for.

Even now, when the weather forecast mentions a tornado watch, my body notices before my mind does. The tension creeps in. The sky looks different. The air feels heavier. And if I’m being honest, I still have nightmares sometimes. The kind where you wake up and have to remind yourself that the walls are still standing and the roof is still overhead.

Our city is still rebuilding — not just buildings, but hearts. New homes have gone up. Businesses have reopened. New families have moved in. But there are empty places that will never be filled the same way again. And yet, if there’s one thing I’ve seen over the last 15 years, it’s resilience. Neighbors helping neighbors. Churches opening doors. Strangers becoming family overnight.

Anniversaries like this are strange. They hurt, but they also remind us of how far we’ve come. They remind us to say names out loud. To remember stories. To check on each other when the sky turns gray. And to never take an ordinary, boring, peaceful day for granted.

Fifteen years later, we remember.
We honor.
And we keep rebuilding — together.

The Day the Sky Took Aim at Home

Our little community was hit by an EF-4 tornado, and as most of you know, it destroyed much of our great city. Thirteen people lost their lives a few weeks ago. That same day, 64 tornadoes were recorded across Alabama, with 250 lives lost statewide. Numbers like that are hard to wrap your mind around… until one of those storms is headed straight for your front door.

That morning, my son and I woke up to news reports of a tornado hitting Pell City, a town east of us. It caused major damage, including to my sister-in-law’s house. It was shocking, but at the time it still felt like “someone else’s tragedy.” We were getting ready to leave with the high school band for a trip to Orlando, Florida. We kissed my wife and our young twin daughters goodbye and headed out, thinking about theme parks and music competitions.

I had no idea that just hours later, I would be terrified. I had just said goodbye to them for the last time.

We were on the bus near Tallahassee, Florida, when messages started coming in. An EF-5 tornado had hit Tuscaloosa and was moving toward Pleasant Grove — my hometown. Everyone on the bus started watching the live coverage as the radar showed the storm was inching closer to home.

I called my wife and told her to take cover. The radar program on my computer showed the path heading dead center toward our house. When I hung up the phone, I didn’t know if I would ever hear her voice again.

On the bus, the TV reports started rolling in. Then the phone calls and messages. Friends. Neighbors. Homes destroyed. Fires. Injuries. Deaths. It felt like the world was collapsing in real time — and I couldn’t reach my wife.

I tried her cell. The house phone. The neighbors. Nothing. Not even a ring. Just busy signals everywhere.

I couldn’t text her either. She never wanted to pay extra for texting. I’ll be honest… in that moment, I was mad about that. Funny the things your brain latches onto when you’re scared to death.

After about fifteen minutes, that sinking feeling set in — the one that tells you life might never be the same again.

All around me, parents were crying. People were getting news about loved ones being hurt… or worse. The lady behind me saw I was coming apart and tried to calm me down. I went and found my son. He had been trying to call his mom, too. I could tell he’d been crying. We just held onto each other for a few minutes.

Other parents tried calling our numbers. Same result.

Then finally… after what felt like a lifetime… I got a ring.

I remember thinking: Just because it rings doesn’t mean she’s alive.

Then I heard the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

My wife’s voice.

The tornado missed our house by about half a mile. She had stepped outside afterward and didn’t see much damage. A few limbs down. Insulation is scattered across the yard. She wouldn’t realize until the next day just how close we had come to losing everything.

We were — and still are — truly blessed.

The buses stopped at the next rest area. Parents and band leaders met to figure out what to do. Some parents chose to head home. The decision was made to continue to Orlando and let parents make their own travel arrangements if they needed to return.

The kids all stayed. Some didn’t like it at the time, but they needed to stay out of the way of the emergency response and cleanup. Looking back, I think they understood.

We stayed in Orlando until Sunday. The ride home was quiet. Reality had set in. We were about to see firsthand what had happened to our homes, our friends, and our community.

Even today, our city is still rebuilding. Many families left and never came back. Our band went from nearly 100 students to 20 in less than a year. The high school felt it too. We’re slowly rebuilding — not just buildings, but people, memories, and hope.

It’s going to take time.

But we’re still here.

And that means everything.

Lessons I Learned From a Toad at 2 A.M. A Scoutmaster’s Tale

14 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Life, Nature, Uncategorized, Weather

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I attend two men’s Bible studies each week — one on Tuesday mornings and one on Saturday mornings. The reason I bring this up is that at the Saturday group, several of the men are guys I’ve known for years. At one point or another, many of them were leaders in the Boy Scouts. Since announcing my “retirement” from Scouting, we’ve spent a lot of time after Bible study swapping stories and memories from those years.

Today was no exception.

And like most Scout stories, this one involves weather, questionable decisions, and lessons learned the hard way.

For years, our boys attended the same summer camp. It was a good camp, but after a while, the older boys got tired of earning the same merit badges year after year. There are only so many times you can get excited about tying the same knots before you start questioning your sanity.

So our troop decided to do something different — we planned our own week-long summer camp with a wider variety of merit badge opportunities.

The location we chose was Raccoon Mountain, just over the Tennessee state line, about 2.5 hours away. This trip took months of planning. We had to make sure the boys had fun while earning badges they couldn’t get at regular camp. Finding qualified instructors was probably the hardest part. That meant reaching out to other troops in the area and politely begging adults to come teach teenagers skills in the middle of the woods in the summer.

When we arrived, I met with the camp ranger. She placed us away from the other RV campers so we’d have privacy and not disturb anyone. While setting up, I noticed a large dry creek bed off to the side. The tent spots were level, but the whole camping area sat on a hill.

At the time, I thought, “Nice view.”

Later, I thought, “Well… that was dumb.”

We arrived midday, giving the sixteen boys time to set up the dining area, pitch tents, and start preparing dinner. After the meal, the KP crew cleaned dishes while the rest of the boys relaxed. The adult leaders met to finalize plans for our first full day.

Everything was going perfectly… until the camp ranger interrupted us.

A severe thunderstorm watch had been issued for later that night into the early morning. As Scoutmaster, weather monitoring was one of my responsibilities. Up until the day we left, the forecast called for only a brief early-morning shower. I had checked again before departure — no change.

This was back when weather apps were more “suggestions” than “accurate predictions.”

One of our camp rules was no electronics. Devices stayed in the vans once we arrived. This was before smartphones took over, but we still had gaming systems and MP3 players to worry about. This was to give the boys the complete outdoor experience.

I did bring two devices — my work phone and my BlackBerry. The work phone had limited internet (and technically wasn’t for personal use), and the BlackBerry had radar, though the signal was spotty enough that sometimes I think it was just guessing.

Radar showed two wide storm lines heading straight for us. By our calculations, the first would arrive around 2 a.m. After our meeting, I had the boys secure anything that could blow away or get soaked.

Most adults were staying in travel trailers, but I made sure several leaders stayed in tents with me for safety.

Around 1:30 a.m., thunder woke me. Lightning flickered in the distance. As I crawled out to check things, I ran into another leader doing the same thing. Always comforting when someone else is thinking the same way you are — or at least equally nervous.

While checking the camp, John called my name. He had spotted a toad hopping quickly uphill.

I asked if maybe that toad knew something we didn’t.

Looking back… I’m pretty sure he had access to a better weather service than we did.

Right on schedule, the first storm hit around 2 a.m. Wind picked up first, moving things I thought were heavy enough to stay put. Then the rain came — light at first, then like somebody flipped the “monsoon” switch.

Water rushed down the hill straight toward that “dry” creek bed. The road to the leaders’ section quickly turned into something resembling Class II rapids. All that water headed right toward the boys’ tents at the bottom.

John and I tried everything to divert water — digging channels, moving gear, anything. Nothing worked. There was just too much water. We grabbed spare tarps and rolled them into makeshift coffer dams.

At that point, we weren’t so much “in control” as we were “participating in a natural disaster.”

After about twenty minutes, the rain eased. Radar showed the second, stronger line about thirty minutes out.

Then my son called out from his tent asking if they could come out — said there was “a little water” inside.

In Scout language, “a little water” can mean anything from damp socks to an indoor swimming pool.

I told them to stay put. The storm wasn’t done with us yet.

As we kept working, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

Another toad.
Moving uphill.
Faster than the first one.

At that moment, I should have packed everyone up and followed that toad like he was Moses.

The second storm hit harder than the first. John and I were soaked to the bone. By the time it ended, every tent had at least an inch of water inside. Not a single dry sleeping bag or cot left.

My entire focus was on the boys. That was the Scoutmaster in me. Thankfully, we had stored some dry wood under a tarp and could at least build a fire to start drying things out.

Only later that morning did I check my own gear.

The water had pushed loose debris against my tent and literally shoved it downhill. There were six inches of mud inside. Somehow, though, everything on top of my cot — including my CPAP and electronics — stayed dry.

I still can’t explain that. I’m calling it either divine intervention or really good cot placement.

After breakfast, John and I loaded every sleeping bag and six full trash bags of clothes, and drove into town to a laundromat. I don’t even want to think about how many quarters we fed those dryers. I’m pretty sure the owner saw us coming and started pricing beach houses.

When we got back, John offered to let me stay in his tent for the rest of the week. Thankfully, his tent was large enough for both of us. After the night I had just experienced — losing a fight with rain, gravity, and poor campsite placement — I wasn’t about to argue.

At that point, pride was gone. Survival and dry socks were the only goals.

Besides, after spending half the night building tarp dams in a thunderstorm together, sharing a tent didn’t even make the top ten list of weird things that had happened that week.

The rest of the week went perfectly. The boys had a blast. Nothing was ruined — just wet and sleep-deprived. And probably a little more respectful of weather forecasts… and fast-moving amphibians.

And I learned something important.

If you ever see toads moving quickly before a storm…
You might want to follow them to higher ground.

When Life Schedules You Back-to-Back

12 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Family, Fishing, Life, Photography, Uncategorized

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Today was one of those days where it felt like my full-time job was simply showing up somewhere else every few hours. Three appointments, three different parts of life, all packed into one long day.

I left the house around 9 a.m. for my first appointment at 10. I pulled in around 9:30 — early, I know — but I’ve always believed it’s better to be thirty minutes early than five minutes late. Plus, if something crazy happens, I’ve got buffer time. If nothing crazy happens, I get bonus time to sit in a waiting room and read my Kindle.

To my surprise, I was the only one in the waiting room, which rarely happens. I half expected someone to jump out and yell, “Just kidding, we’re running two hours behind!”

Then came the usual routine: three sticks before they finally got enough blood for testing. At this point, I think my veins hide when they see a needle coming. I’m pretty sure if they could talk, they’d be yelling, “Scatter! It’s Tuesday again!”

This visit was to my oncologist’s office to check my hemoglobin. It’s been running low for quite a while now. Normally, I go in once a month for a Procrit shot to help my body produce red blood cells and fight the anemia. Normal hemoglobin runs between about 12 and 15. Mine has been in the 6.5 to 8 range for a couple of years now — basically the bargain-bin section of hemoglobin numbers.

We tried iron infusions at first. They worked… briefly. Then it was right back to square one. When Procrit was first suggested, Medicare wouldn’t cover it. That meant $400 per shot, once a month. For that price, I feel like it should come with a steak dinner and a T-shirt.

Thankfully, Medicare eventually changed course and started covering it.

The good news today? No shot needed. My hemoglobin came in at 11.1. Still low, but close enough that the doctor decided to hold off and test again next month. I’ll take that as a small win. Around here, we celebrate small wins. Sometimes with coffee. (Which, apparently, is now under review.)

Next stop was my primary care office. I ended up seeing the nurse practitioner because my doctor was in a bad car accident several months back and is currently in rehab. His daughter, who is also a nurse practitioner, has been helping cover patients. We’re not sure whether my doctor will return to his practice. It’s a wait-and-see game for now.

Unfortunately, she can’t prescribe the narcotic meds I’m on, so I’ll have to go back next week to see another doctor just to get those refilled. Nothing like making a special trip just to prove you’re still the same person who needed the meds last week.

They were also supposed to retest my potassium levels today. That didn’t happen.

Instead, I got the lecture about my coffee habit and how high potassium can damage kidneys. Considering I’m already fighting to keep my kidney numbers where they need to be, I guess it’s time to start thinking about weaning myself off coffee.

Let me be clear: this may be the greatest personal challenge I have faced to date.

I don’t want to say coffee, and I are in a committed relationship… but we’ve definitely been exclusive for a long time.

My last appointment was with my financial adviser. He manages my retirement funds, and we meet yearly to review where everything is invested and how things are performing. Thankfully, things look solid. What he’s doing is working, and that’s a huge relief. I like the idea of continuing to eat and keep the lights on.

We also talked about future plans — mainly selling this house and moving somewhere safer. This neighborhood just isn’t what it was 35 years ago. That’s a whole story for another day, probably involving the phrase “kids these days.”

The bigger issue right now is the house itself. There’s a long list of repairs waiting for attention.

The deck my dad and I built over 25 years ago is starting to splinter and show its age. It probably needs to be torn down and replaced completely. Part of me hates that. The other part of me hates splinters more.

There’s visible wear around the chimney. The painters we hired five years ago did a poor job — but we went cheap, and sometimes you really do get what you pay for. Apparently, we paid for “looks good from across the street.”

Both bathroom vanities need replacing. The stairs need the carpet removed and the laminate installed. The roof needs shingle work before it decides to become an indoor water feature.

My adviser’s advice was simple: get several estimates, choose the contractor we trust most, then call, and they’ll cut the check. Easy… at least on paper.

Now comes the fun part — finding contractors.
I know of one.
Which means I am now officially accepting applications from the universe.

I was actually supposed to go fishing tomorrow, but it looks like it will be late afternoon before temperatures get comfortable enough for me to be outside for any length of time. So I decided to postpone it until spring decides to show up regularly instead of just teasing us for a few hours at a time.

The fish are safe for now… but their luck runs out the minute spring clocks in full time.

Some days are about big life moments.
Some days are about survival.
And some days are just about showing up, getting poked with needles, getting lectured about coffee, and trying to keep life moving forward one appointment at a time.

Today was one of those days.

And honestly?
I’m grateful I was able to make them all.

Even if I may have to say goodbye to coffee soon.
Please keep me in your thoughts during this difficult time.

A Doorbell Camera and a Second Chance With My Dad

12 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Uncategorized, Photography, Family, Life

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A sunset through the windshield of my truck on my way home from installing the doorbell camera.

Today I had the privilege of spending most of the afternoon with my parents. Both of them are in their mid-eighties and, overall, are doing well. Mom has some health issues and deals with a lot of pain from arthritis and scoliosis. A woman who once stood nearly six feet tall is now just over five feet because she’s so hunched over. Dad is also hunched over some, but not from scoliosis — it’s from injuries sustained in a head-on collision they were both involved in back in 2016. I count it as a blessing every day that they are both still here after that accident.

Dad’s tremors are so bad now that he can’t sign his name anymore. If legal documents need to be signed, he either has me sign for him or uses a rubber stamp with his signature on it. He still eats with regular utensils, but you can tell it’s a struggle.

He called me last week because he bought a doorbell camera and needed help installing it. Today was the first day I’ve had without doctor appointments or other commitments that were hard to move on short notice.

My parents live about 45 minutes away. It’s really not that far, and honestly, I should visit more often — especially now.

When I got there, Dad was outside trying to remove the old doorbell. He was struggling because he didn’t have the right size screwdriver, and with his tremors… well, even with the right tool, it would have been tough.

After I got the old one off, we went inside, and he handed me the unopened box with the new camera. He told me it was supposed to use the existing doorbell wiring for power. I kept that in mind while reading the manual.

The problem was that nowhere in the manual did it mention using the existing wiring. What I was reading and what this 86-year-old man was telling me were two completely different things.

Let me pause and tell you something about my dad. He is never wrong. Or maybe more accurately… he never admits to being wrong. And he really doesn’t like being told he is. So installing this camera took a lot longer than it should have, mostly because I had to carefully explain that what he thought and what the manual said were not the same thing — without actually saying, “Dad, you’re wrong.”

I have a Ring doorbell at my house. Installing mine took about 30 minutes total — removing the old one, installing the new one, connecting Wi-Fi, and setting up the app. Thirty minutes, tops.

Today? It took from 11:30 AM until just after 4 PM to install the doorbell, set up and configure the app, connect the monitor to Wi-Fi, mount the monitor on the wall, and then teach Dad how to use everything. Between learning the system myself and teaching him step by step, it was a process.

I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed it took that long… or proud I got it done that fast, considering everything involved.

Growing up, Dad and I didn’t get along very well. The older I got, the worse it seemed to get. We were both hard-headed, both quick-tempered, and we yelled a lot. I never felt like I could please him. We fought often, and honestly, I was glad when the day came that I could move out.

But now I’m older. I have kids of my own. I’ve lived some life. And our relationship is better than it’s ever been.

I’m the oldest of four — two younger brothers and a baby sister. I don’t live the closest, but I’m probably the most mechanically inclined. I can turn a wrench. The others are more keyboard-and-screen guys. So when something physical or mechanical needs to be done, I usually get the call.

And honestly? I don’t mind anymore.

It gives me time with them. Real-time. Time I know is limited. It feels like I’ve been given a second chance with my dad.

It’s still not always easy. Telling him he’s wrong without telling him he’s wrong is an art form that requires patience and diplomacy.

When I left today, the doorbell was working, the monitor was mounted, and both he and Mom were thankful I came. As I was walking out, Dad said he didn’t think he could have done it himself because it was more complicated than he expected.

And truthfully, some of these modern devices are just more complicated than they need to be.

But today wasn’t really about installing a doorbell camera.

It was about time.
It was about patience.
It was about grace.

Because one day, there will be no phone call asking for help installing something.
One day, there will be no slow walk to the door to greet me.
One day, there will be no tremor-shaken hands trying to turn a screwdriver.

And when that day comes, I won’t remember how long it took to install that camera.
I’ll remember standing next to my dad.
I’ll remember my mom sitting nearby, hurting but smiling.
I’ll remember being needed.

If you’re lucky enough to still have your parents here, go see them.
Take the phone call.
Fix the thing.
Explain the manual.
Be patient.

Because sometimes second chances don’t come as big life moments.

Sometimes they show up as a five-hour doorbell installation on a random afternoon…
And you don’t realize how important it was until you’re driving home.

Kayak, Quiet, and Keeping It Together; Out There, I Found Myself Again

11 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Cancer, Depression, Fishing, Kayaking, Leukemia, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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My fishing buddy texted me Monday night asking if we were still meeting for breakfast Tuesday morning—a morning ritual we started a few months back. For the second time in two weeks, I had to tell him no because of doctor appointments. I worry that he thinks I’m brushing him off, but honestly, that’s not the case at all.

We’re both at an age—and health status—where we really shouldn’t go fishing alone. He’s 72 and has had five strokes. Thankfully, his health has improved a great deal, and I’m not overly worried about the two of us being out in an area with no cell service for hours on end. I carry a Mini InReach, a satellite communicator that allows me to send and receive text messages via satellite if things go sideways and help is needed. It even has an SOS button. If either of us were to have a medical emergency, pressing that button would send our GPS coordinates to rescuers. It might take a few hours, but help would be on the way.

I’m 62, and if you’ve read any of my posts, you already know I have my own long list of health concerns. Having a partner with you in a place where two-way communication is sketchy isn’t just a good idea—it’s warranted.

But it comes at a cost.

Sometimes, I need to be alone. I enjoy getting out in my kayak, stopping for a while, and just absorbing the sounds of nature. It’s where I have one-on-one time with my God. Rick is always nearby, as he should be, but I no longer feel like I truly get that quiet space. If I slow down to let him get ahead, he stops too, probably just to make sure nothing’s wrong.

When I first started kayak fishing, I went alone. Rick didn’t have a kayak then. Back then, my world felt like it was closing in on me. My cancer numbers were out of control, my kidneys were failing, and dialysis felt like the only road left in front of me. I was depressed, scared, and felt more lost than I ever had in my life.

Being out in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by silence, by peace, by the kind of beauty only God could create—gave me something I couldn’t find anywhere else. It gave me room to breathe. It gave me space to think. It gave me a place where I could be honest about how scared I really was. Sometimes it didn’t fix anything… but sometimes it gave me just enough strength to get through one more day.

I needed that time alone. It wasn’t about fishing. It wasn’t about getting away from people. It was survival. It was the only place where I felt I could truly talk to God and not feel like I had to be strong for anyone else.

This isn’t meant to be a religious post. I don’t use this platform for politics, religion, or controversy. This is simply how I dealt with a situation that felt completely out of my control.

I hope each of us has a place we can go—a place of solitude, reflection, prayer, or even just quiet—where we can catch our breath when life feels too heavy.

And I want to ask something, not as a writer, not as someone posting on social media, but as someone who knows what it feels like to be overwhelmed:

How do you deal with depression?
When you feel like things are getting out of control, how do you hold on?
What helps you get through the days when everything feels heavier than it should?

Because the truth is… someone reading this right now might be barely holding on.
Someone might be smiling on the outside and falling apart on the inside.
Someone might just need to know they’re not the only one fighting that battle.

If you have something that helps you keep going, share it.
You might help someone more than you will ever know.

When Your Brain Hits the Snooze Button

09 Monday Feb 2026

Posted by in Cancer, Disability, Leukemia, Life, Pets, Retirement, Uncategorized

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Brain fog is working overtime this morning.

My cat got me up earlier than normal, so I started my day the usual way — getting my coffee going and sitting down to do my daily devotional. Afterward, I usually sit in the darkness for a bit to reflect on what I just read and mentally prepare myself for the rest of the day. That normally lasts about 15 to 20 minutes, depending on what I have planned.

Evidently, today I went into a deep sleep while doing so.
So instead of reflecting on scripture, I apparently reflected on the inside of my eyelids.

I got up, went into the kitchen, took a bowl out of the cabinet, and proceeded to pour cereal into it when my wife walked into the kitchen and asked what I was doing. I could only look at her with what I assume was a very strange look on my face — the same look Windows gives right before it crashes.

Normally, when someone is pouring cereal into a bowl, it means they’re about to eat breakfast. So I told her I was fixing breakfast.

She then informed me that I had already eaten breakfast.

A small argument began.

“No, I haven’t,” I replied, with the confidence of a man who clearly has no idea what he’s talking about.

She then pointed to the kitchen sink where an empty bowl with a spoon sat. Next to it was an empty plate with a fork — the same plate where I had apparently made myself a sausage patty earlier.

I honestly don’t remember eating breakfast this morning. But the evidence was sitting right there in the sink like a crime scene I had committed against breakfast foods.

I took the bowl of cereal, poured it back into the cereal box (because groceries are too expensive to waste), and went to sit down — feeling beaten and confused.

It made me wonder… how many times have I done something like this before and not remembered it? I think this was the first time with breakfast. Otherwise, I probably would have noticed empty dishes in the sink and wondered if we had a very polite burglar who only steals memories and leaves dishes.

What I do know is that during conversations, I can forget things right in the middle of saying them, and it’s frustrating. Sure, I know as you get older your brain starts playing games with you, but this feels different.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve done the classic “walk into a room and forget why I’m there” routine. I’ll leave one room, get halfway down the hall, and forget where I was going or what I needed. At this point, I just assume I live in the hallway now.

But lately, it feels… bigger than that.

I’ve also quit arguing with my wife about things that come up missing. I used to accuse her of moving things and not remembering where she put them — when in fact, it was me who moved them and can’t remember doing it. Turns out the call was coming from inside the house… and by house, I mean my brain.

I go back to the doctor on Tuesday, and if I can remember, this will definitely be one of the topics I bring up. I’m not sure if there’s anything they can do, but at least it will be on record.

And maybe — just maybe — tomorrow I’ll only eat breakfast once.

Spring Teasing in February

08 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by in Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Nature, Photography, Uncategorized, Weather

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I want to go fishing so bad I can’t stand it.

The weather for this coming week is supposed to be pretty mild. Highs are projected to be in the upper 60s to low 70s, with lows settling into the mid-to-upper 40s and low 50s. It’s not exactly perfect fishing weather, but it’s definitely showing signs of promise — like spring is standing just around the corner, thinking about knocking.

Monday is shaping up to be the warmest day, with highs in the low 70s. Unfortunately, it’s a little too late to start loading up the kayak now, and my gear isn’t quite ready to roll anyway. Tuesday has a similar forecast, but I’ve got a couple of doctor appointments that I can’t exactly reschedule just because the fish might be biting.

Thursday is off the table too, thanks to a couple more appointments. Wednesday and Saturday are both calling for rain, which pretty much leaves Friday as the last real contender for the week.

Friday’s high is only projected to be in the mid-60s — not ideal for me — but honestly, it all comes down to the wind. Anything over about 10 miles per hour is a hard no for kayak fishing. So for now, I’ll just have to wait until later in the week to get a better handle on the wind forecast before I decide if Friday is a “go fishing” day or a “drink coffee and stare at the lake from a distance” day.

Either way, it’s nice to see temperatures starting to creep upward. Even if I don’t make it out this week, it’s a reminder that fishing season isn’t too far away.