When Your Gut Is Trying to Tell You Something (A Scoutmaster’s Tale)

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Photo by Eking Talampas on Pexels.com

On one of our hiking adventures, we planned a trip to the Eye of the Needle — a rock formation deep inside the Sipsey Wilderness. This trip was special because it was the first real hiking experience for several of the boys, so we intentionally chose what we believed was an easy trail.

(“Easy trail,” by the way, is hiking language for you probably won’t die, but you will question your ability as a hiker.)

At this point in my scouting career, I was serving as an Assistant Scoutmaster. Our Scoutmaster was a middle-aged lady who, along with her son, had been involved in scouting far longer than I had. I was in the process of completing Scoutmaster training to eventually take over the role.

When we arrived at the trailhead, she announced that she wanted to separate the boys and have them camp at one site while the adult leaders camped at another.

Immediately, alarms went off in my head.

The rule was clear: two-deep leadership at all times. If the boys camped separately, we would be breaking that rule.

While we were hiking, I carefully brought this up. She quickly informed me that I didn’t know what I was talking about and started listing situations where other troops had done the same thing. I could tell I had upset her, so I dropped it — at least out loud.

Another leader later pulled me aside during a break. He agreed with me but didn’t want to push the issue and create conflict.

Nothing brings adults together like silently agreeing that something is a bad idea… and then doing it anyway.

That uneasy feeling never left me.


Setting Up Camp

We reached the first campsite around dusk. We made sure the boys had everything they needed and supervised them setting up their backpacking tents. Once the Scoutmaster was satisfied everything was under control, the adult leaders picked up our packs and hiked another 45 minutes to the opposite side of the rock formation.

The Eye of the Needle itself is massive. At the top is a round opening in the rock that leads to the other side. Climbing it and descending would only take about 20 minutes — but one slip could easily mean a broken bone… or worse.

Or at minimum, a very awkward conversation with your wife when you get home.

From the moment we left the boys, I felt sick.
You know that feeling — when you know something isn’t right, but the train has already left the station, and you’re sitting in seat 12B with no emergency exit.


The Preparation — And The One Thing We Couldn’t Prevent

Because this was a backpacking trip, everyone carried their own meals. Since it was only one night, we just needed supper and breakfast. Most people brought dehydrated meals — just add boiling water.

Which, if you’ve never had one, tastes somewhere between “not bad” and eating a cardboard box.”

We had spent weeks preparing for this trip.

We checked the packs for weight limits.
We made every boy demonstrate their stove.
We made every boy cook the exact meal they planned to cook on the trip.

We did everything right.

Except for the small detail that teenage boys sometimes forget things 12 minutes after you teach them.


The Moment Everything Changed

While we leaders were sitting around cooking, one of the boys came scrambling down the hill yelling that another scout had burned his foot.

Then the injured scout came hopping down after him.

He had placed his stove between his feet. When he turned to grab something, he knocked boiling water onto his other foot. When he pulled off his shoe, it took skin with it.

At that moment, every first aid class I had ever taken came rushing back into my brain like a pop quiz I was not emotionally prepared for.

I knew immediately — this was serious.

His father was on the trip and worked in the medical field. We both agreed: he needed a hospital immediately.

The problem was — we were five miles from the trailhead; five miles in the middle of nowhere. And it was after 9 PM.

And nobody hikes faster after dark carrying another human unless a bear is involved.


Bad Choices… Leading to Worse Ones

Breaking camp and moving everyone would take too long. The decision was made that the injured scout’s father and two leaders would carry him out.

That left two leaders to return to camp after making sure the injured scout and his dad made it safely to the trailhead.

And one leader to stay with eight scouts.

Me.

I was “volunteered.”
Probably because I was the slowest hiker in the group anyway.

Nothing boosts your confidence like hearing, “You stay here… you’ll just slow us down.”

The problem?
I physically couldn’t reach the boys quickly if something else happened.

And one of those boys… was my son.

I made a decision, and I’m still not sure it was the right one. I carefully climbed the rock formation until I was close enough for them to hear me and yelled for them to get into their tents and stay there until the leaders returned.

I probably sounded like an angry mountain goat, but they got the message.


The Longest Night

The other leaders returned around 3 AM.

I stayed awake the entire time waiting.

I didn’t say a word.
I just went to bed.

Some conversations don’t need to happen right then — because everyone already knows.

And, because I was too tired to form complete sentences.


The Quiet Ride Home

Breaking camp was silent.

The boys were exhausted. Most slept during the 2½ hour ride home.

I might have slept for an hour myself.

The next week, parents started calling. They were upset — and rightfully so. I assured each of them that we would address it at the next meeting.

At that meeting, I came prepared. I brought every written rule regarding two-deep leadership.

The Scoutmaster apologized.
She admitted she was wrong.


Lessons You Don’t Forget

Sometimes leadership means speaking up.
Sometimes it means living with decisions you wish you could take back.
And sometimes it means learning that rules exist because someone, somewhere, learned the hard way. There is a reason instructions are printed on the back side of a shampoo bottle.

That night, I learned to trust my gut.

Because sometimes that sick feeling in your stomach…
Is wisdom trying to get your attention.

And sometimes… It’s also dehydrated beef stroganoff.
But that’s a different story.

My Temper Used to Have a Strong Arm

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Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

“When things don’t go your way, remember that setbacks are temporary opportunities for growth, strengthening your character, and redirection toward better possibilities.”
— Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

That quote popped into my head today as I read the police report I downloaded about my recent accident. I was fully expecting to see the words that every driver hopes to read: “The other guy did it.”

Instead, the report pretty much said… “Nice try.”

I was sure the fault would be placed on the other driver. The young man involved practically admitted it was his fault, and there was even a witness asking if I had just been hit by him.

Apparently, the police officer saw things a little differently.

My first thought was to grab the nearest object and throw it across the room. But then reality set in. The problem with throwing things is that eventually you have to go pick them up again. That’s a lot of effort just to prove you’re mad.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to control my anger. That was not always the case.

Back in my younger days, if I got mad, there wasn’t an object within arm’s reach that was safe. Books, pencils, notebooks—if it wasn’t nailed down, it was at risk of becoming an airborne projectile.

And the yelling… oh boy.

If you needed to find me in school, you didn’t need a map. You just followed the sound of someone yelling loud enough to be heard three blocks away.

My classmates often thought it was hilarious that they could get me mad so easily. Some of them would poke the bear on purpose just to watch the show. Looking back, I realize they were basically getting free entertainment.

One particular morning in high school still sticks in my mind.

We had a new student starting that day. From the moment I saw him, I had a feeling we probably weren’t going to be best friends.

As was tradition, we all introduced ourselves. His name was Curtis.

Now this was seventh grade—a time when hormones were just starting to wake up, and teenagers thought they were tougher than they actually were. Curtis apparently wanted to make a name for himself, and for reasons I still don’t understand, he chose me as his audition.

Later that day, during P.E., we were playing dodgeball. Curtis grabbed the ball and launched it straight at me, hitting me square in the face. It was a solid hit too—bloodied my nose pretty good.

As I got up off the floor, I looked over at him. Curtis was smiling from ear to ear and asked if I wanted some more.

Now here’s where things get a little fuzzy.

I honestly don’t remember much after that.

What I was told later was that I picked up the ball and threw what witnesses described as a cannon shot directly at Curtis’s face. The ball hit him square in the nose and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.

Curtis didn’t get up.

He just lay there.

What I do remember is standing over him when he finally woke up. Blood was slowly making its way across the gym floor, and he looked up at me and said the most unexpected thing:

“What an arm.”

I helped him up, and moments later, we were escorted to the principal’s office, where we received matching three-day suspensions for fighting.

The funny part is that Curtis and I actually became good friends after that and stayed friends all the way through graduation.

But unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of my temper. There were more fights and more suspension slips over the years.

It wasn’t until I got married and had a son that I realized something had to change. I didn’t want my son growing up thinking throwing things and yelling at the top of your lungs was a normal way to handle problems.

Learning to control my anger wasn’t easy. I tried several different approaches—from therapists to self-management techniques. In reality, it wasn’t just one thing that worked. It was a combination of several things over time.

Finding my “happy place” turned out to be one of the biggest keys.

These days, I consider myself a much calmer person. I no longer throw objects across the room. I might still mutter a few colorful comments under my breath, but at least the neighbors can’t hear me anymore.

So when I read that police report today, I just sat there for a moment.

Years ago, something in my house would probably have been airborne by now.

Instead, I just took a deep breath and reminded myself that setbacks happen.

Monday, I’ll call the police officer listed on the report and politely ask why he determined the accident was my fault when the other driver claimed responsibility. There was even a witness who said the same thing, although unfortunately, I don’t have their contact information.

Without evidence, that statement probably wouldn’t hold up in court.

Still, I guess that quote is right.

Sometimes life throws you setbacks.

The important thing is learning not to throw things back.

My Hobbies Are Cheaper Than Therapy (Mostly)

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Let’s talk about hobbies.

Hobbies can serve many purposes. AI summarizes them as follows:

  • Provide relaxation and stress relief from daily pressures
  • Foster creativity and self-expression through various activities
  • Enhance skills and knowledge in specific areas of interest
  • Promote social connections and friendships with like-minded individuals
  • Improve mental health and overall well-being through enjoyable pursuits
  • Offer a sense of accomplishment and personal fulfillment

I’ll have to agree with most of these, but a couple stand out more than others for me. The ones that stand out the most are relaxation, creativity, self-expression, and mental health. Most importantly, mental health.

I’ll be the first to admit, and my wife would be the first to agree, that I have way too many hobbies. A short list would include fishing (of course), reading, woodworking, Amateur Radio, camping, and cooking. If I’m being completely honest, the list is probably a little longer than that, but I’ll stop there before my wife reads this and starts counting.

I’m not someone who enjoys just sitting around the house. I have to be doing something. I love the outdoors and enjoy most anything that takes me outside, whether it’s camping or traveling somewhere just for the day. Sitting still for too long makes me feel like something must be broken… or worse, that someone is about to hand me a chore.

I’ve always been good with my hands, and I enjoy making things out of wood or repairing things that need fixing. When I was a kid, I used to get into trouble because I was always taking things apart just to see how they worked. The only problem was that I wasn’t always successful at putting them back together. Apparently, parents don’t appreciate curiosity when it involves their appliances.

On rainy days, I like to curl up with a good book that allows my mind to travel to places I may never be able to visit. Reading also helps take my mind off the stresses of the day.

I know without a shadow of a doubt that people are reading this who have far greater health concerns than I do. But regardless of your health, you may have had a bad day at work, an argument with your spouse, or just received a bill you know you can’t pay. Each of us faces stress in our lives that can be difficult to deal with.

Because of that, each of us needs to find some sort of escape—a place where we can go, even if it’s only for a short time, to gather our thoughts. Sometimes, that time allows us to find a way to deal with the situation at hand. Other times, it helps us realize we need to talk with someone who can help us sort things out.

As an outsider, I can’t tell you what to do. I can only offer suggestions about what works for me.

When I find myself in a situation where I know I’m going to be stressed, I grab my Kindle and start reading. Before I knew it, my mind had drifted away from whatever was bothering me. For example, the wreck I had the other day has been stressing me out more than it probably should. There’s nothing I can do right now but wait for the police report to be submitted. Unfortunately, patience has never been one of my stronger qualities.

But when I picked up my Kindle and started reading, before long my mind was somewhere else entirely—and not thinking about insurance adjusters, body shops, or police reports.

I also have the unfortunate routine of visiting the doctor for lab work or appointments at least three times a month—sometimes more. This week alone, I had three appointments, and the month has just started. At this point, I’m starting to feel like the waiting room staff should just give me my own assigned chair.

Thankfully, I enjoy reading. Last year, I read 45 books, and quite a few of them were finished while waiting for a doctor to call my name. I also read quite a bit before going to bed. It helps me relax and takes away some of the stress from the day.

Another hobby I’ve written about before is fishing. Of course, I enjoy catching fish when I go, but honestly, that’s only part of it. What I enjoy most is the solitude. Being out there gives me time to think without distractions.

Sometimes I’ll paddle out to the middle of the river, set the paddle down, and just listen to the birds and the other sounds of nature. Every once in a while, a fish even cooperates and jumps on the hook just to make the trip look productive.

To me, that’s more relaxing than just about anything else I’ve found.

Most of the time, I come home from a fishing trip in a better mood—whether I catch anything or not. Of course, catching something does make the ride home a little sweeter. It also helps justify all the fishing gear I’ve somehow managed to accumulate over the years.

I guess what this post really boils down to is this:

Find your happy place.

Find a place where you can go—either physically or mentally—to relax and get away from it all. Only you will know where that place is.

Stress has a way of dragging us down, sometimes to a place where it becomes very difficult to climb back out. I’ve been there, and I know what it feels like.

Luckily, I was able to find my place and climb my way back before the stress got to a point where I couldn’t.

And that’s why hobbies matter more than most people realize.

A Car Accident, Too Many Phone Calls, and a Future Son-in-Law

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Tomorrow is Thursday, and this week has gone from bad to worse.

My 4 a.m. alarm didn’t go off Tuesday morning, which meant I missed my Tuesday Bible study. That may not sound like a big deal to most people, but it is to me. I haven’t missed one since I started going nearly six months ago.

I woke up around 5 a.m. and immediately realized it was too late to rush around and try to make it on time. The real sign that I wasn’t rushing anywhere was that I didn’t even make coffee first thing. Anyone who knows me knows that’s a sure sign something is off.

After getting cleaned up and eating breakfast, I headed out to the shop and started working on some crafts with my laser. I’ve got a craft fair coming up, and every spare minute seems to be dedicated to getting items ready for it. My breakfast appointment wasn’t until 8 a.m., so I had some time to kill.

I met my friend Rick for breakfast, and of course, the first thing he asked was when we were going fishing. I told him “Soon,” but explained that I had some projects I needed to finish before the craft show. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with that answer.

During breakfast, my phone kept ringing. No fewer than four people called wanting to talk about Scout-related matters. Even though I consider myself no longer involved in Scouts, apparently, the news hasn’t fully spread yet.

Once I got back home, I went right back to working on my crafts. Before long, the phone started ringing again. More Scout calls.

Running a laser in the shop requires attention. It’s essentially a controlled fire, and if you’re not careful, things can go wrong in a hurry. After trying to juggle phone calls and watch the laser at the same time, I finally decided it wasn’t worth the risk. I shut the laser down.

At 1 p.m., I had a dentist’s appointment.

I have a love-hate relationship with my dentist. I’ve been seeing him for over 30 years, and I trust him completely. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy what he does. I absolutely cannot stand the sound of a dental drill.

Thankfully, I haven’t had a cavity in years, but every now and then, he has to replace a filling that he put in decades ago. Yesterday was one of those days.

After leaving the dentist, things took a turn for the worse.

While merging into another lane, I was hit by a car. The driver had been turning left onto the roadway and collided with me. Before the police arrived, he admitted to me that it was his fault. But when the officers got there, his story had changed. Suddenly, he was telling them that I ran into him because I wasn’t paying attention.

There had been a witness who told me he saw the young man hit me. Unfortunately, by the time I tried to get his information, he had already left. Now I’ll have to wait five to seven business days to pick up the police report and see what it says.

Today was my bariatric appointment.

At one point, my lowest weight was 165 pounds. To be honest, I didn’t look very healthy at that weight. I had gotten too thin. People were quietly asking others if I had some sort of serious illness and wasn’t telling anyone.

My scale at home said 185 pounds this morning. I knew the doctor’s office scale would be a little heavier because of shoes and clothes. Sure enough, it read 191. Still, that’s lower than my last reading at the doctor’s office a year ago.

My doctor would like me to get down to about 175 pounds. He thinks that’s my ideal weight. Personally, I’m pretty comfortable where I am now, but I wouldn’t mind getting down to 175. I just don’t want to go much lower than that.

The next couple of days will be catch-up days.

I have projects cut out that still need sanding. Items that are sanded but need painting. And pieces that are painted but still need to be glued together and assembled.

But even with all the chaos this week, there has been a bright moment.

My wife and I had dinner with one of my daughter’s boyfriends. During dinner, he asked us for permission to ask my daughter to marry him.

It felt strange even writing that sentence.

I can hardly believe that soon I may have a married daughter and gain a son-in-law. He’s a good young man, and I truly believe he cares deeply about her. I know she feels the same way about him.

She had been worried that I might not give my permission. But I would never stand in the way of my daughter’s happiness.

That moment was a candle in what had otherwise been a pretty dark and stressful week.

Now I’m hoping the rest of the week goes by quietly and uneventfully.

After all the doctor’s appointments, the phone calls, and a car accident, I think I’ve earned a couple of calm days.

When the Calendar Attacks

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Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

Today has been one of those days. You know the kind. The kind where your calendar looks like it’s been attacked with a highlighter and your patience is hanging by a thread that was probably manufactured in the late 1800s.

The morning started with what should have been a routine lab appointment. Twelve hours of fasting. No coffee. No toast. No nothing. Just me and my growling stomach driving to the doctor’s office, already dreaming about bacon.

Only to be told the lab technician had a death in the family and I needed to drive to another location across town.

Forty-five minutes later, I finally gave blood. At that point I was pretty sure they could have just followed me around with a butterfly net and collected it from pure frustration.

I got home with just enough time to inhale what should have been breakfast but was technically lunch by then. If eating at warp speed becomes an Olympic sport, I’ll medal. I’m convinced my digestive system now files weekly complaints.

Meanwhile, I’d already been informed that I would be taking my wife to her doctor’s appointment later in the day—which meant I’d likely be late for my 5 p.m. meeting.

Now let me clarify something.

I volunteered to take her.

But my wife doesn’t drive. Well… she technically can. She just won’t drive on the interstate anymore. She avoids it like it’s under federal investigation. She will happily add thirty minutes to a trip just to stay on back roads. Riding with her feels like being chauffeured by a very nervous 16-year-old taking her first driver’s test.

I love her dearly. I also consider Uber a spiritual gift.

We arrived early for her 2 p.m. appointment, secretly hoping they might see her ahead of schedule. That optimism faded around 3 p.m. when she was finally called back. My meeting requires me to leave the house by 4 p.m.

At 3:45 she came out—with a nurse. I stood up, hopeful.

“Nope,” she said. “One more procedure.”

Of course.

She finally emerged again, apologizing because she knew I’d be late. It’s hard to be frustrated at someone who genuinely feels bad, especially when you know she can’t help it.

I dropped her off, drove to my meeting, and arrived thirty minutes late… only to discover the group had been deep in an off-topic rabbit trail discussion. For once in my life, being late worked in my favor.

The rest of the week doesn’t look much better. Meetings. Doctor appointments. Obligations stacked like cordwood. Meanwhile, I have a craft fair this Saturday and hardly any time to finish the projects I planned to sell. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be burning the midnight oil just to have something on the table besides a smile and a price tag.

And then there’s my fishing buddy.

I enjoy his friendship. I truly do. But I think I may be his primary source of entertainment. His wife works. He doesn’t drive outside of town. So most days he’s in his recliner watching television. Tuesday breakfasts are the highlight of his week unless we fish or wander around the tackle shop.

Now that the weather is warming up, the question has already started:

“So… when are we going fishing?”

I love fishing. I really do. But I’m not wired to sit in a recliner all day waiting for someone to rescue me from boredom. I’ve got crafts to make. Bible studies to attend. Appointments to keep. Responsibilities that don’t pause just because the fish are biting.

Having a medical condition that requires lab work or weekly-to-monthly doctor visits can be increasingly challenging. The physical part is one thing. The mental part is another. Sitting in waiting rooms gives your mind far too much freedom to wander into the land of “What will the doctor find this week?”

If I could offer one small suggestion to anyone walking that road, it would be this: bring a book. Or in my case, a Kindle. Reading helps me escape the mental spiral. It shifts my focus away from lab numbers and test results and places it somewhere far more peaceful. If you let it, the stress will take over. And some weeks—like this one—it tries really hard.

Truthfully, this post is simply me letting off a little steam. Sometimes writing it out is the healthiest thing I can do. It helps me process the frustration, the schedule overload, the internal pressure to be everywhere at once for everyone.

Some weeks feel balanced. Others feel like the walls are inching closer.

This is one of those weeks.

But I also know this: weeks like this pass. Meetings end. Appointments get checked off. Craft fairs come and go. Even fishing trips can wait.

For now, I’ll take a deep breath, set the alarm a little earlier, probably stay up a little later, and remind myself that hectic seasons don’t last forever.

And maybe next week… I’ll go fishing.

Before the Coal Took the Mountain

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The older my dad gets, the more stories seem to come out. It’s like he’s been carrying around a lifetime of memories, and every now and then he decides it’s time to unload another box. My visit this past Thursday was one of those visits where he started talking, and I realized I was hearing things I had never heard before.

Dad and his brothers and sisters grew up in a house my granddad built himself in the late 1800s. He cut the trees, milled the lumber, and built the place with his own hands. From what I remember, it had a long front porch, a kitchen with a wood stove, a den with a fireplace, and a couple of bedrooms. The outhouse sat about a hundred yards away, and the only water came from a hand pump mounted on the kitchen sink.

The house sat on top of a mountain — not exactly Everest, but high enough that you could look down over the little town below. My grandfather spent years clearing land out of the woods to make a small farm with chickens, pigs, and a few cows. Most of what they ate came from the garden or from the animals they raised. It was a hard life by today’s standards, but they made it work.

Electricity didn’t arrive until World War II, and even then, it came for an unusual reason. The government wanted to build a signal tower to help guide airplanes toward the Gulf. Dad said he used to lie awake at night listening to the aircraft passing overhead. Every time I visited the old homeplace growing up, I thought that tower was a fire tower. Turns out it had a much different purpose.

My grandparents were the only people for miles who had electricity, and even then, it was mostly used for lights. Fancy appliances were out of reach, so the wood stove and fireplace still did most of the work.

An example of what my dad’s house looked like. Sadly, there were no pictures of the original homeplace taken before a coal company came in and stripped the land for coal.

Winter was especially tough. With no insulation and only the stove and fireplace for heat, the bedrooms stayed bitterly cold. At night, the family would gather in the kitchen or den and sleep close to the warmth. It wasn’t a matter of comfort — it was a matter of getting through the night.

Dad and his siblings all attended a small schoolhouse that taught every grade. The school was a couple of miles away, and they walked there every day in all kinds of weather. Chores had to be finished before school, breakfast eaten, and everyone out the door on time — knowing there would be more chores waiting when they got home.

Dad’s Old School House after it was renovated and moved to Tannehill Historical State Park. Cane CreekSchool

The school building has since been moved to a state park. I remember seeing it years ago, sitting empty and slowly falling apart before someone finally decided it was worth saving as a piece of history.

My grandfather owned more than a hundred acres of land. Some of it was cleared for farming, but plenty remained woods for hunting and fishing. He even built a small pond where he raised catfish, bream, and a few bass. I can still remember being taken there as a kid to catch catfish.

There were always plenty of deer around, and Dad and his cousins would hunt whenever they could. Meat wasn’t something you saw every day on the dinner table, so venison was considered a special occasion.

Years later, the government came in and took over much of the property and stripped the land for coal. The mountain that my grandfather spent years clearing and farming was changed forever. The old homeplace doesn’t look anything like it once did. What was once woods, fields, and family history now bears the marks of heavy equipment and mining. It’s hard to imagine that the quiet little farm Dad grew up on once stood there.

Before he was drafted into the Army, Dad joined the Navy and served aboard an aircraft carrier. He spent most of his time between the Sea of Japan and San Diego. He doesn’t talk much about those years, but he learned electronics while serving and often worked on jet aircraft that needed repair or servicing.

The one Navy story he never gets tired of telling is how he hitchhiked all the way from San Diego to Birmingham just to see my mom before they were married. That’s a long trip even today — and I doubt many parents would approve of their daughter dating a man willing to cross the country with his thumb out.

My grandmother died when I was only four years old. Back then, they didn’t understand diabetes the way they do now. A foot injury led to an amputation, then another surgery when infection set in, and eventually, they couldn’t stop what they called “the poison” from spreading. I only have faint memories of her.

My grandfather lived into the late 1980s and died at the age of 82. Dad is now 86 and the last of his family still living — the baby of three sisters and two brothers.

Dad’s health is still fairly good. Mom lives with constant arthritis pain and severe scoliosis. She used to be nearly six feet tall; now she’s lucky to reach five feet. Time has a way of changing all of us, whether we want it to or not.

Dad has diabetes, like most of his brothers and sisters. That’s where I likely got it from, and it makes me worry a little about my kids. Some things travel through families whether we want them to or not.

I consider myself fortunate to still have both of my parents. At 62, many of the people I went to school with have already lost theirs. I’m one of the few who can still go sit in the living room and listen to stories from a man who grew up in a world that hardly exists anymore.

And the older he gets, the more those stories seem to matter.

Because one day, they won’t be told anymore.

The Day I Discovered I Had Volunteered 🔧💧

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I took a trip to my parents’ house today, mainly to drop off some coasters I had engraved for a friend. She was going to give them to someone else as a birthday gift. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out visit — deliver the coasters, say hello, maybe drink a cup of coffee, and head back home.

That was the plan anyway.

As soon as I walked in, Mom informed me she had left the house a mess because she’d been getting ready for my project. That was the moment I discovered I had apparently volunteered to install an instant water heater under the kitchen sink.

This was news to me.

Mom had already emptied the cabinet so I could have “easy access” to the plumbing. Nothing makes a job more official than walking in and finding the workspace already prepared. At that point, backing out wasn’t really an option — not without looking like a terrible son.

Dad and I had talked about the heater during a previous visit, but I had assumed my younger brother would be the one helping with the installation. Somewhere in the conversation timeline, it had been decided my brother wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks, and I had mentioned that I’d probably come sooner.

Apparently, that counted as volunteering.

If you read my earlier story about the doorbell, this was more of the same. It involved an 86-year-old man explaining how something ought to be hooked up while I tried to explain how it actually needed to be hooked up. Arguments ensued. Voices got louder. Meanwhile, Mom sat in the other room working on a puzzle and laughing at the whole situation.

Honestly, it instantly brought back memories of my childhood — especially those times when Dad tried to teach me how to do something, and I didn’t fully understand. Back then, tempers flared a lot quicker. I was a hardheaded young man, and he was trying to explain things in his own way.

Those arguments used to feel different. Back then, it was more like, “I’m going to prove you wrong no matter what.” There was frustration on both sides — and probably a fair amount of stubbornness, especially on mine.

Now that I’m older, I understand something I didn’t back then: raising his voice was just Dad’s way of explaining things. He wasn’t angry or trying to intimidate me — he just wanted me to understand. Today, I could hear the frustration in his voice as he tried to explain how he thought the plumbing should work, and for the first time in my life, I was the patient one.

Eventually, he understood how everything fit together. It took a little while — and I’ll admit, I know exactly where my hardheadedness comes from. As my son likes to remind me, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

He’s absolutely right. 🍎

After we finished the plumbing project, we spent the rest of the afternoon just sitting and talking — remembering stories from when I was growing up and the times we spent together as a family. We worked hard back then doing what had to be done to live the life we had chosen, but looking back now, it was worth every bit of it.

Days like today remind me how valuable this time really is. Whether it’s fixing a doorbell, installing an instant water heater, or just sitting in the living room talking about the old days, these are the moments that stay with you.

Because one day there won’t be projects waiting for me when I walk through that door, and there won’t be long conversations about the past.

And that’s why even the jobs I didn’t know I volunteered for turn out to be time well spent. ❤️

Insurance Knows Best… Supposedly

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Doctor Says Yes… Insurance Says “We’ll Think About It”

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Doctors, diagnoses, prescriptions, Medicare, insurance, and denial — those are words that seem to follow me around these days. Sometimes I think dealing with the medical system is almost a full-time job. If they paid by the appointment, I’d be drawing a salary by now.

One thing I’ve never quite understood is how a doctor can go to school for years, train for years more, examine you personally, and decide what medication you need — only for the insurance company to step in and say, “Nope, we don’t think so.”

Apparently, somewhere a person is sitting behind a desk who knows more about my condition than the doctor who actually saw me.

I worked for a health insurance company for 32 years before I retired. I was in the maintenance department, which meant I fixed things like doors and lights — not insurance claims. Still, people who knew where I worked would often ask me why their medication was denied even though their doctor prescribed it.

I always had to explain that just because I worked there didn’t mean I knew anything about insurance decisions.

Truth be told, I still don’t.

A good example is what happened recently with my son. He was prescribed medication for severe sleep deprivation. His previous insurance covered it, and he was happy because they had finally found something that actually worked.

Then he changed jobs.

His new insurance company now says the medication is “not medically necessary.” I guess sleeping is optional now.

The doctors now think he might have sleep apnea and ordered a sleep study. Before he even got scheduled, he got a phone call saying the test would cost over $2,000 because his insurance wouldn’t cover it.

He’s a young man with a mortgage, a car payment, and utility bills. In other words, he’s living in the real world — the one where people don’t just have $2,000 laying around for a test that might help them sleep at night.

Meanwhile, I realize I’m one of the fortunate ones. Because of my disabilities, I qualify for Medicare, and because I worked for an insurance company, I retired with a good supplemental plan. That combination gives me coverage that many people would love to have.

I don’t pay co-pays for doctor visits. I don’t pay for emergency room visits. Every time I leave the hospital, the bill says I owe exactly zero dollars, which is my favorite number.

I do pay for some medications, but not a lot.

One medication I take costs about $20,000 for a 30-day supply.

Yes, twenty thousand dollars.

For that price, I feel like it ought to come with a steak dinner and a weekend vacation.

Fortunately, the drug company offers a $0 co-pay card because they know insurance only pays part of the cost. Thanks to that program, I don’t pay a penny for a medication that costs more than some cars.

I consider myself blessed, because there are people who need this same drug and simply can’t get it because they don’t have the right insurance. That part isn’t funny at all.

When I ask why the drug costs so much, I’m told it’s because of all the research that went into developing it. I understand that research costs money, but sometimes I wonder if the scientists also built a few vacation homes along the way.

After being on this medication for a while, I feel like I’ve personally contributed a pretty fair share toward paying for that research — and I know some folks have been on it a lot longer than I have.

I don’t know what the answer is. Doctors are trying to help people. Insurance companies are trying to control costs. Drug companies are trying to recover research money.

And patients are just trying to stay alive without going broke in the process.

Maybe one day there will be a system where if your doctor says you need something, you can actually get it without filling out forms, making phone calls, and saying a small prayer first.

Until then, I guess we’ll just keep taking our prescriptions — and a healthy dose of patience right along with them.

Dutch Ovens, Daughters, and the Coming of Spring

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In just a few hours, spring will arrive… in 25 days. That may sound like I failed math, but when you’ve spent the winter cold to your bones, you start announcing spring like it’s breaking news.

I cannot wait for consistent 70-degree days. Since being diagnosed with anemia, anything under 75 degrees feels personal. I walk around my house in a zip-up hoodie while the thermostat is set at 72, which apparently is “comfortable” for everyone else. For me, 72 feels like I’m storing meat in a deep freezer. I’m convinced the power company, and I have a mutual understanding: I keep the heat reasonable, and they don’t require a second mortgage.

Spring means I can finally venture outside without dressing in layers like I’m summiting Mount Everest.

It means yard work — and believe me, there’s no shortage of it around here. I actually enjoy yard work. There’s something satisfying about looking at a freshly mowed lawn or trimmed bushes and thinking, “Yes, I did that.” Of course, by next week, it looks like I never touched it, but for those few hours, it’s glorious.

Spring also means camping. I love camping, especially in early spring and fall when the nights are cool enough to sleep well but not so cold that you question every life decision that led you to sleeping on the ground. There’s just something peaceful about waking up to cool air and the smell of coffee brewing outside.

But this summer will feel different.

With my scouting days behind me, camping won’t be automatic anymore. For 25 years, Scouts were built into my calendar. Camping trips, summer camps, weekend outings — it was just part of life. There’s been talk of some of us former leaders getting together for a trip, but so far it’s been more nostalgia than reservations. This will be the first summer in a quarter of a century without Scouts in it. That’s going to take some getting used to.

Of course, there’s always fishing.

I can’t go fishing enough. If I could, I’d go every day of the week. One of my favorite memories happened last year when I took one of my daughters out fishing. We had tried a couple of years before, but that trip ended with a fishing hook buried in my finger and a quick trip to the hospital. The wind shifted, the kayak jerked, and suddenly I was the one being reeled in.

My daughter still blames herself, but it wasn’t her fault. Sometimes the wind just has other plans.

Last year’s trip was redemption. She caught several bass — the first she had ever caught. I was so thankful I was there for it. There’s something special about being present for those moments. You don’t realize at the time how much they’ll mean later.

And speaking of later, she recently announced that she and her boyfriend will be getting engaged. That’s supposed to be a secret, so if you’re reading this, you didn’t hear it from me.

Life changes. Seasons change. Kids grow up. And apparently, future sons-in-law don’t fish. I’m hoping she and I will still carve out a day or two to hit the water together. Some traditions are worth holding onto.

Spring also means outdoor cooking — and that may be what I’m most excited about. Grilling on the BBQ, cooking in my Dutch ovens — I love it. My love for cooking really started when I got involved in Scouts with my son. One of the dads in the troop took the time to teach me the art of Dutch oven cooking. And yes, I call it an art. There’s something about managing coals, timing, and recipes that feels almost sacred.

I always made sure at least one meal a day on a camping trip was cooked in a Dutch oven. If someone said, “I don’t know what to cook,” I’d hand them my trusty Dutch oven cookbook and say, “Well, you’re about to find out.” Most of the time, they did just fine.

Now it’s just my wife and me at home. The only problem is that most Dutch oven recipes feed ten or more people. So unless we’re planning to eat the same meal the next two weeks, I’ve had to make some adjustments. Turns out, retirement requires learning how to cook for two instead of twenty.

But maybe that’s what this season is about — adjusting. Letting go of some routines while holding onto the things that matter. Finding new rhythms. Creating new traditions.

And counting down the days until it’s warm enough for me to take this hoodie off inside my own house.

Twenty-five days and counting.

“Sir… Not in the Lobby.”

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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.