Christmas is a little over a week away and as usual I’m struggling to get everything bought. This year I’ve decided to make several of my gives to my friends and family. I may end up being that person that no one wants a gift from next year but it is what it is. I made my wife and kids Christmas ornaments honoring my cat that just recently passed. I’m really hoping that everyone likes them.
My wife and I are still dealing with the loss. We’ve also noticed that our other cat, Sophie, has started acting differently. I think it’s her way of dealing with his absence and the solitude she experiences when we’re not here. We’ve talked and I’d like to go ahead and get another little kitten but we’re not sure how Sophie will respond. She “tolerated” Clyde and was not really the best of friends but they got along for the most part. I think my wife will eventually agree but it will take some time for her to come around.
This will be Clyde’s marker for his resting place. I’ve been real busy and haven’t took the time time to get the marker done. If the truth is known, every time I sat down to work on it I got upset and couldn’t bare to think about it. There is currently a little wooden cross that my wife placed there until I could get this made. Once I have the marker in place I think this will be the closure that I will need. I will place the marker tomorrow after I get home from my oncologist appointment tomorrow afternoon. Maybe the rains will have moved out by then.
I’m sure I’ll post again but in case I don’t, I hope everyone has a happy holiday and a Merry Christmas.
I haven’t posted about my health in a while, so here’s your semi-regular episode of “What’s My Body Doing Now?”
First up, the oncology report: still no detectable blast cells for about eight months. 🎉 I’m not throwing a party just yet, because last time I got excited, my labs basically said, “Surprise!” and did their own thing. But for now, we’ll call it a win.
Iron levels? Yeah… those are still on strike. I’ve officially been diagnosed with chronic anemia, which explains why I’m always freezing and walking around the house like it’s January in Alaska. I’ve had so many iron infusions I’m pretty sure I’m 3% metal at this point. Waiting on Marvel to call.
And then there’s the potassium situation. Apparently my potassium levels have been creeping up. My oncologist thinks it’s tied to the kidney failure. Meanwhile, I barely eat any high-potassium foods, so my best guess is that my body is just freelancing at this point.
Skin cancer update: I had a melanoma spot and another bonus cancer removed from my left arm a little over a month ago. They left some lovely scars, which I now refer to as battle wounds because that sounds way cooler than “my dermatologist wanted a closer look.”
Now they’ve moved on to my back. I had a spot removed Tuesday that they think might also be melanoma. We’ll know more when the biopsy comes back, but let me tell you… back pain is a whole different universe. I slept approximately 12 minutes that night because I couldn’t get comfortable. Tylenol and I are in a committed relationship now.
Anyway, that’s the latest episode. Thanks for tuning in. Same time next month for whatever plot twist my body decides to add next. 😅
As the year winds down and the temperatures keep dipping lower, I’m sad to say my fishing season has officially come to an end. Some of my buddies are still squeezing in a few more cold-weather trips, but honestly? I’d rather stay warm and dry than risk capsizing and taking another unexpected swim in that icy water. Once was enough for me.
Looking back, though, I can honestly say this has been my best fishing year ever. Part of me wishes I’d kept track of the exact number of fish I caught, but even without a count, I know this season was something special. I’ve caught more bass this year alone than in all the previous years combined. Every trip held its own little thrill, its own memory, its own reason to smile.
Now it’s time to clean the gear, let the rods rest, and start looking forward to those early spring mornings when the water warms, the fish wake up, and the season starts all over again. Until then, I’m holding onto the stories, the quiet moments on the water, and the pride of a truly unforgettable fishing season.
Thanksgiving has a way of making you pause and take stock of what really matters. For my family, it’s more than just turkey and pumpkin pie—it’s about showing up, keeping traditions alive, and sometimes surviving the chaos that comes with it. Yesterday was no exception. Between navigating crowded tables, debates over who’s bringing what, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” shuffle, I found myself thinking about why we bother with all of it. And the answer, as always, came back to one simple thing: family.
Why I Write
It’s been a while since I’ve written this much on the blog. Lately, sitting down and putting my thoughts and feelings into words has been surprisingly therapeutic. I’ve always said that this space isn’t really for anyone else—it’s my diary, my outlet. If I gain followers, that’s great. If I lose them, that’s fine too. This is for me, and that’s enough.
Family Gatherings: Love and Logistics
For my family, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where we make an effort to come together around the table. Mostly, we do it for my mom. Honestly, if she weren’t around, I doubt very seriously that these gatherings would still happen. It’s funny how one person can be the glue that keeps everyone connected, isn’t it?
We also try to celebrate birthdays together. Usually, a date during the month is picked for a small get-together. But, for some reason, we never seem to meet in August for my birthday. I’ve never quite figured out why, but I’ve stopped letting it bother me.
I don’t mind the big holiday gatherings like Thanksgiving or Christmas, but birthday get-togethers can start to feel like a logistical challenge—expensive, time-consuming, and sometimes exhausting. Sometimes it feels like we’re traveling every few weeks, and, of course, the house we end up meeting at is always the farthest from mine. I swear, it’s like my GPS secretly enjoys making me drive in circles.
The Chaos Is Worth It
Despite the chaos—the crowded tables, the debates over who’s bringing what dish, and the inevitable “pass the mashed potatoes” race—there’s something special about these gatherings. Being around family, even if just for a few hours, reminds me of what really matters.
The laughter, the shared memories, the small moments of connection—they’re worth every mile traveled and every effort spent. Even when someone accidentally drops the cranberry sauce on the floor, or Uncle Joe tells the same story for the hundredth time, it all adds to the experience.
Reflections on Gratitude
The best part is that no matter how hectic it gets, or how many extra servings of pie I have to endure, we’re all still together. These little imperfect traditions are what anchor us. They remind us that family isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, supporting each other, and sometimes laughing at ourselves along the way.
So, as I sit here reflecting after Thanksgiving, I feel grateful. Grateful for my family, for my mom, for the chance to keep these little rituals alive, and for this blog that allows me to put my thoughts into words. Sometimes, writing is the best way to understand what really matters—and right now, family, chaos and all, is at the top of that list.
For those that celebrate Thanksgiving, I’d like to wish everyone a joyous day filled with family and close friends.
My day started early—early enough that even the sun asked for five more minutes—running last minute errands so I could make my famous banana pudding. Famous, at least, in my kitchen. Made from scratch, layered with love, patience, and just the right amount of “don’t look at it too long or it won’t set.” It’s a simple recipe really, but it’s oh-so good… if you like banana pudding, that is. If you don’t, we can still be friends, but I might silently judge your dessert choices.
Today, my family is gathering at my brother’s new home to celebrate with my other siblings, my parents, and enough side dishes to feed a small frontier town. And by the way—if you’ve been keeping up with the family chronicles—Mom is back home and doing much better. The prayers, check-ins, and coordinated sibling scheduling actually worked. Thanksgiving miracle? I’d like to think so.
I also want to say I’ve been overwhelmed—in the best possible way—by the comments made these past few days about my beloved Clyde. Losing him has been tough, heavier than expected, and quieter than our home has felt in years. The love you’ve all shown has lifted that a little. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy days to read about Clyde and send your condolences. It means more than you know. The internet can be a strange place sometimes, but every now and then it shows up with a casserole of comfort and a hug in comment form.
Clyde left a legacy of routine faucet drinks, shower supervision, quiet companionship, and unconditional loyalty. And while today is about gratitude, family, and pudding prestige—I’d be lying if I didn’t admit part of my thankful list is that I got to love a buddy like him for as long as I did.
So from our family to yours: May your turkey be tender, your pudding be perfectly layered, and your moments together be long-lasting. And if you happen to be eating banana pudding today—well then, you’re clearly doing it right.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends. I truly appreciate you all.
It’s been a little over a week since my wife and I said goodbye to our little buddy Clyde — and even now, it still doesn’t feel real. The house is quieter. Our routines feel incomplete. And the space he once filled in our daily lives has become an unmistakable emptiness we carry with us everywhere we go.
Losing a pet isn’t just losing an animal. It’s losing a tiny familiar heartbeat that anchored your mornings, evenings, and even the simplest moments in between. Clyde didn’t just live with us — he lived in us. And that is why the silence left behind is so loud.
The Questions That Follow Loss
Grief invites doubt to the table whether you want it or not. In the days since losing Clyde, I’ve replayed memories and asked myself the kind of questions only guilt-ridden love can produce.
Did I fail him by not rushing him to the vet that morning when I knew he felt off? Could a vet have even helped him, or was his final moment simply his time, no matter where we stood when it came?
And then, unfairly, I asked myself even bigger questions.
Did we deprive him by loving him indoors his entire life? Should we have forced adventure on a cat who once sprinted away from his own reflection? Did we rob him of butterfly chases and bird pursuits, even though the world outside the glass clearly felt too vast for his brave-but-tiny soul?
The hardest twist of all is this:
Now that he’s gone, Clyde rests outside in the very outdoors he avoided his whole life. His body lies in the earth, a couple of feet underground, beneath open sky he never trusted long enough to explore. And somehow, that irony stung deeper than the loss itself.
But grief has a way of writing stories backward. We judge ourselves not on what a life asked for, but on what it might have wanted if it had been someone else’s.
The Challenge We Loved Through
The older Clyde got, the more life asked of him — and of us.
He developed heart problems and thyroid issues that, if left untreated, triggered seizures. He depended on daily medication. Three pills a day, one so bitter it had to be hidden in a capsule like contraband medicine you smuggle past a taste border.
My wife, endlessly patient and unshakably devoted, became his pharmacist, caretaker, and protector. She never missed a dose. Not once.
As arthritis stole his ability to handle stairs, we improvised with litter boxes everywhere upstairs… which Clyde promptly judged as unacceptable. His counter-proposal? Our bed. Repeatedly. His negotiations included tarp treaties, blanket peace accords, and enough towels to open a small linen kiosk.
Deep sleep brought bladder leaks. Mobility struggles required strategic towel placement. Planning ahead became second nature. Laundry day became every day. And love translated into accommodation after accommodation.
Yes, Clyde was a challenge. But challenges don’t leave holes this big — connection without conditions does.
We didn’t put up with him. We adapted for him. Because loving him was never the question. Protecting his comfort was the answer.
The One Time He Went “Outside”
One memory has surfaced more than any other this week.
Years ago, my wife and I sat on the front porch enjoying the evening when I noticed Clyde inside, parked at the glass door like a museum curator observing a world exhibit titled “Nope.”
I opened the door, fully expecting him to reconsider.
He stepped onto the porch as if crossing an international border without a passport. Cautious. Curious. Politely concerned. He sniffed around like an overworked detective suspecting a plot but gradually accepting the peace of the moment.
And then — overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything existing simultaneously — he retreated indoors at high speed.
Because that was Clyde.
Brave in pixels. Overstimulated in 3D.
He didn’t want the outdoors. He wanted the safety of observation. The comfort of closeness. The reassurance of familiar floors, predictable humans, and climate-controlled affection.
And we gave him exactly that.
The Truth Beneath the Guilt
Here is what I finally realized once the guilt’s microphone ran out of batteries:
Clyde wasn’t an adventure cat. He was a heart cat. A soulmate with paws. A small emotional support mammal who didn’t read self-help books, but did master deep listening through silence and presence.
We didn’t confine him. We protected his peace.
And maybe the real guilt isn’t about the outdoors he missed.
Maybe it’s about the world not getting more time with the little cat who quietly made ours better.
We miss you, buddy. More than you ever would have understood. And exactly as much as you deserved.
This has got to be one of the hardest posts I’ve ever had to write. Around 3:30 p.m. today, my buddy Clyde crossed the rainbow bridge.
The day began with the first sign that something wasn’t right. Every morning for as long as I can remember, Clyde would wait for me to get out of the shower. That was his way of letting me know he wanted to be picked up and placed on the bathroom sink so he could drink from the faucet—his little daily ritual. But this morning, he didn’t come.
Instead, I found him lying on the kitchen floor next to the air vent, his head down. When I reached down to rub his head, he didn’t give his usual loud purr. That told me more than anything that he just wasn’t feeling good. My wife mentioned that he’d eaten a little, but nowhere near his usual amount.
I had a craft fair to prepare for and some coasters I needed to get printed. Between the power going out mid-print and the rush to get everything finished, I didn’t get the chance to check on Clyde again before leaving. But once I arrived at the fair, I called home. My wife told me he had eaten a bit more and was lying at the end of our bed, where he always slept. Still, something in the back of my mind whispered that we might be nearing the end. I told my wife she should let our daughters know so they could come spend some time with him.
They did. And after helping me load up my things when the fair ended around 2 p.m., they headed home but didn’t stay long.
Around 3 p.m., my wife was watching the Alabama game from our bedroom. Clyde was asleep at the foot of the bed. He woke up, stood, and looked like he wanted to go somewhere but wasn’t quite sure how. He took a couple of steps toward the edge of the bed—and then fell over.
My wife picked him up and placed him gently on the floor, but by then, he was already gone. It happened so quickly. She ran to get me, but the moment I saw him, I knew his precious spirit had already left.
We called the kids and, while they drove back, I went to the backyard to prepare his resting place. When the girls arrived, they spent nearly an hour with him—crying, talking to him, soaking up one last moment with their lifelong friend. Then we placed him in a box with his favorite towel, his favorite toy, and one of his favorite snacks (that one was my daughter’s idea).
Clyde now rests behind the shed, and we plan to place a marker after we get home from church tomorrow.
If he had made it to January, he would have been 21 years old. These last few years were challenging for him—and for us. He was on medication twice a day and had completely lost control of his bowel movements. Our bed was lined with tarps and towels so he could sleep comfortably during the day, and we had to rearrange everything at night so the wife and I could still sleep without worrying. He loved sleeping between us, so we created a little system of towels to protect him—and us—from the inevitable accidents.
It wasn’t easy. But we did it for him. He depended on us, and we loved him.
Because of his declining health, my wife and I haven’t taken a vacation in more than five years. It didn’t feel right to ask anyone else to manage his care. Boarding him was completely out of the question. With his heart condition, the stress alone would have been too much.
Now, with his passing, a huge hole has been created in our lives. The routines, the sounds, the small rituals—all suddenly gone. It’s going to take time to heal, but we’ll get there.
What I know for sure is this: Clyde was loved deeply. And he gave us more love in return than we could ever measure.
If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you know I live by my calendar. It’s not just a planner — it’s my Bible, my life map, and my emotional support spreadsheet. I color-code, I plan ahead, and if something’s not on the schedule, it’s basically not real.
So imagine my stress level when my mom landed in the hospital and my siblings decided we all need to “take turns sitting with her.”
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls — she’s fine. She’s getting great care from an entire team of professionals who actually know what they’re doing. The woman is being treated better than most people at a five-star resort.
Meanwhile, my siblings and I are out here acting like we need to take shifts in case she suddenly decides to join the Hospital Olympics. Spoiler alert: she’s not going anywhere.
The thing is, I’ve got a craft fair coming up next weekend, and that means I need to be creating — not sitting in a hospital room pretending to enjoy watching nine hours of nonstop news coverage. Nine. Hours. I don’t even like watching nine minutes of the news. I can only listen to so many “breaking” stories about things that broke three days ago before I start questioning my life choices.
But there I sit, smiling, nodding, pretending I’m not slowly dying inside while she argues with the TV. I could be home making candles, painting signs, or doing literally anything that doesn’t involve election updates.
And when I say, “Hey, my schedule’s packed,” my siblings look at me like I just said I’m skipping Christmas. Listen, I love Mom. I’ll visit. I’ll call. I’ll even bring snacks. But she’s being well cared for — by actual trained professionals — while I’m over here trying to figure out if I can make fifty more gnomes before Friday.
So no, I’m not heartless. I’m just scheduled. And if loving my mom and respecting my calendar at the same time is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.
Fishing season for me is quickly coming to an end. What makes it even shorter this year is that my truck is heading into the shop for repairs on the first Monday of November — and it’ll be gone for two or three weeks. That means I’ll have no way of hauling my kayak to the river.
The temperature isn’t doing me any favors either. I have chronic anemia and stay cold all the time. When the temperature drops below seventy degrees, I freeze. So between my truck and the chilly weather, my fishing days are numbered.
Every Saturday morning, I try to attend a one-hour Bible study at a local Methodist church. I hadn’t been for the last three weeks because of craft fairs I participated in, so I was looking forward to seeing some of the friends I’ve made over the years. But I also try to kayak-fish at least once a week — and I was desperate to squeeze in one last trip before the truck goes into the shop.
Yesterday, while waiting at the doctor’s office to have some cancer removed from my left arm, I decided to check the weather forecast and compare it with my schedule. Sunday was out — church and a meeting that afternoon. Here’s how the rest of the week looked:
Monday: Rain in the morning, winds 5–10 mph, temps 60/51
Tuesday: Cloudy, winds 5–10 mph, temps 63/51
Wednesday: Rain 90%, winds 10–15 mph, temps 57/45
Thursday: Mostly cloudy, winds 10–15 mph, temps 57/43
Friday: Mostly sunny, winds 10–15 mph, temps 61/39
Saturday: Partly cloudy, winds 5–10 mph, temps 66/44
If you kayak fish, you know wind speed is everything — your worst enemy on the water. Between the wind and the cold, every day looked rough. Tuesday seemed the best bet, but I had a meeting with my financial advisor that afternoon, and I didn’t want to rush the trip.
So, I made the decision: skip Bible study and hit the creek. The forecast called for a high of 79 by 2 p.m., with a low that morning of 57. Still a little cool for me, but with sunshine, I figured it would warm up nicely.
I met my good friend Rick at 6 a.m. My truck’s temperature gauge read 57 degrees as we pulled out. The creek’s about thirty minutes from my house, and as we got closer, I watched the temperature drop — 54, 50, 47… By the time we reached the boat launch, it was 43 degrees.
Now, I’m wearing shorts, a long-sleeve dry-fit shirt, and a lightweight waterproof jacket. The second I opened the door and stepped outside, I knew I’d made a mistake. But wait — it gets worse.
I unloaded all my gear, parked the truck so Rick could back in, and helped him launch his kayak. Then it was my turn. I positioned mine with the back floating and the front still on land. I straddled the kayak, sat down, and pushed myself into the creek.
My left leg went in fine. On the right side, though, I’ve got a depth finder mounted — something I’ve maneuvered around dozens of times before. But this time, as I tried to swing my right leg in, I felt the kayak start to list heavily to the left.
And over I went.
Cold water, 43 degrees, right at daybreak. I’m sure the fish got a good laugh out of it — I know Rick did.
Rick figured I’d want to pack everything up and go home, but this was my only shot at fishing before the truck went to the shop. Besides, I wasn’t that cold yet. I managed to gather up all my floating gear, climbed back into the kayak (a little more carefully this time), and finally got launched without any more drama.
I fished for about thirty minutes before the shivering started. That’s when I noticed something else — my phone was missing. I knew exactly where it was: sitting at the bottom of the creek in about four feet of water.
As the shivering got worse, Rick talked me into heading back to the launch. I conceded and paddled back to land. Once there, I spotted my phone — right where I thought it was, under four feet of creek water. It had been down there for over thirty minutes.
At first, I figured, “Why bother? It’s not going to work anyway.” But I decided to try. I waded out into the cold water, reached down for the phone… and promptly lost my balance. Down I went — again! The splash muddied up the water so badly I couldn’t even see the phone anymore.
Thankfully, Rick came to the rescue with his paddle and managed to fish it out. I picked it up, dripping wet, and hit the power button. To my surprise, the screen lit right up. The phone still worked!
Kudos to the maker of the phone case — it kept my phone completely dry
So, no fish, two dunks, one lost (and found) phone — and a story I won’t forget anytime soon.
Sometimes, the best days on the water aren’t about the catch. They’re about the laughs, the lessons, and the memories that come when things don’t go exactly as planned.
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