Category Archives: Family

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.

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 Family, Life, Photography, Uncategorized

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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.

An End to an Era

07 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Family, Life, Photography, Uncategorized

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After 25 years in the organization formerly known as the Boy Scouts of America, I am calling it quits. Tonight, I said my final farewells — not to the many friends I’ve made over the years — but to the organization itself.

Where do I even start with a post like this? After 25 years, I have so many memories, so many stories to tell, and yet I’m at a loss for words. My emotions are all over the place. On one side, there’s anger and frustration. On the other hand, there’s sadness at stepping away from something that was once a cornerstone for teaching core values to young men.

My scoutmaster when I was in scouts many years ago.

When my son crossed over from Cub Scouts into Boy Scouts, there were a lot of uncertainties. Would he enjoy the outdoors? Would he be okay spending his first night in a tent with boys he barely knew — and without his dad right beside him? Suddenly, he was under the supervision of boys — or really, young men — not much older than he was.

During those first meetings, I sat back and watched him interact with the other scouts his age. He had a great time as a Cub Scout, but there he was alongside his mom, working together to earn belt loops and awards. Scouts was different. The parents sat off to the side while the boys were taught the Pledge of Allegiance, the Scout Law, the Scout Oath, and the Outdoor Code — not by adults, but by youth leadership. I was a proud parent the day my son could recite all of them by heart.

As my son grew up in Scouts, so did I.

I was eventually asked to become a leader. At first, I was reluctant, but I quickly realized I could give back by passing on skills I had learned over the years. I taught Plumbing Merit Badge, Photography Merit Badge, and even knots I’d learned working in the HVAC industry. What amazed me most was that, without even realizing it, I was getting to spend time with my son. Maybe not one-on-one, but we were there together, learning and growing at the same time.

My son eventually earned the rank of Eagle Scout — during a time when I was serving as his Scoutmaster, a role I had stepped into years earlier. It was one of the proudest days of my life. Because he hadn’t turned eighteen yet, he stayed active and served as Senior Patrol Leader.

Then came a weeklong campout on the outskirts of the Great Smoky Mountains.

My sons troop while I was the scoutmaster. Can you pick him out?

On the final night, the boys gathered around the campfire for skits and reflections. Then it was my son’s turn to speak. He announced it would be his last campout with the troop. He would turn eighteen in a few weeks and would be aging out. His plan was to go off to college, and Scouts wasn’t part of that plan.

My heart sank.

The building where we met was torn down.

For six years, we camped, hiked, cooked, climbed — you name it. Maybe it wasn’t one-on-one, but we were together. When lights out came and I finished my rounds, I went back to my tent, and I broke down and sobbed.

But the story didn’t end there.

I stayed involved because I had completed a lot of leadership training, and I felt like I still had something to give back to the program.

One of our Cub Scouts is building a birdhouse

There was a need in our district for someone to take over Eagle Board responsibilities. This committee helps guide young men in selecting meaningful Eagle projects and conducts Eagle Boards of Review — sitting down with candidates to talk about their Scouting journey and their Eagle project. I wish I had known how long I would stay in that role, because I would have kept count of how many young men earned Eagle while I was there.

Over the years, I wore many hats in Scouting — none of which I regret.

As the organization changed, though, so did my attitude. There were changes that simply didn’t make sense to me. The main reason I stayed as long as I did was that the core program still worked, regardless of the decisions being made at higher levels.

One of the many awards that I achieved while a leader.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my concerns. Membership dropped like a rock. In my district, we went from twelve troops to five during the years of major changes. Tonight, that number dropped from five to three. Our two combined troops folded due to a lack of leadership and membership growth. After tonight, I don’t see how our district survives without eventually merging into another.

I’ve asked myself, “Who’s to blame?” That’s not something I really want to dive into.

Troop 322 and Troop 41 combined to form one troop

But I will say this — it wasn’t because local leaders didn’t try.

Follow the money.

Charging $120 per year just to join, plus around $325 for a week at summer camp, is a lot. Many families simply can’t afford it — especially if they have more than one child in Scouts. And that doesn’t even include troop outings, which can run anywhere from $15 to $45 per trip. Many of these kids are being raised by single parents

Just one of the many young men who achieved the rank of Eagle.

Yes, Scouts can sell popcorn to help offset costs. But it’s hard to sell a $25 box of popcorn with six bags in it when families can buy the same brand at the store for $7 and get twelve bags. And when an adult tells a scout it’s “highway robbery,” what do you say to a seven-year-old who just got scolded by a stranger? It’s not their fault. They’re just trying to raise money to help pay their dues.

The last night at one of our summer camps. The boys always had a blast.

And when only about 32% of the profit gets split among the scouts working that shift, it makes it even harder.

Meanwhile, councils raise tens of thousands of dollars — and districts often see very little of it. I know there’s overhead. But it does make you wonder where the money goes.

Sorry — not sorry — for the tangent.

That’s the angry part of this story. I try not to dwell on it, but it does get under my skin.

Because at the end of the day, the program still works. It’s just becoming a program that fewer families can afford. And if something doesn’t change, Scouting could fade away.

Not to worry, though. The boys in the two troops will be going to one of the two troops still active. With determination, I feel that all the boys will stay in it long enough to earn the rank of Eagle.

And that would be a real shame.

Just a day at Summer Camp
The last scout that my team interviewed for the rank of Eagle

The Uninvited Tenant in the Wall

04 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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About two weeks ago, one of my daughters called and told me she was hearing something in their walls. Not normal apartment noise. Not pipes. Not neighbors.

Scratching.

The kind of scratching that makes you immediately start wondering if renters insurance covers emotional trauma.

She wanted me to tell her what it was. Now, I had a pretty good idea, but knowing that even saying the words rat or mouse would send both of them into Olympic-level panic, I had to choose my words carefully… like I was negotiating with hostage takers.

Now hear me out — this gets a little technical.

If I’m not wrong, most walls are built eight feet tall using 2x4s spaced 16 inches on center. That means the inside cavity space is about 14½ inches by 3½ inches. That’s not exactly a penthouse suite. That’s more like “micro-living for something small, furry, and highly motivated.”

And if you’re hearing scratching in a space like that, chances are something is using its teeth to dig into the gypsum wallboard to gain access to either your apartment… or your neighbor’s.

And of course — and this is no coincidence — this was the closet where they store their food and snacks.

Because if you’re a wall creature, you don’t break into the linen closet. You go straight for the Doritos.

I told them to email the apartment office and create a maintenance ticket. The problem was, this was late on a Friday night. And everybody knows maintenance emails sent after 5 PM on Friday go straight into what I call the “See You Monday” folder.

Unless you call the emergency number.

Now, being two women who are convinced anything smaller than a deck of cards is capable of crawling into their apartment, creating chaos, and starring in a true crime documentary about them… they called the emergency number.

Voicemail.

They left a message… and then sat there waiting for a reply like they were waiting on lab results.

At this point, every sound in that apartment was suspicious.
Refrigerator kicked on? Suspicious.
AC made a noise? Definitely suspicious.
Ice maker dropped ice? Obviously the wall creature testing structural weaknesses.

Sometime Saturday, management finally called — only to say pest control would come Monday. After what I can only imagine was a spirited discussion, management agreed to call the maintenance man.

Moments later, their phone rang. It was the maintenance man. He had gotten the message but couldn’t help — he had been in a bad accident and was currently in the hospital.

But — and this is dedication — he said he’d call one of his buddies to check out the situation. That is the most “maintenance guy” thing I’ve ever heard. Man is in a hospital bed like, “I can’t walk, but I know a guy.”

Several days later — and after multiple calls to the apartment office — pest control finally showed up along with the maintenance buddy. Apparently coordinating schedules while my daughters believed they were under siege from a wall monster took a little time.

Now, working in maintenance for years, I learned something:
Problems disappear when maintenance shows up.

You can have water pouring from the ceiling.
You arrive.
Bone dry.
Like the house is gaslighting you.

That’s exactly what happened here.

They checked the apartment while my daughters were at work.
Heard nothing.
Saw nothing.
Probably left thinking, “These girls need hobbies.”

Then my daughters got home.

And… scratching.

One of my daughters did the smartest thing possible — she recorded the sound and emailed it to management. Nothing says “I am not imagining this” like audio of something trying to chew through Sheetrock like it’s a Nature Valley bar.

The next day, the manager, the maintenance buddy, and pest control all came back — this time with purpose. They had seen the video. They had heard the scratching. They knew something was living rent-free in that wall.

First, they drilled a small hole and inserted a camera. They saw insulation disturbed.

Then they decided to cut a hole in the wall.

And there she was.

A squirrel.

Just sitting there.

Not running.
Not panicking.
Not even mildly concerned.

Just sitting there like, “Oh good, maintenance is here. My sink has been dripping.”

Pest control removed the squirrel and released it outside where it belonged. The A-Team then spent the next several hours trying to figure out where she got in.

Whether they found the entry point or not, they did tape up the hole in the apartment. Which is good… but also feels like putting a Band-Aid on a submarine.

I’m hoping they permanently fix it soon. Preferably before the squirrel comes back with a lease agreement and three cousins.

Last night was the first night in a while that my daughters didn’t go to sleep listening to something chew in their walls.

What happened to the squirrel after that? Nobody knows.

Will she return? Hard to say.
It was her home for a little while.

But hopefully she decided apartment living is too expensive… and moved somewhere with trees, acorns, and zero humans.

When DIY Repairs Fight Back

31 Saturday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Uncategorized

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As a child, I would always watch my dad as he repaired different things around the house. In my childlike mind, he could fix anything. I remember coming home from elementary school one day and finding our television torn apart, parts scattered all over the den floor. While other kids’ dads were watching TV, mine had it in surgery.

To me, he was the ultimate jack of all trades.

Later in life, we helped him build the house we lived in—and the one my parents still live in today. I remember telling him I wanted to grow up just like him. Apparently, I took that statement way too seriously.

I did grow up, and I’m not exactly like him… but I’m close enough to make the family nervous when something breaks.

I can fix just about anything I put my mind to. I went to school for HVAC, got a state license, and still take 4 CEUs every year to keep it current. Learning that trade gave me insight into how most things work. I repair most of my own appliances, and I’ve only had to call in a professional a couple of times—and that was when my foot was in a cast and gravity was no longer my friend.

I keep my license active mainly for my parents and my kids. Recently, I replaced my dad’s heat pump after it developed a refrigerant leak. Unfortunately, thanks to government regulations, the refrigerant it needed is now apparently classified as “ancient artifact.” I’ve also worked on my daughter’s clothes dryer when it stopped heating—a simple fix that just required replacing the heating element. In most cases, troubleshooting comes naturally.

Then my son called me this past Tuesday.

He said there was water under his washing machine after he did a load of laundry. He sent me the model and serial numbers so I could start troubleshooting before we met. After some research, I narrowed it down to a few possibilities: water inlet valves, drain pump, drain hoses, or the dreaded tub seal/bearing—the washing machine equivalent of “it’s totaled.”

I found parts for everything except the tub seal/bearing. It wasn’t listed anywhere. Not even on the manufacturer’s website. I emailed the manufacturer and got their incredibly helpful response: “Call a professional service technician.”

In other words, “Good luck, buddy.”

That was not happening.

We met today to work on the washer. I stopped at a hardware store and bought some cinder blocks so we could raise the machine, and I could crawl underneath it like a mechanic working on a car with no jack. The wash cycle took fifty-six minutes, which meant I spent forty-four of those minutes lying on a cold garage floor underneath a running washing machine, questioning my life choices.

Nothing leaked.

The hoses were dry. The pump was dry. No water around the tub seal or bearing. Everything looked perfect. This was confusing, suspicious, and mildly insulting to my troubleshooting skills.

Just as I was starting to think maybe the washer was mocking me, water suddenly began pouring directly onto my face. I was instantly soaked—like someone had turned on a shower labeled “Idiot Under Washer.” Before my son could shut the machine off, I was already rethinking every decision that led me to that moment.

The water wasn’t coming from anywhere I expected.

It was coming from the top of the washer—from the spray nozzle.

My son has very hard water in his area. He’s constantly using CLR on showerheads and faucets to fight calcium buildup. Turns out, that same calcium had slowly clogged the washer’s nozzle until, when it finally activated, it shot water clear past the tub and straight down the side—right onto me.

The fix?

A small cup of CLR mixed with water, an old toothbrush, and a pocketknife.

Five minutes. No parts. No service call. No $120-per-hour technician.

And best of all, we got some quality father-and-son time out of it—although next time, I might bring a poncho.

I’d say we came out ahead.

Missing Clyde on His 21st Birthday

25 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in Pets, Family

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Today’s been a tough day.

As much as I tried to keep my mind occupied, there was no escaping the fact that today would have been Clyde’s 21st birthday. And yes — Clyde was a cat — but anyone who’s ever loved an animal knows they aren’t “just pets.” They’re routine. They’re comfort. Their presence. They’re family.

The fact that today was cold, rainy, and just flat-out miserable didn’t make it any easier. It felt like the kind of weather made for staying inside, listening to the quiet… and noticing who’s missing.

He’s been gone a little over two months now. And there are days I think things are getting a little easier. Then a memory pops into my head out of nowhere — the sound of him moving across the floor, the way he looked at me, the little habits he had — and it nearly drops me to my knees. Today was a good example of that.

Grief with a pet is strange. They’re woven into the smallest parts of your life. Feeding times. Favorite spots. Empty corners. You don’t realize how many pieces of your day belonged to them until they’re suddenly not there.

I used to think time was supposed to make this hurt less. I’m learning instead that time just teaches you how to carry it. Some days it’s light. Some days it’s heavy. And some days — like today — it feels like the full weight of 21 years.

So tonight, I’m letting myself miss him. I’m letting it be a tough day. Because Clyde wasn’t “just a cat.” He was a constant. A companion. A small life that left a huge space behind.

Happy 21st birthday, Clyde. You are still loved. And you are still missed.

Can You Hear Me Now?

15 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life

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For many Americans today, the answer was a resounding “No!” Verizon Wireless went down, and just like that, millions of us were spiritually transported back to 1983. Society wobbled. Productivity plummeted. Somewhere, a teenager had to actually talk to someone.

With our phones suddenly reduced to very expensive paperweights, many of us were forced to resort to smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and aggressively refreshing the screen like that was going to fix anything.

I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room when it happened, and it was better than cable. People kept picking up their phones… staring at them… turning them sideways… tapping them harder… then setting them back down. Five seconds later? Same ritual. Over and over. It looked like a support group for the technologically dependent.
Full disclosure: I was absolutely one of them.

We’ve grown so accustomed to grabbing our phones to check Facebook, watch a YouTube video, text a friend or spouse, or occasionally even make an actual phone call. When that little pocket computer doesn’t work, it feels like someone unplugged part of our brain. I half expected a nurse to walk in and say, “Sir, you seem confused… do you know what year it is?”

We’ve lost the art of voice communication. Kids will sit around the breakfast table and text their friends instead of talking to the rest of the family. You can have four people in the same room, all on their phones, silently sharing videos with people who aren’t there. These little glowing rectangles have become idols that we worship. We can’t seem to live without them — not even for a couple of hours. If the Wi-Fi hiccups, we act like we’re auditioning for a survival show.

I’m old enough to remember the dark ages — before pocket computers ruled our lives. Back when a “dead zone” meant the phone cord wouldn’t reach the couch. If you were bored in a waiting room, you didn’t scroll… you committed. You read a six-year-old magazine about kitchen remodeling. You memorized a poster about heartburn. You judged people quietly.
And somehow… we lived to tell the tale.

Granted, there was a moment today when I really wished I could call or text my wife to let her know I’d be making a few stops on the way home. Instead, I found myself longing for the return of phone booths — the kind where you could pull over, squeeze inside, dig a quarter out of the cup holder, and make an honest-to-goodness phone call.

No apps.
No passwords.
No updates.
No, “your call is very important to us.”

Just a dial tone, the smell of warm plastic, and the unsettling feeling that the last person in there may have been a superhero… or a criminal.

Maybe today’s outage was a good reminder that the world won’t end if our phones stop working. Conversations still exist. Eye contact is still legal. And boredom, while uncomfortable, won’t actually kill us — though judging by that waiting room, several people were close.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here practicing my smoke signals, teaching kids how to communicate using actual words, and checking my cup holder… just in case phone booths ever make a comeback.

Please Hold…My Brain is Loading

11 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in bariatric-surgery, Cancer, Family, Leukemia, Weight Loss

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When I started this blog some years ago, it was mainly meant to be a diary of sorts — a place to vent and to voice my opinions. Gaining an audience was never part of the plan. This was more “Dear Diary” than “Dear Internet.” It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with CML that I decided to use this platform to write about my experiences with cancer and maybe, just maybe, help some other poor soul going through the same thing.

As with most things in life, plans change. Sometimes gently. Sometimes with a two-by-four.

Not only was I dealing with CML, but I also decided to write about my experiences with gastric bypass surgery. When I was doing my research, I noticed there really wasn’t much content out there. And what I did find often ended shortly after surgery, for whatever reason — almost like everyone vanished once the anesthesia wore off and nobody ever came back to update the internet.

There’s something else that’s been going on for quite some time, and I’ve finally decided to put it down on paper. I’ve been experiencing brain fog for several years, and over time, it has gotten worse. “Brain fog” is a term used to describe symptoms such as difficulty concentrating, memory problems, mental cloudiness, confusion, and trouble finding words — essentially, feeling like your brain is running Windows 95 in a world that expects fiber internet.

I notice it most when I’m trying to carry on a conversation and, right in the middle of it, my mind just… leaves. Names vanish. Phone numbers disappear. Sometimes I forget what I was saying while I’m still saying it. Short-term or long-term, it doesn’t matter. It’s there… then it’s not, kind of like my car keys.

What makes this so difficult isn’t just the symptoms themselves, but how they sneak into everyday life. I’ll walk into a room and forget why I’m there. I’ll open my phone to look something up and immediately forget what I was looking for. I’ll stand in the kitchen staring into the fridge like it’s going to explain my life choices to me.

Conversations that should be easy sometimes turn into mental obstacle courses as I search for words I’ve used my entire life. It affects my confidence more than I care to admit. When you can’t trust your own memory, you start second-guessing yourself. You hesitate before speaking. You rely more on notes, reminders, and the people around you. I’m grateful for their patience, but it’s a strange feeling when your own brain doesn’t always show up prepared.

Some days are better than others. There are moments when everything feels clear and normal, and I start to think maybe I’ve turned a corner. Then there are days when my thoughts feel like they’re moving through mud, and even simple tasks take extra effort. Those are the days that wear on you — not with fireworks, but with a steady drip of “Seriously? Again?”

If you Google the term “brain fog,” you’ll find a long list of possible causes: lack of sleep, medications, chemotherapy, B12 deficiency, and even anemia. I’ve spoken to my doctor about it, and while some over-the-counter options might help, with my anemia and the chemotherapy drugs I’m on, they may not make much difference. In other words, this may just be part of my user agreement for now.

I don’t share any of this for sympathy. I share it because this blog has always been about honesty — the good, the bad, and the occasionally forget-why-I-walked-in-here. Brain fog may be part of my story right now, but it’s not the whole story. I still laugh, I still enjoy life, and I still manage to function… even if I need a few more sticky notes than the average person.

I’ve learned to adapt. I write more things down. I set reminders. I give myself a little more grace than I used to. And when I lose my train of thought mid-sentence, I’ve decided it’s perfectly acceptable to blame the fog, shrug, and move on. If nothing else, it gives the people around me a chuckle — and honestly, some days I’m laughing right along with them.

And if you ever see me standing in a room staring off into space like I’m waiting on divine revelation, don’t worry. I’m probably just buffering.

No Joy for Christmas

28 Sunday Dec 2025

Posted by in Family

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I want to start by apologizing for this rant. My poor wife has listened to me wrestle with this for the past week, and I still don’t feel settled. I’m honestly at the point where I’m ready to say I’m done celebrating Christmas—and maybe even Thanksgiving—with my parents and siblings altogether.

At the center of it all are my parents, my mom and dad. They’re both in their eighties now and won’t be with us forever. That fact matters, and it weighs on me more than I probably let on. Then there’s my wife and I, and our three kids—all grown, all adults, all working and living their own lives. That still feels strange to say sometimes.

I have two brothers and a sister. One brother is married with kids, two of whom are now adults with their own jobs. Watching the next generation step into adulthood really drives home how quickly time passes. My youngest brother is also married, but his family is in a completely different season—three young kids, full of noise, energy, and chaos. I recognize that life because I’ve lived it.

Then there’s my baby sister. She’s married and has a son in his twenties who is autistic. While his age says “adult,” his needs and world often look more like those of a teenager. He’s special—everyone knows it, including him—and I think he’s figured out just how wrapped around his finger the family really is.

The real issue, though, isn’t any one person. It’s the expectation that everyone must be present at every family function. My mom believes that if something is planned, everyone has to be there—no exceptions. For years, Christmas has been pure hell because of this mindset.

If someone couldn’t make it, she would get upset and cry. As the oldest, I’ve tried to talk to her calmly, suggesting she pick a date and let people work around it. But there are two things she refuses to accept. First, our family has grown, and people now have other obligations—spouses, in-laws, jobs, kids, and schedules that don’t revolve around one household. Second, if Christmas falls on a weekend, many people still have to return to work on Monday. She cannot understand why they can’t “just ask off.”

Here’s the part that still stings the most. I’ve been married since 1991, and from day one, my wife and I always gone to my parents’ house for Christmas lunch. Always. My wife’s parents also had lunch every year, but we never went there first. We would eat at my parents’ house, open gifts, then rush out and head to either her parents’ house or her brother’s—arriving late every single time. They would be waiting on us.

Year after year, this happened. And not once did my wife complain, because she understood exactly how my mom would react if she didn’t get her way.

Now things have changed. My wife’s parents have both passed away, and her family now gathers at her sister’s house. That house is in the opposite direction from where my family meets. Trying to fit both sides of the family into one day is no longer just stressful—it’s impractical. What used to be exhausting is now simply unreasonable.

About five years ago, something finally changed for the better. My mom told me she and my sister had talked and decided that the Saturday after Christmas would be our official family Christmas. It felt like a miracle. Everyone could make it. No tears. No drama. No guilt. It worked.

Until yesterday.

My youngest brother’s wife, who works as a prenatal nurse, had to work late. My mom went hysterical. Suddenly, Saturday “won’t work anymore.” According to her, the solution is that we’ll all meet the day after Christmas because she’s convinced a future executive order will make it a federal holiday.

I tried explaining—calmly—that even if something like that ever happened, it wouldn’t affect healthcare workers, and many employers wouldn’t observe it anyway. Changes like that take years, if they happen at all. None of that mattered.

And just like that, we’re back to square one.

What makes this so hard is knowing that my parents are aging. Time is limited. I don’t want resentment to be what I remember. I don’t want the holidays to feel like obligations instead of moments. Honoring our parents shouldn’t require everyone else to bend themselves into knots, sacrificing peace and fairness to avoid tears.

Wanting boundaries doesn’t mean I love them any less. It means I’m trying to protect my wife, my kids, and myself from decades of emotional strain that always seems to fall on the same shoulders.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I just know I’m exhausted. And for the first time, I’m seriously questioning whether continuing these holiday traditions—exactly as they’ve always been—is worth the emotional cost.

With time being what it is, I want whatever holidays we have left to be filled with meaning, not tension. Maybe stepping back isn’t giving up at all. Maybe it’s the only way to find peace while there’s still time to appreciate one another.