I didn’t get skunked at today’s show—but let’s just say I wasn’t exactly loading up a wheelbarrow full of cash either.
The event was the first annual car show to benefit Paws for the Cause, and I’ll give it this—it had a good heart, even if it didn’t have much of a crowd. Vendors started trickling in, slowly… very slowly. In fact, I had enough time to sit and watch them arrive like it was a parade with no audience. The classic cars? Even fewer. I think I saw more empty parking spots than chrome bumpers.
Each vendor paid $30, car owners paid $20, and everyone had to bring a large bag of dog food. That part, I genuinely liked. Knowing the food would go to the Humane Society made it feel worthwhile. At the end of the day, even if I didn’t make much, at least some dogs are eating better tonight—and that’s a win you can’t really argue with.
Now, about the selling…
It took me about two hours to make my first sale. Two hours. I had time to rethink my entire inventory and briefly consider whether the guy selling kettle corn was onto something. Then… nothing. Not a single sale until the final minutes before packing up. It was like the universe said, “Let’s keep him just hopeful enough to stay.”
If you don’t count the cost of the dog food, I broke even. So technically, I didn’t lose money… but I didn’t exactly win either. I’m still chasing that one product—the one that people see and immediately say, “I need that.” So far, that magical item remains as elusive as a full parking lot at today’s show.
Looking around, though, I think I did all right compared to some of the other vendors. A few of them spent most of the day parked at a picnic table nearby. At one point, I wasn’t sure if they were selling products or just holding down the table so it wouldn’t blow away.
Speaking of blowing away… the wind showed up late but made a dramatic entrance. By the end of the day, tents were starting to lift and shift like they had somewhere better to be. I’m pretty sure that’s what convinced the organizer to shut things down about an hour early—and honestly, nobody argued.
For now, I don’t have any shows lined up, which might be a blessing in disguise. It’ll give me time to reorganize, take inventory, and figure out what needs restocking—and maybe, just maybe, stumble across that one item that actually sells consistently.
In the meantime, I’ve got a couple of orders to finish up, and that feels like progress.
No, it wasn’t a sellout. No, it wasn’t a disaster.
Just another day behind the booth… and another story to tell.
Earlier today, I stopped at a convenience store I don’t usually visit. I could feel my blood sugar dropping, and I needed to grab something quick to bring it back up.
Funny how priorities can shift in an instant.
As I was scanning the shelves—trying to find something that would help but still be somewhat healthy—I noticed a young kid. He couldn’t have been more than 12 or 13. Something about the way he was moving caught my attention.
Then I saw it.
One item… then another… quietly slipping into his pockets.
Just like that, my low blood sugar wasn’t the most important thing anymore.
I glanced over at the cashier, but she was tied up with another customer. So I grabbed a pack of crackers and headed to the counter, waiting for my moment. When she finished, I motioned like I needed help with something and quietly told her what I’d seen.
We both stood there, watching.
And as we watched that young man, I couldn’t help but think back to something that happened years ago during a Boy Scout Winter Blast trip.
Every year, right after Christmas, we’d load up and head out for five days of camping. One year, the boys were working on the Railroad merit badge and took a trip to a train museum. On the way back, they stopped to get gas, and while the leader was pumping gas, one of the boys decided it would be a good idea to steal a can of snuff.
Not only that—he went back in multiple times. And somehow, others encouraged it.
We didn’t find out until later that night when one honest scout came forward, wanting to come clean.
When we got back to the scout hut, we handled it.
We searched bags, found everything, and then made a decision that stuck with me to this day.
Instead of calling the police, we made other plans. A couple of weeks later, with the parents’ approval, we drove those boys over an hour back to that store. They had to face the manager. Look him in the eye. Own what they did.
Then they spent the afternoon cleaning bathrooms, picking up trash, and sweeping the parking lot. Let me tell you—nothing builds character faster than a public restroom and a push broom
It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t easy. But it mattered.
Those boys learned something that day. And years later, I still see some of them—and they turned out to be good men.
Back in the store today, the manager approached the young kid and asked him to empty his pockets. He hesitated, but eventually did.
Then something interesting happened.
The cashier asked him what he thought he should do.
He didn’t have much to say. Turns out pocket-stuffing confidence doesn’t translate well into public speaking.
Then she turned to me and asked for my opinion.
I told her what I had seen work before—that maybe giving him a chance to make it right, to work it off, might stick with him more than anything else.
I don’t know what they decided. Maybe he spent the afternoon sweeping. Maybe he just got a warning. Maybe he swore off convenience stores forever.
Maybe I’ll never know.
But I do know this—sometimes the best lessons don’t come from punishment… they come from accountability.
From being given the chance to face what you did and make it right.
I just hope that young man takes this moment and carries it with him the way those scouts did.
I survived the day on the river. Well… define survived.
I caught three fish—two bass and one respectable catfish. Now, before you start picturing a highlight reel, let me bring you back to reality. One bass weighed a solid 0.84 pounds… which I’m pretty sure still qualifies as “aspiring fish.” The other came in at 1.61 pounds, which officially made it the “big one” of the day.
Not exactly bragging rights, but hey—it beats going home empty-handed and lying about the one that got away.
It was a long day on the water with not much to show for it, but honestly, that wasn’t really the point. Sometimes you just need to get out there, clear your head, and enjoy the quiet… even if the fish aren’t cooperating.
Now, my back? My back has a completely different opinion about how enjoyable that day was.
This morning, it feels like I tried to wrestle a gator instead of fish for bass. I’ve been eyeballing a muscle relaxer like it’s the answer to all my problems, but if I take it, I might as well cancel the rest of the day—and I’ve got a craft fair to prep for. So for now, I’m choosing pain and responsibility over relief and a nap. Questionable decision.
My fishing partner had a better day—at least numbers-wise. He caught six fish: two panfish and four bass. Of course, he forgot his scale… again. At this point, I’m starting to think it’s intentional.
And the pictures? Let’s just say if blurry fish photos were a sport, he’d be sponsored. Half the pictures cut the fish off, and the other half look like they were taken during an earthquake.
But the real adventure didn’t start until we tried to leave.
I got back to the launch first and was greeted by a couple of contractors from Alabama Power. They had seen me pull up and came over to talk. Between the language barrier and a lot of hand gestures, I gathered they were stringing a new power line right where I was and wanted me to move.
I explained I was waiting on my buddy… who, by the way, had forgotten his paddle.
Now, before you panic, he’s got a pedal kayak, so getting around wasn’t the issue. Getting out of the water, however, would require a little teamwork—and preferably someone who actually had a paddle.
The contractors weren’t thrilled, but they had little choice but to wait.
When my buddy finally showed up, I filled him in. We got him out of the water and were told it would be about a 20-minute delay.
Forty-five minutes later, it became clear that “20 minutes” was more of a suggestion than a timeline.
So we did what any tired, slightly irritated fishermen would do—we handled it ourselves and loaded up anyway. I noticed the line they were stringing didn’t even have power running through it yet, which made the whole situation even more confusing. But at that point, we were done asking questions.
We loaded up and hit the road.
And immediately got stuck behind a slow-moving truck hauling what looked like half a construction site.
What should have been a 45-minute drive home turned into an hour and a half. Because apparently, the universe decided the day just wasn’t quite long enough yet.
Now here I am the next morning, back aching, truck still needing to be unloaded and reloaded for the craft fair, and wondering why all my hobbies seem to come with a recovery period.
Yesterday had its share of hiccups, but it was our first trip of the regular season. Gear was misplaced, things were forgotten, and clearly, we’re a little rusty.
But now that we’ve got the first trip out of the way, everything should be back where it belongs.
Last night, I did something I honestly never thought I’d get the chance to do.
Thanks to one of my daughters, my family and I went to see Martin Short and Steve Martin live at the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex—or as most of us around here call it, the BJCC.
And let me tell you… I haven’t laughed that hard in a very long time.
Now, the night almost didn’t turn out quite as great as it did. The original tickets were way up in the nosebleed section—you know, the kind where you’re just hoping the big screen works because the stage looks about the size of a postage stamp. But thanks to my daughter being persistent (and apparently a pro at ticket stalking), she checked again later and found stage-level seats for the same price.
Same price. Better seats. That kind of luck doesn’t happen often.
The show itself wasn’t just comedy—it was storytelling, history, and two guys who clearly enjoy every second of what they do. They talked about their childhoods, how they got started, and even the first time they met—which, as it turns out, was during Three Amigos. I had no idea that Steve Martin actually wrote that movie, let alone that it played a role in their long-running friendship.
One of the highlights of the night for me was hearing Steve Martin play the banjo. That alone would’ve been worth the price of admission. He was joined by the incredibly talented Steep Canyon Rangers, and together they added a whole different layer to the show. It wasn’t just funny—it was genuinely impressive musicianship mixed right in with the comedy.
It made the whole night feel a little more personal, like you weren’t just watching a performance—you were getting a glimpse into their lives.
Now… I’d be lying if I said every single moment was comfortable.
Between the body suit Martin Short wore—where absolutely nothing was left to the imagination—and the two clearly over-served ladies sitting behind us providing their own running commentary, the night got a little more “eventful” than expected. At times, it felt like we had a bonus side show going on right from our seats.
Let’s just say… There were moments I didn’t know whether to laugh at the stage or turn around and laugh at what was happening behind me.
But honestly? That just made the night even more memorable.
From start to finish, the show was well worth it. Great seats, great laughs, live music, and time spent with family—those are the kinds of nights you don’t take for granted.
And for me, it was one of those rare experiences where you walk away thinking, “Yeah… I’m really glad I got to do that.”
I’ve got a couple of updates since the last round of chaos, and like everything else lately, it’s a mix of “well, that’s good news” and “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
First off, I saw a post from my doctor’s office saying they plan to reopen on Monday. Now, I’ll be honest—I don’t know how they’re going to be mentally ready for that. After everything that’s happened, I can’t imagine just flipping the sign back to “Open” and jumping right back into caring for patients like nothing ever happened.
I do have some test results I need to get, but at this point, I’m not too worried about them. I could call, but something tells me they’re going to be completely overwhelmed. Phones are ringing off the hook, patients are trying to reschedule, and emotions are still running high. I think I’ll give them a few days. If they call me, great. If not, I’ll check in later when things settle down—at least a little.
They also mentioned they’re looking for another doctor to take over the practice. That could take some time, and honestly, who knows how that’s all going to play out. But I’ve got a backup plan. There’s another doctor I’ve seen before, someone I actually know pretty well outside of the office. We crossed paths a lot through Scouts—he was a scoutmaster in another district—and we’ve stayed in touch over the years. We’re even friends on Facebook, so he’s already got a front-row seat to my “medical adventures” without ever opening a chart. If things go south with my current doctor’s office, I know where my records will be heading.
Meanwhile, over at my son’s house, the saga continues.
The water mitigation team came back today to check on the fans and dehumidifiers. They went around testing the walls and floors for moisture. The good news? The walls are drying out just like they should.
The bad news? The floor… not so much.
So tomorrow, they’re coming back to start tearing up the flooring so the slab can dry out properly. Nothing says “progress” quite like ripping out perfectly good flooring. They’re also planning to remove a few of the fans from the bathroom, which should at least lower the noise level from “airport runway” down to “only mildly annoying.”
It’s been quite the adventure so far—and we’re not even close to the end.
Once everything is dry enough, they’ll move on to the restoration phase. That’s the part my son is really looking forward to… mainly because it means we’re finally heading in the direction of “normal.” He’s also hoping that by tomorrow evening—or at least by Saturday—most of the fans will be gone. I think we’re all looking forward to that.
Of course, my wife has asked me more than once if there was anything that could have been done to prevent all of this.
Short answer? No.
Long answer? Still no… unless you want to hop in a time machine and have a conversation with the original plumbers. It could’ve been a weak solder joint, a slight shift in the slab, or something else entirely hidden beneath the surface. Without tearing everything apart beforehand—or having some kind of superpower X-ray vision—there’s just no way to know. Sometimes things just fail, and you deal with them when they do.
And speaking of dealing with it, tomorrow my son has somewhere he needs to be, so he won’t be around to let the mitigation team in.
Which means… You guessed it… I’ll be making the 45-minute drive.
And you know what? I don’t mind one bit.
Because at the end of the day, this whole mess—doctor’s offices, test results, torn-up floors, and all—is just part of life. Messy, unpredictable, sometimes frustrating… but it also gives us chances to show up for each other.
Even if it means driving 45 minutes just to let someone in the door.
And honestly… compared to everything else going on, that’s the easy part.
The beginning of my Easter weekend started out simple enough—help my son check on a leak in his slab.
Now, when someone says “just come take a look,” you picture a quick in-and-out job. Maybe a loose-fitting, maybe something obvious. Ten minutes, tops. You feel confident. Capable. Like a man who knows where his flashlight is.
What you don’t expect… is a full-blown plumbing adventure.
Since I was only supposed to be looking for a leak, I made the brilliant decision to leave all my tools at home. Normally, they live in my truck, but since I recently had some body work done, everything got unloaded—and apparently, my motivation to reload it went with it.
That decision came back to haunt me almost immediately.
Before heading to my son’s house, I had already been given my “honey-do” list for the day. My wife wanted a new overhead kitchen light installed and the handrails painted before our Easter guests arrived. So, naturally, I thought, “Let me just swing by, find this leak real quick, and get back home.”
Famous last words.
I picked up the light and paint, called my son, and headed over. When I got there, I grabbed the one and only tool I thought I’d need… my flashlight.
That flashlight and I were about to be very disappointed.
When I walked in, I found my son wrestling with a toilet. Not just any toilet—this was one of those “engineered by someone who hates plumbers” models. You know the kind. The connections are hidden, your hands don’t fit, and nothing is where it should be.
He was trying to replace the flush valve, and what should have been a simple job turned into a puzzle designed by a madman. You couldn’t even get your hand behind the tank to reach the nut. At one point, I ended up breaking the old valve just to get it out… which is always a confidence booster.
Eventually, he told me he had it under control, so I went back to my original mission: finding the world’s most elusive water leak.
About 15 minutes in, I heard some… colorful language coming from the bathroom.
That’s never a good sign.
Turns out, he was now fighting the same battle we just had—getting the new valve tight enough without being able to reach the nut. And since all my tools were sitting comfortably in my garage at home, we were working with whatever he had lying around… which wasn’t much.
After some struggling, twisting, and me contorting my body into shapes it was never designed to make, we admitted defeat and made a trip to the hardware store for some “special” wrenches.
Spoiler alert: they helped… but not much.
Eventually, through persistence, determination, and probably a little bit of stubbornness, we got the valve installed without leaks. Victory was ours… and so was the back pain.
Once I finally made it back home, it was time to tackle my original assignment. With my wife’s help, I replaced the kitchen light, then moved on to painting the handrails… along with a good portion of my shirt. Apparently, I believe in fully committing to a project—whether I mean to or not.
After finishing up, I rewarded myself the only way I know how: parked in my recliner, heating pad in place, enjoying the first of several cups of coffee like I had just completed a home improvement marathon—which, in my mind, I had.
Later that night, I took my meds as usual and noticed something looked a little off. Turns out, in the chaos of cleaning and rearranging, my medications got mixed up—and instead of taking my sodium bicarbonate, I doubled up on my muscle relaxers.
Now, if you’ve never done that before, let me tell you… It turns your entire next day into a slow-motion documentary.
I spent most of Easter in a fog.
Thankfully, it was a good kind of day. We had family over—my son and his girlfriend, my daughter and future son-in-law, and even her sister. There was food, laughter, and the added bonus of some first-time introductions.
It was one of those moments where everything just feels right.
Even if you’re slightly sedated.
After everyone left, I curled up in my recliner and took a much-needed nap.
Because sometimes the best way to end a long weekend of fixing everything for everyone else… is to finally sit still long enough to not break anything else.
Have you ever hit one of those stretches where you really want to do something—but life just keeps stacking the deck against you?
That’s me right now… and fishing.
The weather—well, the temperature at least—has been absolutely perfect. The kind of weather that makes you start mentally packing your gear before you even finish your morning coffee. I’ve been itching to get the kayak in the water.
But of course… It’s never that simple.
First, there’s the wind.
For the last ten days, the wind has been doing everything except cooperating. Now, sure, you can go kayak fishing in the wind… if you enjoy turning your peaceful fishing trip into a CrossFit session. Unless you’re on the water at daybreak, you’ve got a very small window before the breeze turns into a personal trainer yelling, “Paddle harder!”
Nothing quite like trying to hold your spot while questioning your life choices.
But honestly, the wind isn’t even the biggest problem.
Even if the water was as smooth as glass, my schedule has been anything but.
I’ve had something going on nearly every day—mostly doctor appointments. And just when I think I’ve finally got a free day lined up, my phone rings with, “Hey, just a reminder…” At this point, I’m convinced my calendar is just a suggestion, not a plan.
Case in point—I went to the doctor the other day about my back. For years, I thought it was just normal wear and tear… turns out my back has apparently been keeping secrets. Not the fun kind either.
So I finally spot a window. Tomorrow morning? Perfect fishing opportunity. The wind isn’t supposed to pick up until around noon. I’m already picturing that first cast.
Then the phone rings.
It’s the doctor’s office.
“Your MRI is scheduled for tomorrow.”
Of course it is.
So instead of being out on the water trying to catch fish, I’ll be lying perfectly still inside a giant tube while it takes pictures of all the bad decisions I’ve made with my back over the years. Honestly, if that machine could talk, it’d probably just shake its head and say, “Yeah… you probably shouldn’t be kayak fishing either.”
At this point, I’m not even sure what’s more out of alignment—my schedule or my spine.
Looking ahead to next week, it’s the classic tease. The temperature is supposed to drop again early in the week, then warm back up later. But it’s too far out to know what the wind’s going to do… and at this point, I’m convinced it’s working with my doctor.
One of these days, everything is going to line up—the weather, the wind, my schedule… and hopefully my back.
And when it does, those fish better be ready.
Because I’ve got ten days’ worth of missed fishing—and a medically questionable spine—ready to hit the water.
I’ve always considered myself pretty good at dealing with pain. Not superhero-level or anything, but enough to where I can usually just shrug it off and keep going.
My wife, on the other hand… well, let’s just say pain and her are not exactly best friends.
Now, before I get myself in trouble, I should point out that she did go through childbirth twice—once with twins—so when the moment calls for it, she can absolutely tough it out. She just prefers not to make a hobby out of it like I apparently do.
As for me, I’ve been dealing with this back pain for as long as I can remember. Never really complained much about it. I just chalked it up to muscle fatigue, getting older, or doing something dumb and pretending I didn’t.
Turns out… muscle fatigue was not the issue.
According to the latest X-rays, this has been something a little more “interesting” all along. And lately, just to keep things exciting, the pain decided to crank itself up over the past month.
Naturally, my pain tolerance—once my greatest ally—has started waving the white flag. So today, I finally broke down and reached for the pain meds.
At the doctor’s office the other day, they gave me a steroid shot, and I have to admit—it worked. Yesterday morning, I got out of bed without feeling like someone was stabbing me in the back. It was a beautiful, almost spiritual experience.
This morning? Not so much.
That shot wore off like a good dream, and reality came back with a vengeance.
On top of that, I was prescribed Methocarbamol—a muscle relaxer. The doctor told me, “Take it at bedtime… and during the day if you need it. Just be aware it might make you drowsy.”
Might.
Last night, I took one and thought, “This isn’t so bad.” I stayed awake for a while and figured I was in the clear.
This morning, after wrestling my way out of bed, I decided to take another before heading to Bible study.
Thirty minutes later… I was unconscious in the recliner.
Not “a little sleepy.” Not “slightly drowsy.” I mean full-on, lights out, someone-check-my-pulse kind of asleep.
My wife had to come wake me up so I could even attempt to get ready. I made it to Bible study, but staying awake was more of a suggestion than a reality.
By the time I got back home, I sat down in the recliner—and that’s about all I remember.
My day officially ended at 10:30 in the morning.
All the plans I had for the day? Gone. Completely wiped out. The only thing I accomplished was catching up on all the sleep I’ve been missing from staying up late and getting up early preparing for these craft shows.
So I guess… not a total loss?
Tomorrow is church, and after that, I’ve got a big date planned with my recliner and heating pad. We’ve grown very close lately.
With a little rest (and maybe slightly less “effective” medication), I’m hoping by Monday I can get back to working on the projects that didn’t stand a chance today.
Until then, I’ll be right here—taking it easy and trying not to accidentally time-travel to the next day every time I take my medicine.
Our scout building wasn’t just a building—it was a piece of history.
Long before it became a Boy Scout hut, it was the place to be in our city. Back in the early days—somewhere around the 1940s—if something important was happening, it happened there. Elections, meetings, church fellowships, banquets… if you wanted to be where the action was, you went to the community center.
Eventually, the city built a newer, bigger facility, and the old building was handed over to the Girl Scouts. They used it for several years until leadership faded away and the troop dissolved, leaving the building empty.
That’s when the Boy Scouts stepped in.
A few years later, the Girl Scouts made a comeback and wanted their building back. The Boy Scouts, naturally, said, “We like it here.” The city stepped in and solved the problem, the only way small towns can—by giving the Girl Scouts another building.
And just like that, the old community center officially became a scout hut.
By the time my son crossed over into Boy Scouts, that building had fully embraced its identity.
It looked like it had been frozen in time since the 1940s—concrete block walls, a low tongue-and-groove ceiling, and a big concrete slab floor. There was a large fireplace I never once saw used, windows that were nailed shut with shutters on the outside, and a maze of rooms off to one side that served as storage, meeting areas, and a kitchen.
The place was packed with history—old ribbons, plaques, faded photographs of scoutmasters long gone, trophies, and even a canoe hanging in the corner that I eventually managed to “rescue.” There was also a podium made from a tree stump and branches, which felt exactly as official as it sounds.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.
Of course, “historic” is just a polite way of saying “things are starting to fall apart.”
The metal door was rusting through at the bottom. The hinges sagged so badly that you had to fight them just to open it. At one point, someone couldn’t get in and solved the problem by removing part of the door, which led to a hasp and padlock situation that I was not informed about. That was a fun surprise.
The wiring was questionable at best—mice had clearly been doing electrical work of their own in the attic—and the city, being short on funds, kept the scout hut comfortably at the bottom of the priority list.
And then there was the creek.
Most of the time, it was peaceful. But when debris clogged the culvert under the road, that little creek turned into a not-so-little lake. I always had this nagging feeling that one good storm might turn our meeting into a swimming lesson.
Oh—and snakes. Because of course there were snakes.
As Scoutmaster, I had a routine.
On meeting days, I’d stop by after work to turn on the heat or air so the boys didn’t walk into a sauna or a freezer. One particular afternoon, I pulled up, noticed the grass had already grown back like it had a personal vendetta, and walked up to the door.
Unlocked the padlock. Took note (again) of the growing hole in the bottom of the door. Made a mental note to call the city (again).
Then I opened the door.
Scrape…
That was normal.
Slide…
That was not.
I froze.
Slowly, I pushed the door open a little more—and there it was.
A snake.
Now, I don’t like snakes. I have the utmost respect for snakes, but I don’t admire snakes from a distance. If a snake and I are in the same place, one of us is leaving—and I strongly prefer it to be me.
So naturally, instead of making the smart decision and walking away, I opened the door wider.
Because that seemed like a good idea at the time.
I caught a glimpse of it slithering toward the bathrooms.
Perfect. Now it had options.
I flipped on the lights and stepped inside like a man who had already made several poor decisions and was committed to seeing them through.
The snake was gone.
Which, in my opinion, was worse.
Somewhere in that building was a snake… waiting… probably planning… definitely judging my life choices.
And in a few hours, a room full of scouts would be showing up.
So I did what any responsible adult would do.
I grabbed a flashlight and went hunting.
After checking behind boxes, fire extinguishers, and anything else that looked remotely snake-sized, I found it.
Behind a piece of wallboard.
It lifted its head, looked me dead in the eye, and hissed like it had been waiting all day for this moment.
That was when I realized something important:
I was not the man for this job.
I called the police.
The officer showed up, assessed the situation, and immediately became significantly less helpful than I had hoped.
I suggested shooting it.
He suggested not shooting it… citing “concrete floors,” “concrete walls,” and “ricochet” as if those were valid concerns.
So there we were. Two grown men. One snake. Zero good ideas.
I called one of my leaders.
Now, this particular leader was just as afraid of snakes as I was—possibly more—but he agreed to help… under one condition:
He would bring something to deal with the snake.
He would not go anywhere near the snake.
Fair enough.
He showed up, handed over the tool like a man delivering supplies to the front lines, and stayed safely outside while the officer and I handled the situation.
Between the two of us, we managed to capture the snake and relocate it back near the water.
Alive.
Which, in hindsight, means we probably just gave it a shorter commute next time.
The officer and I agreed it was likely a water moccasin.
A venomous water moccasin.
Which really made me appreciate just how close I came to having a much worse story to tell.
Before the scouts arrived, I called my son and had him pick up foam sealant.
If there was even the smallest gap in that door, it was getting filled.
When he got there, we sealed every crack we could find. I wasn’t taking any chances of that snake—or any of its extended family—deciding to move in.
That foam held strong for the next 12 years… right up until the building was finally torn down.
Looking back, that old scout hut had seen a lot—community gatherings, decades of scouts, and at least one very determined snake.
And while the building is gone now, I can say with confidence:
It’s been a busy week, and I’ve finally been able to relax for a little bit. Tomorrow I’ve got a craft fair, and I’ve been working feverishly trying to finish several projects that I’ll be selling.
Back in November, I sold nearly everything I had at my last craft fair, which was great… except for the fact that I’ve been procrastinating ever since. The main reason? My workshop is in the garage, and my garage has been roughly the same temperature as a commercial freezer lately. There’s something about stepping into a cold garage and standing there for hours that makes procrastination seem like a perfectly reasonable life choice.
This will be my second year attending this particular craft event. I actually know the sister of the lady organizing it. Their organization is trying to raise funds to put lights on a Little League baseball field so kids can play at night, which is a pretty great cause.
Last year was their first year holding the event. Attendance was a little light, and I didn’t sell much. This year I’m hoping for a better turnout—especially since I actually have to pay a vendor fee.
Truth be told, the main reason I’m attending is that I went to high school with the organizer’s sister. So really, I’m treating it more like a charitable event. If I sell a lot, that’s great. If not, at least it’s supporting a good cause.
There are two more craft shows in the area that I might sign up for, depending on how tomorrow goes. If I sell a lot, I may skip them because my inventory will be pretty limited. As it stands, I’ve pretty much used up most of the materials I had on hand.
My next big event is on the 11th of next month, and I’ve been told there will be over 150 vendors selling their arts and crafts. That will likely be one of the largest craft fairs I’ll attend all year. I plan to take a couple of days off from making crafts once tomorrow’s event is over, but once my supplies come in, I’ll be back out in the garage working like a one-man production factory.
Next week should be interesting as well. One of my daughters is on Spring Break. She works for a large university and follows the same schedule as the students. Her big idea for the week is to go kayaking.
The only problem is that the places around here that offer river tours aren’t open yet. Most of them don’t start until after Easter or sometime in May.
So my wife and I decided to improvise.
We ordered a kayak from Walmart so the three of us could go kayaking at one of the places where I normally go fishing. I went to pick it up, and they brought the kayak out… but no paddle.
When I asked about it, the associate told me the paddle wasn’t included.
Now I’m not one to argue, but I had a pretty strong feeling that a kayak without a paddle is basically just a brightly colored floating chair. So I pulled up the online ad on my phone.
Not only did it clearly say the kayak came with a paddle, but it also showed that the price had dropped to $32, which was a bit shocking considering I had paid $200 the day before.
When I showed the associate, the first response was that it must be a misprint. After a short conversation with the manager, two things happened.
First, they found me a paddle.
Second, they refunded me the difference in price.
So not only did I leave with a kayak and a paddle, but I also left with a pretty substantial refund that I was not expecting when I walked into the store.
Next week, when we head out to the creek, my wife and daughter will be paddling around, enjoying the scenery. Meanwhile, I’ll be doing what I normally do when I’m near water—doing a little fishing and hoping I might catch a fish or two.
If I’m lucky, I’ll catch something.
If not, at least I’ll still have the story about the $200 kayak that turned into a $32 kayak with a free paddle.
And honestly, that might be the biggest catch of the week.
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