Tag Archives: love

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.

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

11 Wednesday Feb 2026

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

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

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

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

But it comes at a cost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I Just Wanted a Burger, Not a Lecture

26 Monday Jan 2026

Posted by in Life, Uncategorized

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Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Pexels.com

I’ve been debating on posting this for a long time, and honestly, I really didn’t have a reason to—until just recently.

I was at a drive-through the other day, placing an order like I’ve done a thousand times before. When I pulled up to the window, I addressed the person there as “ma’am.” Simple. Automatic. The way I was raised.

And that’s when the wheels came off the wagon.

I had made the mistake of identifying the person at the window as the wrong gender. My mistake. I went purely by appearance. I’m one of those people who tends to call it like I see it. If it quacks like a duck, it must be a duck…right?

Apparently not.

The person at the window immediately began to chastise me for not reading their mind.

Now, let me stop right here and say this: I wasn’t trying to insult, provoke, belittle, or make a statement. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I wasn’t trying to be clever. I was just ordering food. Hungry, slightly impatient, and completely unprepared for a pop quiz on modern social navigation.

I also want to be clear about something else. I don’t do political posts. I avoid them on purpose. If someone wants to label this as political, then congratulations—this will officially be my first and last one.

Here’s where I stand, plain and simple. If you’re a man and want to be a woman, so be it. If you’re a woman and want to be a man, so be it. If you identify as non-binary, or something else entirely, that’s your life and your choice. It’s not my job to run it, and it’s not my place to stop you.

But I also don’t believe it’s reasonable to expect strangers to instantly know what’s in your head.

Somewhere along the line, something that used to be automatic—sir, ma’am, he, she—has become a minefield. And the expectation, at least in that moment, was that I should somehow know the correct answer before the question was ever asked.

That’s the part that stuck with me.

We live in a time when communication is supposedly easier than ever. We’ve got phones, apps, and watches that tell us to stand up and breathe. And yet, basic human interaction feels more complicated than ever. Instead of conversation, correction. Instead of grace, assumption.

Here’s the honest truth: I’m going to get things wrong sometimes. Not out of hate. Not out of stubbornness. Not out of disrespect. But because I’m human, I’m older than Google, and I grew up in a world where appearances usually matched labels.

And maybe the better answer—for all of us—is a little more patience.

If I misidentify you, tell me. I’ll listen. I’ll adjust. I’m not above learning. But I don’t believe shame, scolding, or public correction at a fast-food window is how understanding is built. Respect shouldn’t be a weapon; it should be a bridge.

Life’s already heavy enough. We’re all carrying something. A bad day. A loss. A diagnosis. A bill we don’t know how to pay. The last thing we need is to turn a cheeseburger exchange into a courtroom drama.

So this isn’t a rant. And it’s not a political crusade. It’s one simple request from one imperfect human to another:

If I get it wrong, tell me. Don’t try to teach a lesson. Don’t draw a line in the sand. Just tell me.

Because I’m not your enemy. I’m just a guy in a drive-through trying to buy lunch.

And if we’ve reached a point in life where a stranger deserves a public scolding instead of a quiet correction, then maybe the real thing we’ve lost isn’t proper labels.

Maybe it’s grace.

Hospital Visits, Craft Fairs, and Nine Hours of News

07 Friday Nov 2025

Posted by in Family

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Patriotic Black Slate Coaster

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.

Time Doesn’t Stand Still

22 Wednesday Oct 2025

Posted by in Cancer, Depression, Family, Leukemia

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The older I get, the more I realize that time doesn’t stand still. It seems like almost every week I hear about someone I used to go to school with or work with who has passed away. Just the thought of it can be depressing.

This past Saturday, I did a craft fair and happened to run into one of my high school classmates and her sister. We had a chance to catch up for a bit, and somehow the conversation turned to the classmates we’ve already lost. Sadly, cancer seems to have claimed most of them.

I’m 62 now — older than many of my classmates since I was held back a year — and although my health hasn’t always been the best, I count myself lucky to still be here.

Most of my classmates already have great-grandkids. Me? None of my three kids are married yet, so I’m not even a grandparent. Only one of the three is dating anyone right now, and I’m not sure when or if the other two will. That’s okay, though. I don’t ever want them to feel pressured. Still, before I go, I’d love to see all my kids married and maybe even get the chance to hold a grandbaby or two.

My parents, who are both in their mid to upper eighties, would love to see great-grandkids too. I have to remind my mom not to put pressure on my kids — she has a way of speaking her mind about things like that.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a form of leukemia called CML. Right now, it’s under control. Sometimes one of the markers the doctors watch goes a little wild and sends everyone into a panic, but eventually, the numbers settle back down, and all is well again. I’ve come to accept that nothing I do can change the fact that I have CML. All I can do is take my daily pill, stay consistent, and be thankful that the medicine is working. Worrying won’t change the outcome.

Are you the worrying type? What’s the main thing that weighs on your mind — your kids, your health, your future, or something else? I get my worrying honestly; my grandmother on my mom’s side was a worrier, and my mom’s the same way. I guess it just runs in the family.