The news spread about her.

Growing up, I played trumpet. Started in fifth grade with hours of scales and lip slurs, enough to earn “1st chair” through middle and into high school.

Then a new student arrived, recently moved from out of state. The band director placed her midway in our brass section since no one knew much about her skill level.

But whispers began.

“You have to hear her.”
“Incredible.”
“Wow, she’s great.”

Turned out, they were right.

This newcomer wasn’t just good, but jaw-dropping amazing. Technical and powerful, she made that horn sing in her hands.

We soon developed a friendship, and I handed over the lead chair with no regrets. She belonged there.

Time passed. She kept climbing the music ladder and went professional. Her peers now regard her as a “glass‑ceiling‑shattering” musician.

She became the first woman to hold a lead trumpet spot in a premier U.S. military jazz ensemble. These days, she’s lighting up Broadway, performing in hit productions.

This week, while browsing the library, I spotted a CD for the cast recording of Some Like It Hot. Something clicked. I flipped open the case and scanned the credits.

There she was, 1st trumpet. Again.

So yes, proud friend moment. Here’s to you, Liesl. Glad our paths crossed all those years ago.

If you ever want to duet again, give me a call. My embouchure’s rusty, but my heart’s still in it.

Three simple words somehow captured everything.

When I graduated high school, my yearbook had a cover slogan that stopped me in my tracks. Just three words. And after seeing it, I thought, Absolutely perfect.

Over the decades, the phrase popped into my head, especially when my kids brought home their own annuals.

Then came my son’s last year at Jamestown High School when he joined the yearbook staff. One evening, he walked into the kitchen and said, “Dad, we’re stuck. Our team needs a slogan. Got any ideas?”

Well… funny you should ask.

I told him the memorable line from my senior cover, and he got excited. After he pitched it to his classmates and teachers, they loved it, too.

So, history was made. If you compare the 2023 Jamestown High School publication to the 1988 Williams High School edition — yes, you’ll find the SAME SLOGAN.

A father and son full-circle moment.

What were those magic words? Maybe I’ve hyped them too much. Picture a stage, spotlight dimming, the curtains closing, and then…

FADE TO BLACK.

To me, those three words perfectly capture the end of an era. A farewell to a season of life. A quiet goodbye.

And this afternoon, on the last day of public school in our city, I remembered that phrase again.

Fade to black.

One chapter ends, another begins. Cue the sunscreen and 80’s music.

That game in 2023… nothing else comes close.

It was the greatest soccer moment our family ever experienced. And the odds? Barely two percent.

Jake and Sam spent years on the field, playing in rec leagues before moving to club soccer. This brought a decade of tournaments, road trips, and dinners on the fly.

But then came high school. Club league was clinical, but varsity matches got rowdy with music blaring and roaring crowds.

Then, during Jake’s senior year, magic struck. The team stormed through the playoffs and won the 4A Virginia state championship.

And somehow, this happened the one season Jake and Sam played together.

Suddenly, there were newspaper headlines. Title rings. Team merch. For two brothers who had kicked a ball since being barely big enough to walk, this was the peak.

Hard to beat that memory. Especially since both have officially hung up the cleats, unless you count college intramurals and hallway trick shots.

Today, Sam went to the arena to watch his old squad in the quarterfinals. They won. He believes they have a chance for another trophy.

I can picture the parents in the stands, their hearts pounding and hopes high. I’ve lived that life. Maybe there’s some more magic left.

Go Eagles.

I didn’t realize this song’s true meaning for years.

Back in the early 80s, Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” ruled the airwaves. But it exploded into legend during a 1983 live performance, when he debuted the moonwalk on national TV.

I studied the move for weeks until I finally nailed it. And yes, I can still pull it off today. Give me socks and a slick floor and... Hey, Hey. (add in sequined glove here)

For a long time, though, I missed the song’s real message. MJ slurs and stylizes his lyrics so much I thought it was only a dance track with a killer groove.

Turns out, it’s about a false paternity accusation. Well, okay.

This week I learned something new about another classic: “Yesterday” by The Beatles.

Artists around the world have covered the tune over 2,000 times, making it one of the most recorded hits of all time. Everyone from Elvis to Boyz II Men has sung it.

But that’s not what surprised me. I never realized… there are no drums. Just Paul McCartney’s acoustic guitar, alongside gentle piano and a string quartet. I hadn’t noticed before.

An incredibly popular record and not a single beat. Which explains why Paul never moonwalked.

I guess some songs must be felt before they’re fully understood.

These eight words can help conquer nerves.

I love a brilliant book title, but it’s hard to pull off, like squeezing 300 pages into a fortune cookie. The perfect phrase helps sell books, but a wrong one can leave them gathering dust.

Recently, a cover stopped me cold:

Everyone In This Room Will Someday Be Dead

Eight words. Instant perspective.

So, when anxiety creeps in before you speak to a group, whisper that line. This might be the secret weapon against stage fright. Even better than deep breathing or imagining the crowd in their underwear.

Yeah, it’s kinda morbid. But also... freeing. Everything we stress about feels smaller next to the reminder that all of us are on a ticking clock.

Today, Jess showed me a number: most people get about 4,000 weeks of life. Whoa, sounds small. When I say yes to something, I’m spending a sliver of my limited pie.

This is why managing time matters. It’s not about doing everything, but choosing wisely. The quiet, everyday moments are where the good stuff hides. And where life adds up.

4,000 weeks isn’t a warning but a gift.

Look around the room. Nothing deserves your dread.

This memory still haunts me.

In high school, I traveled with a group that performed at Disney World. Ahead of the show, we were led behind-the-scenes, down an alley, toward a hidden door covered by leaves.

Just before it opened, our guide turned serious. “No cameras,” he warned. “If you’re caught, we take the film.”

My pulse jumped. I couldn’t wait to behold all the top-secret wonders.

We stepped into a place most guests never see. All the staff gathered there, relaxing, getting ready for their shifts.

And then I spotted Mickey Mouse. Well, half of him.

The person inside the suit strolled by in costume from the neck down, head off, casually puffing a cigarette.

And hello… it was a woman.

Who knew? Mickey is really a lady who smokes Marlboros. No wonder they banned photos.

Yes, the image lives rent-free in my brain, and I think about it every time Disney pops up in the news. Like today, when I read that Rivers of America, Tom Sawyer Island, and the Liberty Square Riverboat will soon close down.

These attractions date back to the 1950s, and they’re making room for Piston Peak National Park, a Cars-themed land inspired by the movies.

I guess change keeps coming, ready or not.

And sometimes, it wears fuzzy gloves in the form of a headless, gender-bending, cigarette-smoking mouse.

Ah, the Disney magic.

What made them say “Yes”?

One afternoon as a kid, I saw an infomercial featuring a unique item. I didn’t just want it, I needed it. Badly.

I campaigned hard. And somehow, ranking up there with the great mysteries of the universe, I convinced my parents to fork over their credit card.

The thing cost about ten bucks, with high odds it would end up buried in a pile of toys within a month.

But this gadget survived constant use and never broke.

And that’s why I still have it today, decades later. In fact, this childhood treasure works perfectly and doesn’t need batteries or charging.

It sits on a shelf in my office, ready for action, if necessary. This week I showed a coworker and told her the story.

What is this magical marvel?

The Bakka.

A frisbee with wings. Dubbed “The American Boomerang,” the Bakka debuted in the early 80s.

Spin the disc clockwise into the wind, and the curved blades take over, slicing through the air and circling back like a heat-seeking missile. Chuck it as far as possible, and physics takes over. The breezier, the better.

For years, I brought it to every beach trip. Strangers always watched, jaws open, as the winged wonder looped through the sky and dropped into my waiting hands.

Apparently, the company stopped making them, probably after someone took one to the face. Razor-edged toys and children don’t really mix. But remember, safety wasn’t a top priority in those days. We didn’t wear bike helmets, either.

Yessir, the Bakka still soars like the morning it arrived in the mail. Impulse buys usually land in a thrift bin, but this one keeps flying back.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

It started a domino effect.

Back when the kids were small, we owned a television the size of a boulder. A monstrosity from the pre-flatscreen dark ages.

Then came the upgrade. A new model, sleek and thin.

We mounted it in a front room no one really used. Within hours, the area morphed into command central for movies, video games, and sporting events. The whole orbit of the house shifted.

So naturally, we needed updated furniture. Sofas, shelves, lamps. And once that spot felt complete, we turned and stared at the sad little space where the old TV had been. Another required makeover.

Yes, a single television purchase transformed our entire downstairs.

This week, we hauled our bedroom dresser into Jake’s room. Now our place feels much bigger and lighter, but also somewhat bare.

Jess paused in the doorway, scanned the walls, and declared, “We need to redecorate.”

God help us. The dominoes never stop falling.

One of my dad fails.

When Luke turned thirteen, we celebrated with a road trip to an Orioles game. I snagged a room near the stadium, ready for the perfect father-son adventure.

The baseball contest delivered the fun — hot dogs, peanuts, the works. But the real action started afterward.

Baltimore simmered with tension at the time. Protests filled the headlines and unrest flared over police violence and injustice. At night, the city became a risky place.

But I didn’t think about that. With balmy temps and a 1-mile stroll to the hotel, what could go wrong?

That was my mistake.

As the large gathering spilled out of Camden Yards, everything seemed fine. For about five minutes.

Then the crowds thinned. The noise faded. And we turned onto a stretch of street that pulsed with flashing lights and pounding bass. Bar territory.

Brawls and broken glass. People shouting and stumbling on the road. And here’s me, dad of the year, leading my barely teenage son through an episode of Cops.

Somehow, we made it back unharmed, with a few choice phrases shouted at us along the way. My poor decision could have been disastrous.

Some places, sometimes, just aren’t worth the shortcut.

Fast-forward to today. Cali, our golden retriever — usually a model citizen — spotted two fellow goldens parading past our property with their owner. And something inside her snapped.

In a flash, she jumped down the steps, sprinted across the yard, and bolted through the invisible fence. Though not a biter, she’s a barker, and our fluffy girl followed them halfway down the block.

After chasing after her, I offered apologies to the walker. Now we’ve resumed refresher doggie training, a gentle reminder that boundaries exist for a reason.

Lesson: Sometimes instinct screams Go! but wisdom whispers Stay.

Or at the very least, call an Uber.

It was simple, but genius.

My childhood pastor, Dr. James Gardner, radiated love. And each day, he practiced a specific action which I witnessed when I tagged along with him for two summers during college.

Every afternoon he went to the grocery store and grabbed… a handful of pies.

He would then head out to visit folks. Shut-ins. The sick. The lonely. Dr. Gardner remembered their names and their stories — but he also knew what kind of dessert they liked. Their faces always lit up.

He did this for years, and over time, something remarkable unfolded. The congregation he pastored became known around the city for its compassion.

Dr. Gardner set the example but also created a system for caring. A repeatable rhythm in which others soon joined in. Before long, the culture shifted and the love spread.

When he passed away nearly two decades ago, testimonies of his impact filled the packed funeral. People poured in from every corner of the community, and even from all over the world.

His church still thrives as an influential presence in the area, anchored in the values he helped shape.

I thought about Dr. Gardner today after hearing someone give this definition:

Leadership = Designing an environment

What does that mean to me?

• Focusing on influence more than position

• Building simple frameworks where others thrive and grow

• Creating structures and check-ins so that mission becomes the default

The best leaders are more like architects, and their core work is often invisible. Until one day, it’s not. That’s when people can feel and see the change.

Leadership doesn’t have to be rocket science.

Sometimes, it’s just showing up with pie.

It appeared out of nowhere.

Recently, I finished organizing the garage. My yard tools hung in nice lines beside neatly stacked boxes. Plus — bonus — just enough room to pull the car in.

Then one afternoon, returning from work, I clicked the door button and rolled inside. And there it stood.

A giant slab of plywood leaning casually against the side wall.

What in the world?

Turns out, Sam is up to something. Back for summer break, he and a few friends have cooked up a project.

They bought the materials to recreate a game they played on campus. And today, I found them in the backyard taping off borders and spray-painting school colors.

The massive board now rests proudly on the deck table, drying in the sun.

I have to laugh. Kids add a certain energy to a home. When they return, they also bring noise, crumpled fast-food bags, mismatched shoes by the door, and a laundry pile that could qualify as a small mountain.

And yes, sometimes they bring plywood.

But every stray sock reminds me they’re here. I hear their footsteps on the stairs again, their laughter floating in from the next room.

These time-stamped moments won’t last forever, and a day will come when I’ll want to rewind to this exact version of them. It’s easy to think “coming home for the summer” is a guarantee, until the year they stop.

So, the days are numbered. But that only makes them more golden, giving an opportunity of loving these kiddos up close, even as the house turns upside down.

I can have a tidy garage later. Right now, I’ll take the mess and mayhem.

It’s not just another summer, this is one more I get to share.

And I’ll try not to hit the spray-painted game board when I pull in.

June 1989. Tiananmen Square, Beijing.

The day after the Chinese military crushed a pro-democracy protest, a photographer captured an extraordinary image.

A solitary figure stood alone on an empty street. Before him stretched a line of Chinese armored tanks. 

The lead tank tried to swerve around him, but he stepped sideways, blocking the path and refusing to move. A quiet standoff between flesh and steel.

And that’s when someone snapped the shot.

By the next morning, the picture had spread across the globe, splashed on newspaper front pages and becoming instantly iconic.

But the image holds a deeper meaning — one I suspect most overlook — revolving around a single word: ‘celebration.’ 

I know, the term usually conjures up images of music, food, and confetti. But maybe consider a different description: DEFIANCE.

That’s right, celebration = an act of defiance.

The picture captures the impact of a single person holding the line against overwhelming force. In a way, the visual declares: Watch this. It’s worth remembering.

Celebration is resisting numbness in a world of distractions and worry, pulling us into the present and refusing to let something important go unnoticed. 

Sometimes, celebrating is the most powerful protest of all.

Today, our family gathered in a restaurant to honor two people. One recently turned 19, and one left us exactly a year ago. Sam, full of potential, charting his path forward. And Mimi, Jess’s grandmother, who lived 94 remarkable years.

Bookends of life, yet both are reminders of what truly counts. Where we’ve been. Where we’re going.

Celebration always reveals what we hold dear. Even when everything isn’t perfect, it carries the strength to bring light and hope. 

Just like ’Tank Man,’ we plant our feet and say: this person, this day, this story — it matters.

Celebrating you, Mimi.

Celebrating you, Sam.

A great life hack.

I recently heard about someone who lost their keys on the beach. Hours passed before they noticed, and digging through acres of shoreline seemed hopeless.

But then, a miracle.

A brilliant stranger discovered the keys and didn’t turn them in or toss them aside.

Instead, they planted a stick in the sand like a tiny flagpole and hung them from the top. No note, no drama. Just a silent beacon, standing tall.

Keys found. Day saved.

I love little moves like that — secret shortcuts in a game everyone else plays on hard mode. And while these tricks won’t fix everything, they sure beat regular adulting.

Here are a few of my favs:

• Write tomorrow’s priorities tonight

• Batch similar projects to avoid brain whiplash

• Rest a wooden spoon across boiling pots to prevent spill-overs

• Airplane mode = faster charging

• Jot favorite book quotes on the blank intro page (beats highlighting)

• Watch movies on the treadmill; listen to podcasts during workouts

• Use phone alarms to trigger new daily habits

• Tackle creative work first thing, before the world gets loud

• Check email only at intervals, not constantly

• Placing “This” into subject lines = intrigue and more opens

• Ask “what” questions instead of “how are you”

• Play instrumental music to boost concentration

• Open important meetings with a story

• Sleep better with a white noise machine or small fan

• Learn the Memory Palace technique to remember things

• Set calendar reminders for recurring routines

• Give everything a home, then return it there

• Keep a notebook for dumping all your thoughts

• Park far away, always take the stairs, get extra steps

• Go for a walk when your brain stalls

• When writing, skip the intro and think about the middle

• Don’t worry about the first draft but edit ruthlessly

All these have saved me time and frustration. I’ve got more, so maybe a blog for another day.

In the meantime, whoever planted that beach pole deserves a medal.

It was the strangest call I’ve ever received.

One afternoon as a teenager, home alone, the phone rang. My neighbor’s voice came through, breathless.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Get out. Right now. Come to my driveway, and don’t cut across your yard.”

Excuse me, what?

But I obeyed. Sprinting outside, I instantly heard a loud, otherworldly buzz filling the air. My friend stood at the edge of his lawn, pointing toward my roof.

When I turned, my jaw dropped.

I saw something I’d never seen before or since. If only I had a camera.

Hovering above my home, circling in a slow churn, was a massive cloud of bees. Thousands of them. A black swarm. One by one, they drifted down my chimney and inside the living room through a tiny crack.

Uh, nope. Not cool.

My neighbors contacted a beekeeper, and thankfully, he arrived in about thirty minutes.

I watched in amazement at how this guy operated. Slipping on a special suit, he grabbed equipment and climbed a ladder to the housetop. Then he used a pole and fished around inside the brick column, a thick cluster surrounding him.

Moments later, he descended and officially proclaimed, “All done!”

“How?” we asked.

“I caught the queen.” He smiled, adjusting his hat. “Once you catch her, it’s over. The rest just leave.”

Sure enough, the bees quickly disappeared. The sky cleared. Tragedy averted.

I thought about that experience today after what happened to Kate, my daughter. As she walked into work, something shifted in her hair.

At first, she dismissed it as the wind. Then she felt movement again.

And after running her fingers through her curls, she found a bug had just flown in. She doesn’t like insects, no matter the size, especially when they decide to hitch a ride on her head.

But thankfully, it flittered away without harm. No queen. No beekeeper required.

Just one mildly traumatized young lady.

And once again, tragedy averted.

I’ve seen it in New York and London.

Les Misérables, my favorite musical. The songs soar, and the epic plot spans decades. But none of that hits as hard as the character at the center.

Jean Valjean.

A thief hardened by prison becomes a hero softened by grace. All because someone shows him kindness, setting off a chain reaction and a fresh start.

Valjean’s redemptive arc, one of the most profound in literature, reminds me that people really can change.

And today, I witnessed another stunning transformation.

Jake fired up his pressure washer for the first time. He tackled our front porch, which had collected a science experiment of winter-based moss and grime.

And by the end, the bricks gleamed as new and made the entire house glow. A remarkable before and after. A complete rebirth.

Our entryway is no longer Les Misérables, but Les Miracles.

Ah, redemption. Take a bow, Jake.

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!

As a teen, I visited a rough place each week.

I had to carry certain items to protect myself because of rampant stealing. Plus, people hurled objects at each other and heckled with language you’d never hear in Sunday school. Absolutely not a hangout for children.

Where was it?

The church softball league.

I played first base for Shiloh Presbyterian Church, never knowing what to expect when I stepped on the field.

Something about the match triggered extreme competitiveness. Players lost their minds. Umpires doubled as therapists.

I chuckled at the memory today when I read about another “innocent” pastime causing some trouble. This one doesn’t involve bats or bases, but it does bring out the beast mode in folks, stirring bar fights and living room tantrums across the nation.

The game? UNO.

Stackable Draw Twos? Depends who you ask. House rules? Debatable. And don’t even mention the Wild Draw Four. Uno often escalates from lighthearted fun to full-blown arguments.

The church league prepared me for more than I realized.

I guess the Lord works in mysterious ways.

It weighs less than 1/10 of an ounce, but carries lots of memories.

• I would bet a “shiny” one over sports games with friends

• Finding one still reminds me to pray for someone

• I used them for cheap gum in the Kmart machines

• We have a container full of them in our home

• We rolled them into paper sleeves and took them to the bank for dollars

Of course, I’m talking about pennies.

Fun fact: U.S. coins show faces looking left, except Lincoln on the penny. The designer preferred his right side. Oh, and there’s also one on Mars. NASA placed it on the Rover as a calibration target for the cameras.

Crazy how the humble coin fits in my palm but spans centuries. But not for much longer.

I read this week the U.S. Treasury will stop production by early 2026. Now it costs more to make than they’re worth, and in a world of digital payments, they’ve lost their place. Today, many sit quietly in jars.

A penny is kind of like that small, scrappy, young neighborhood kid who gets on everyone’s nerves, but on the day his family moves away, you miss him. The block just isn’t the same anymore.

So, a moment of silence for the unforgettable penny.

Somewhere, a rusty Kmart gumball machine just shed a tear.

It looked impossible.

When I was a kid, my neighbor had an extraordinary skill — and swore he could teach me. But to my untrained eyes, I saw wizardry. Me, being able to do that? No way.

Juggling.

Still, he walked me through the magic. First, the proper technique to toss one ball, then the motions of two, and finally... the system of three. He promised if I stayed focused, I’d get there.

I didn’t believe him. But I kept practicing, and after a few weeks, I could actually manage three balls. Not pretty, but progress.

I continued improving. We started juggling together, passing between us, adding rings and even bowling pins. Soon, we progressed with throwing between our legs and behind our backs. My backyard turned into a circus act.

Gradually, I worked myself up to four balls. I haven’t mastered five yet, but maybe someday.

My neighbor taught me more than a party trick. He showed me how to break a big task into bite-sized pieces, step by step, failure by failure. All I had to do was learn and practice.

Today, something similar happened as I walked onto a golf course for the first time in years. Jake, my son and an accomplished player, offered pointers while I hacked at the tee. And his tips helped.

Gradually, with every hole, I improved as he coached me on the fundamentals. Did he spark an obsession in me? We’ll see.

But let’s just say I’m currently better at juggling golf balls than hitting them.

The PGA isn’t calling, but the circus might.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Tried not to, honestly. I wanted to be subtle, but he didn’t make it easy.

One of my past colleagues, a man bald as a billiard ball, walked into the office one morning. And he suddenly had a head full of hair.

Lush, youthful locks, the kind in a shampoo commercial that blows in the wind in slow motion.

And he said nothing. Not a word. Just sat down like any other Monday.

If he had been a good friend, I might have teased him or at least cracked a joke. But we weren’t that close, so I found myself in an awkward situation.

It didn’t help the toupee was… a cheap model. Like someone had gently balanced a cat on top of a watermelon and hoped for the best.

I didn’t know what to say. “Nice haircut”? “Well, alright”? I believe I landed on, “I like the new look,” which felt safe and vague enough.

I’m all for people doing what they want. Want a hairpiece? Go for it. Want to glue a handlebar mustache to your forehead and call it art? Be my guest.

You only live once, so who cares what others think.

This week I read toupees are making a comeback with millennial men. But the current term is “hair systems,” which somehow sounds both cooler and more suspicious.

TikTok and Instagram have started the trend, and folks can now daily reinvent their appearance. Do short on Monday, bleach it blonde for the weekend, or rock a mullet on Thursday.

So, if you ever debut a new hair system, throw us a bone. Crack a joke. Wink. Something. At least take some of the discomfort out of the room. Because none of us believe it grew that way magically overnight.

Whatever you do, just own it.

It was my first one.

My friends and I, at 15yrs old, tested our wings a bit. And somehow, we convinced our parents to let us go to the Greensboro Coliseum for a concert.

This was 1985, so who did we want to see?

Hint: he had a tune that became among the best-selling singles of all time.

The answer: Bryan Adams.

(The song: “Everything I Do, I Do It for You.”)

Before the show, we ate burgers at the legendary Darryl’s Restaurant, then shouted ourselves hoarse to “Summer of ’69,” “Heaven,” and “Run to You.”

That night marked the beginning of many concerts I’d attend, including an unforgettable one in Ohio featuring The B-52’s.

Those memories came back today as Jess and I joined several friends at a local venue. On a perfectly sunny day, we listened to local bands play pop covers from the 80s and 90s.

However, on this afternoon, there were no Bryan Adams gravel-voiced power ballads. Though I did enjoy Duran Duran and Flock of Seagulls.

Oh well, I guess some things are meant to stay in the Coliseum.