When’s the last time you wandered a trail?

Not a paved sidewalk, but a dirt path surrounded by the glory of nature?

As a kid, the woods behind my house held a hidden route. A gateway to adventure and endless games. One year, I walked it every day going to summer camp.

Later, the Virginia neighborhood where we raised our kids had tree-lined pathways leading straight to the pool. We must have taken that winding passage a thousand times, towels slung over our shoulders, feet kicking up dust.

Few things in life compare to a shaded stroll. Science agrees.

Studies show that breathing in the smell of the woods reduces stress and boosts the immune system, even increasing virus-fighting cells. Basically, trees are out there saving lives.

Today, we hiked the Powhatan Creek Trail. Pure magic. There are marshes and creeks and a long, timber bridge which opens to a sprawling meadow. Wildlife chittered and chirped all around us. I got my steps in and improved my health. 

Turns out, the fountain of youth just might smell like pine needles.

My dad shot a lot of home movies in the ’70s.

His camera bulb blazed like the sun, and if you made the rookie mistake of looking straight at it, you’d see spots for days.

But Dad didn’t care if he blinded us. He documented everything — birthdays, holidays, vacations — dozens of reels stacked away for safekeeping.

About once a year, we’d dig them out and set up the clunky projector and retractable screen. The process was a production: threading the film around sprocket wheels, tightening it just right. It seemed to take forever, but the anticipation only made it better. We knew treasures were about to be rediscovered.

Then, with the flick of a switch, the machine would hum to life. The footage was grainy and silent, but it didn’t matter. We were transported.

Thankfully, modern technology makes recalling memories a lot easier. Tonight, with three of our five kids home, we cast old family videos stored in Google Photos onto our flat-screen TV.

For hours, we traveled back to the early 2000s and relived the rush of newborn cries, first bike rides, summer swim meets, family gatherings, Christmas mornings. It felt so real, all over again. I’m still amazed — and deeply moved.

Movies are the closest thing there is to a time machine. So, I’m committed to recording more moments. Today’s video becomes tomorrow’s old footage.

And I’m grateful my kids won't scorch their retinas like I did in the early days. Though honestly? It was worth every blinding second. 

I attended a small college in rural northeast Georgia.

The cafeteria was modest but the hardworking staff always served up meals that tasted like home. And one evening a year, usually when spring flowers bloomed, they did something amazing — they moved their entire kitchen operation outdoors. 

There, on rows of sizzling grills, they cooked steaks for every student. Big, thick, juicy ones. Some of the best I’ve ever had. 

Because college kids rarely had fancy food, we felt like royalty. The team even set up long tables across the grass quad so we could dine together under the open sky.

That was years ago. But “steak night” still holds a certain magic.

Tonight was one of those nights. We celebrated a friend’s birthday at a local restaurant, and for three hours, we ate, talked, and laughed. Once again, I enjoyed a prime cut with good company.

I’ve learned that what’s on a plate isn’t the main draw. But the most important part? Who’s around the table.

Here’s to shared feasts with the ones you cherish, whether it be Filet Mignon or Vienna sausages.

My family has always loved surprises.

Tonight, at exactly 8:27 p.m., the plan unfolded.

My job? Keep Jess from suspecting anything. This is a near-impossible feat because she’s got a sixth sense for secrets. And this one had been in the works for days, with hidden texts and hushed coordination.

As the evening grew later, we took the dog for a neighborhood stroll. Timing was everything. Whenever Jess wasn’t looking, I stole a glance at my watch.

Right on schedule, we made it back the house. Somehow, I coaxed her upstairs. And the second she stepped into our bedroom — there they were. Our two JMU boys, sitting on the bed, grinning from ear to ear, home for an unexpected weekend visit.

If you ever want to make a momma happy, surprise her with her kids. Even Cali, our Golden Retriever, celebrated with zoomies.

The real shock? We pulled this off without someone accidentally texting the family group chat.

Today, a criminal was on the loose in our neighborhood.

No joke. Our block turned into a real-life crime thriller. Police cars and cops swarming. Urgent warnings flooding the community social media. Residents were told to lock up and stay put.

But us? Totally unfazed. We’ve got a guard dog with a bark that can shake walls and rattle bones.

However, that’s where the intimidation ends. Cali, our Golden Retriever, firmly believes that every human — yes, even a bloodied axe murderer in a postal uniform — is a long-lost friend.

To any robbers/escapees/crazy people: from behind the door, Cali sounds like she will rip your head off. But step inside, and she’ll lick you to death after beating you with a wagging tail.

You’ve been warned.

Time seems less like a straight line and more like a loop… a full circle, sometimes bringing us right back to where we started.

Jess and I dated when she attended JMU, and so many of our early memories took place in those Harrisonburg, VA mountains.

Picnics. Hikes. Shopping trips. I made the 3 ½-hour drive as often as I could. Her dorm was in the “Village” — a cluster of residence halls at the heart of campus.

This morning over breakfast, I flipped through the winter edition of the JMU magazine. And what was in a feature spread? The Village.

The article grabbed my attention, not just for the nostalgia of our dating days, but because we have another important connection there: our youngest son, Sam.

Now a freshman, he’s living in the same complex, just a stone’s throw from Jess’s old dorm room. Exactly 30 years later.

If someone had told us back then that we’d be returning to visit our child in that very spot… we would have laughed.

But here we are.

Life is funny like that, but also pretty amazing. There’s a lot of love there in the Village.

Full-circle moments. Start looking for them. The older I get, the more I see them all around.

PS: Shoutout to our other JMU family connections: Luke, our oldest Dukes alum, and Jake, a sophomore.

It’s a dinner I’ll never forget.

Growing up, Ola was my neighbor, an older widow who lived alone. Her closest loved ones resided several states away. She was always quick with a smile and a wave.

After noticing my family struggling through a hard time, she called me over one late afternoon. “Just thinking about y’all,” she said, handing me a big pot of food. “Enjoy.”

No one else knew. No fanfare. No applause. Only compassion, pure and simple.

That was decades ago, but I still think about it.

This week, I stumbled upon a Japanese term: Intoku (陰徳). It means doing good in secret, without seeking the spotlight.

That’s the challenge: to do good when no one’s watching, just because. The ripple effect can last a lifetime.

When I think of Intoku, I picture my sweet friend from across the street, who passed away almost 25 years ago.

Thank you, Ola. Your quiet kindness lives on.

During my first job at a car wash, I wrecked a man’s brand-new Town Car.

I was 16. I left the driver’s door open while reversing and smashed it into a brick wall. A stupid mistake. And for years, I carried the shame.

How could I have been so dumb?

Time moved on. Decades have passed. That vehicle is long gone and probably rusting in a junkyard by now. But I still think about it with frustration.

Today, I watched an episode of Severance. A character is asked, “What is something for which you feel shame?”

His answer: “My dog died when I was a kid. It was my fault.”

“Why?”

“I left the gate open.”

No other details.

Shame is a prison. Be kind to yourself. Forgive yourself. Speak to yourself the way you would to someone you love. The past is unmovable, but your relationship with it is not.

Overcoming shame means choosing, at last, to close the door. Or to finally shut that gate.

My first Norfolk, Virginia trip came in my teens.

An afternoon’s drive from my hometown, it was a blur of battleships, shipping cranes, and port traffic. A bustling maritime city.

On our way from NC to Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, we made a quick stop at a downtown area called Waterside. After buying some fudge, we hit the road again.

In a gazillion years, I never would have imagined how much Norfolk would shape my life. Because a decade later…

It’s where I met my future wife.
Where I rented my first apartment.
Where I got married.
Where four of my kids were born.
Where I worked.
Where I bought my first house.
Where my life was saved (long story).

So tonight, it was nice to make the hour drive back to the “mermaid city” to visit my sweet in-laws. And by the way, it’s not pronounced Nor-folk. It’s Nor-fuk. Now you know.

Funny how a random spot on the map can become a main character in your story.

Bonus points if it starts with fudge.

I was king of the world back in the TiVo days. Master of my TV universe.

That little black box was peak tech. A total game-changer. And that’s when (early 2000s) I had my first binging experience.

“Mass consumption” wasn’t a thing when I was a kid. If you loved a show, you had to wait forever — a whole week — for the next episode. And if you missed one, good luck catching a rerun anytime soon.

The first show I ever binged? 24. Bauer power.

Even with today’s endless streaming options, I’m not much of an on-the-couch-marathon-the-entire-season kind of guy. I can’t sit that long. But thanks to Snowpalooza this week, Jess and I blitzed through Landman Season 1.

10 episodes, 5 days. Wrapped up the finale tonight. It may or may not have involved pizza and brownies.

And somewhere, my old TiVo is still trying to record every episode of The Andy Griffith Show. Godspeed, little buddy.

Today, my latest magazine subscription came in the mail.

Go ahead, take a guess which one…

Sports Illustrated? Nope.

Forbes? Keep guessing.

Rolling Stone? Getting colder.

It’s Mad Magazine.

Remember that gem? It’s been around since the 1950s. My grandparents used to buy me a copy whenever we went to Kmart.

The two best parts: Spy vs. Spy and the iconic back cover “Fold-In.” Some of you know.

So when I discovered they still print new issues, I subscribed immediately. A little gift to myself. And let me tell you, it’s always a happy day when it arrives in the mailbox.

Reading it takes me back to simpler times, to the 12yr old kid in my brain. Now if I just had a blue raspberry Kmart Icee.

There’s a mysterious substance in the universe.

It’s elusive and rare — especially where I grew up. Sightings are few, almost mythical.

What is it… Gold? Diamonds? Plutonium?

Nope. Snow cream.

Freshly fallen and transformed into a bowl of wintry perfection. My mom was a master at making it. And somehow, it always tasted better than anything store-bought.

Manna from heaven.

Today, my town got over six inches of snow — our third storm this season. Prime conditions for you know what.

Here’s looking at you, Mom.

For my birthday one year in college, my friends blindfolded me and shoved me into a car.

They laughed like villains as we sped into the night, refusing to tell me where we were going. Because this was rural Georgia, we spent 30 minutes twisting through dark country roads. The trip seemed to last forever.

When we finally stopped and they yanked off my covering, we were standing in front of a glowing Krispy Kreme. Hello, heaven. Totally worth the kidnapping.

Even better, a dozen more friends waited inside, ready to celebrate with fresh, melt-in-your-mouth delights.

A great memory. And from that experience, I still have a soft spot for birthdays and donuts.

So today, when we surprised a co-worker with a box of Duck Donuts (a local favorite), I couldn’t help but think of that wild college adventure. And yes, I got the feels.

Or… maybe that was just the sugar rush from the Boston Cream.

I remember it well. The secret exchange at the border of our yards.

My neighbor, four years older, introduced me to a mysterious substance. A candy.

The name? Pop Rocks.

I scooped a handful into my mouth, and suddenly, it was like trying an illicit drug. Fireworks on my tongue. The fizzle, the sizzle. Popping and crackling. Tiny eruptions of sugar and carbon dioxide. And I was hooked.

Then came the dangerous thrill. Word spread fast: mixing Pop Rocks with soda could make children explode. Only the bravest kids dared to risk it, wearing their courage as a badge of honor.

Today, I stumbled across an article about the candy. And just like that, the craving was back. The last time I took a hit? Probably 1982.

Maybe I should live on the edge again. The wild side. The taste of rebellion. Maybe I’ll even ride my ten-speed without a helmet. Hide the women and children.

Every weekend in the ‘80s, my high school friends and I had a ritual: Saturday Night Live.

Like clockwork, we’d meet up for dinner and dancing — and, at 11:35 sharp, SNL.

This was also the golden era of analog, when a Blockbuster trip meant renting VHS tapes packed with the funniest Eddie Murphy clips.

Music and smells trigger strong memories, but so can TV shows. Tonight, watching SNL’s 50th anniversary special, the past came flooding back. Not just of the show, but of faces I haven’t seen in decades.

Sometimes, I wish for a time machine to relive those younger days. But honestly? At this point, I’d settle for staying awake ‘til 11:30.

Today at Harris Teeter, I spotted a neighbor.

Which got me thinking about my theory. I call it The Grocery Store Test.

When you see an acquaintance a few aisles away, do you:

1. Say hello and chat?

2. Pretend you never saw them and reroute?

Most people fall into one of these two camps. And, funny enough, they often marry their opposite.

As for me? I found myself making conversation by the sodas.

In the spring of 1997, on a quiet beach under the setting sun, I asked Jessica to marry me.

I’d hidden a conch shell along an empty stretch of sand. And inside was an oversized toy ring, one that flashed rainbow lights when pressed.

As we walked the shore, I slowly nudged her toward the shell. Then, with some of my best acting, I pretended to find it. “Wow, what’s this?” When I handed her the conch, my finger tapped the ring, and her face suddenly lit up with colors.

Before she realized what was happening, I had dropped to one knee. In my hand was a velvet box with the real sparkling jewel.

And thankfully, she said yes. An unforgettable evening.

Now, 27 married years and five grown kids later, she still wears that diamond. And the conch shell? It rests on a table in our bedroom.

This morning, Kate texted, “What are you guys doing for Valentine’s?”

My reply: “Every day is Valentine’s.”

I wasn’t joking.

February 14 reminds me of love stories. And ours? It will always be my favorite.

As a 10-year-old boy, I joined the Burlington Boys Choir.

We traveled up and down the East Coast, staying in host homes along the way. To prepare us for these experiences, we took etiquette classes, learning how to represent our group with grace and poise.

I picked up lessons that have stuck with me for years: the proper order for silverware, dinner table manners, tying a necktie, writing thank-you notes, making a bed, folding a towel.

But one thing that was never covered? How to eat with chopsticks.

Today, at a Japanese restaurant with friends, I realized this gap in my education. I fumbled with those wooden sticks until, without a word, the waitress brought me a fork.

Clearly, I looked helpless.

But by the end of the meal, I kept at it, little by little. It wasn’t graceful, but I managed. Wounded pride is a powerful motivator to grow.

Here’s to learning new life skills, at any age.

When I was in college, an older couple at my church made me an unexpected promise: they committed to send me money to help with my school costs.

No strings attached.

Their generosity floored me. And sure enough, like clockwork, a check arrived in my mailbox every month for an entire year.

Funny thing is, I didn’t know them all that well. Yet they sacrificed their finances to give me an opportunity for education. The only return on their investment? My well-being.

I’m still amazed when I think about it.

Now, consider your own life. When has someone opened a door for you that you couldn’t have stepped through alone?

Hold that thought, because this week I stumbled across something fascinating: the most common symbol in math, one which appears in 94% of mathematical expressions.

What is it? The equal sign: =

We use the humble = to represent connections between ideas, from programming functions to ethical principles. But what does “equal” actually mean? At first glance, it seems simple. But when you dig deeper, defining it gets complicated.

We don’t all have equal talents, resources, or experiences. So, there must be a greater meaning than absolute sameness. 

To me, making things equal should always be synonymous with love. When it’s applied in a world full of extreme differences, magic happens.

Love has this mysterious ability to “equalize” what is imbalanced. It transcends logic or intellect or even legislation. Love is the great =.

On one side of the equation, giving love requires sacrifice. On the other, receiving love provides opportunity.

So maybe the equation looks like this:
Sacrifice ↔ Love ↔ Opportunity

Or, expressed another way:
Sacrifice = Opportunity

And often, the “=” takes tangible forms, like the ones which arrived in my college mailbox, month after month, without fail.

Late one winter night in high school, I had to drive home from a friend’s house.

However, there was a problem: snow and ice. But how bad could it be with just a few flurries, right?

My little Honda didn’t have much weight, and sure, there was the risk of hydroplaning. If you were an amateur. But at 17, I’d been driving for a whole year. Basically a pro.

My friend’s dad insisted on following me in his pickup. I didn’t think it was necessary, but fine. Off we went.

For the first ten minutes, everything was smooth, as expected. But then…

I hit a patch of ice. And the ‘ol Accord decided to put on a figure skating routine — a slip-sliding, stomach-lurching, 180-degree pirouette.

It all unfolded in slow motion. Total helplessness. Was I heading for a ditch? A tree? An upside-down disaster?

I braced for impact.

When I finally stopped spinning, I was staring into the truck’s headlights from the wrong lane. After catching my breath, I gave an embarrassed wave and drove back to my friend’s house to spend the night.

Lesson learned. Ever since, I’ve given bad weather the respect it deserves. I’m definitely built for warm climates.

Today, the office closed early thanks to ice-covered roads. Walking to my car, guess what popped into my head? Yep. That fateful evening, many moons ago, when young Brian took an unexpected spin. Some things stick with you.

So I drove nice and slow on the way home. Call me grandpa, but I’ll leave the joyride stunts to someone else.

I’ve already had my thrill ride.

Anyway, how many days ‘til summer?