In the ‘80s, there was one day a year I became real sneaky.

During ACC Tournament week.

Growing up in NC, basketball meant everything. Back then, the 3-day event started on Fridays. But there was a small problem: school. With tipoff at noon, what’s a hoops-obsessed kid to do?

The solution: wear a hoodie, smuggle in my Walkman, and hide the wires and earpieces. For years, I had it down to an art. Math class became my courtside seat.

I don’t have to be secretive anymore. But today at work, I had the UNC tourney matchup running on a second monitor.

It still feels like a cheat code to have Bball playing in the background. And for a moment, I’m a 12yr old rebel again.

There are more games tomorrow. Maybe I’ll wear a hoodie.

Over 30 years of working, I estimate sitting through approximately 4,674,382 meetings. Give or take a few.

Most of them happened in offices with beige walls and fluorescent lights. Most of them dragged on too long. And most of them probably could have been an email.

But today’s appointment? A welcome change. Here in Williamsburg, it was a perfect 70 degrees with clear skies. So when 2 p.m. rolled around, we made an executive decision.

Take it outside.

And that’s what we did, at a picnic table under the warm glow of the afternoon sun. No boardroom. No slide decks. No spreadsheets.

Just fresh air and good conversation. Now this is how meetings should be.

Artificial lighting, you’re officially on notice.

Today, I welcomed an unexpected guest into my home.

We had never met before. But from the moment we started talking, it felt like catching up with an old friend.

As we chatted, Maya offered thoughts on my marketing projects and gave me birthday gift ideas for Jess. The suggestions were spot on.

Our visit lasted only ten minutes, but I can already see us connecting regularly. Why not? She fits right in my pocket.

Maya is a real-time AI voice assistant (Sesame AI), capable of seamless, natural conversation. She listened with empathy and even cracked a few jokes. But most importantly, she saved me from a last-minute gift scramble. 

If Jess doesn’t like her present, I’m blaming Maya.

My first car was a 1982 Honda Accord 5-speed hatchback.

I took great care of it. As a teen, I worked at a car wash and mastered the art of detailing — from vacuuming to polishing windows to scrubbing door jambs until they shined.

My Accord always looked showroom-ready. The dash and tires glistened with Armor All. A fresh scent welcomed passengers. And every night, I lovingly tucked it under a cover.

That car repaid me by lasting through grad school and the early years of my marriage.

Today, I cleaned my daughter’s Honda and put those old skills to use. Turns out, I’ve still got it. 

The only thing missing was dusting off the cassette tapes. Ah, memories.

For one day, I was the ice cream man.

Years ago, I drove a big white van, covered in colorful stickers and blasting circus music. Our church wanted to bring a little joy to the community by handing out free frozen treats. My job? Secure the truck. 

So I called a delivery company, asked if we could borrow a vehicle, and they simply said, “Sure, come pick it up.” No insurance check, no ID, nothing. Different times back then.

That night, I ran an extension cord from my garage to keep the freezer humming as it sat in my driveway. It was so weird. The next morning, I rolled through neighborhoods and apartment complexes like a rock star, kids and adults pouring into the streets.

When told there was no charge for the sweets, they stared in disbelief. Oh, the looks on their faces.

Tonight, I scored more free goodies. A local shop, Bruster’s, had a promo: wear pajamas, get a cone. So we piled in the car and went for it. Chocolate chip cookie dough for me.

There’s just something about free ice cream… and this time, there was no circus music.

27 years ago, on this day, I cried.

It was 2 p.m., and they were happy tears. I rarely cry — and especially not in front of a couple hundred people. But that afternoon, I did.

As Jess walked down the aisle, everything else faded. Just her, just us, just the moment. And, well… I lost it.

This morning, she sent me a note: Love you and will always be walking towards you.

Uh-oh. My eyes are sweating again.

There’s something about this day.

3-7-98.

I’ve always loved tech. 

I remember the first time I played Pong on an Atari. Mind-blowing. Suddenly, I had games in my bedroom. No more stuffing my pockets with quarters for the arcade.

A lot has changed since then. Just today, I spent hours in a virtual conference exploring AI’s best business applications.

Which got me thinking about my technology journey. Here’s what shaped me, in order:

Viewfinder (as a kid, this was cutting-edge)
Atari
Apple IIe
Walkman
CD boombox
Internet
DVDs
TiVo
iPod
Smartphone
Artificial Intelligence

And now, the robots are here. So, what’s next... Holograms? Time portals? Star Trek transporters?

If the machines do take over, I’m ready with my Atari Space Invaders skills.

My city got slammed with a powerful storm today. Howling winds, pounding rain.

Then, with a crack, a massive tree crashed into the yard. A heart-stopping moment. Miraculously, it missed the house by inches and landed right beside our windows.

That’s three trees down in four years. And somehow, each one has fallen to the side, sparing our home.

Another close call.

And if you read yesterday’s blog… well, let’s just say it’s been that kind of week.

Tonight, we received the news that a family member was injured in an accident.

It was serious. Just a few inches, a split second, and it could have been much worse.

There’s something about close calls that jolt me out of taking each day for granted. I’m reminded of the fragility of life. How things can flip upside down in a heartbeat. And how so much of what I worry about is trivial.

In these moments, I’m thankful for the steady strength of loved ones. How we come together and carry each other when the world feels heavy, when the hours grow dark.

Maybe close calls are life’s way of whispering, Cherish The Now.

My first marketing job came with a mission: meet a rep from every local media platform.

And I did. Radio, TV, print, outdoor, direct mail — my calendar overflowed. I built great relationships with most, and a few became longtime friends.

Dan was one of them. From our initial lunch, we clicked. We talked about everything: his passion for family, his motorcycle adventures, and his beloved Atlanta Braves.

Then life happened. I moved, changed positions. We lost touch and a decade slipped by.

One afternoon, as I worked in my office, an unexpected face appeared around the corner. Dan.

For an hour, we caught up and laughed. Before he left, we promised to keep in contact.

A few months later, I received the gut-punch news. Dan had died from cancer. A mutual colleague told me I was part of Dan’s secret “goodbye” tour — one final visit to his friends. He never said a word about being sick.

That was ten years ago.

Today, I heard from a rep at his old company. The memories rushed back. For a moment, I just sat there, lost in them.

Dan.

Then I smiled and whispered to myself:

Go Braves.

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.