On my 40th birthday, I couldn’t believe what showed up in my driveway.

My friends had hinted at something but refused to spill the details. All they said was, “Be ready at 5PM, dressed for a date.”

Right on time, a sleek limo arrived. The driver swung open the doors and announced our destination: the Williamsburg Inn, a swanky spot 30 minutes away.

That night, Jess and I rode — and dined — like royalty. Our friends covered everything, making it an evening to remember.

Fast forward a few years to this weekend's birthday meal. We chose a cozy countryside restaurant, tucked inside an old house about half an hour away.

As we ate, two long-lost friends appeared at our table. We caught up and told them we were celebrating my special day. It was a sweet reunion, and they left a few minutes later.

At the end of our meal, dessert came — unordered. “From your friends,” the server said. “And… they took care of dinner, too.”

We stared at each other, stunned.

A random encounter, another act of birthday kindness.

The night would never end.

Back in my Boy Scout days, I jumped at a challenge to earn an exclusive merit badge. The mission? Get dropped alone in the woods for a solo overnight. Game on.

When the weekend arrived, a pickup truck hauled me out under the stars. My supplies: a sleeping bag, one sad slice of bread, and two hard-boiled eggs. The instructions were simple: Stay put. If you wander, we might not find you tomorrow.

Well, alrighty then.

I zipped into my bedding, tossed the eggs into the darkness (no thanks), and spent the evening wide-eyed. Not a single blink of sleep. Just the creeping shadows and watching the moon crawl across the sky. Somehow, I survived.

Fast-forward to today: my outdoor adventure was much more pleasant.

Jess and I (with our golden retriever, Cali) hiked the Bassett Trace Nature Trail. Since volunteers have labeled all the foliage, it’s like walking through a living field guide. Think bubbling brooks, wooden bridges, and dirt paths.

No merit badge earned, but a lot less stressful.

Sometimes, growth means choosing scenery over survival.

Two years ago in Aruba, we stumbled upon a restaurant we'll never forget. 

The drive took half an hour on twisty roads through empty landscapes. We started to worry. Were we lost? 

As darkness fell, our GPS led us to a gravel lot in the middle of nowhere. Just a few cars and lots of trees. But then, hidden behind lush foliage, we spotted a wooden door marked with the restaurant’s name. We opened it, and BAM!

It was like stepping into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Flower-lined path, marble sculptures, the soothing sound of water. Following the walkway, we turned a corner and came face-to-face with a smiling hostess.

She guided us to a private stretch of beach, where a table waited at the water’s edge with white linens and flickering candlelight.

One of the most enchanting meals of our lives.

Today, Jess and I ate lunch on our deck. Sunshine and a perfect breeze. Sure, it wasn’t Aruba, but it still felt magical. No elegant hostess, only a golden retriever begging for scraps. 

Still a five-star experience.

It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

And one of the most fun.

In college, my buddies and I met some guys in Athens, GA. We hit it off immediately, and soon we found ourselves invited on a mysterious adventure the following weekend. Curious, we agreed — because that’s exactly what students do.

Late that next Saturday night, we showed up at the rendezvous point, under cover of darkness. Their pickup truck sat at the bottom of a bridge, wires stretching upward like some DIY daredevil operation.

It turned out to be a homemade zip line. Surely illegal. But who thinks about rules when you’re young?

After climbing to the top, I strapped into their makeshift harness, connected myself to the cable, and, with a final breath, plunged into the blackness below.

Safety never crossed my mind. Neither did consequences.

I didn’t escape uninjured, though. Gripping the rope with gloves to slow down, I misjudged the stop. The friction seared my wrist, leaving a second-degree burn that required weeks of daily clinic visits.

Still, looking back, I’d do it again. Dumb? Absolutely. Worth every reckless second? Without a doubt.

Why did this memory surface? Because this week I read about Evel Knievel, one of my childhood heroes. This dude straddled his Harley-Davidson and jumped buses, fountains, and a shark-filled tank. Even buckled himself into a rocket to soar across a canyon.

Sure, he broke nearly every bone in his body, but the crashes only deepened his icon status.

I’m glad to say I had my own Evel moment.

Except he had a Harley. I just got rope burn.

We had to do it once a day in elementary school.

Swish.

A noun — and also, unfortunately, a verb.

Around mid-morning, the teacher gave the dreaded announcement, “It's time for Swish.” Groans would fill the classroom as little paper cups traveled down each row.

Then came the strange, greenish liquid, poured carefully into each cup. The adults called it fluoride. But to us, it was torture.

The teacher would glance at her watch and yell, “Go!”

And we had to swish Swish for 30 long seconds, then spit it back into the cup. Simple in theory. Terrible in execution.

Without fail, someone would always snort-laugh, sending a geyser of Swish erupting from their nose. On the other side of the room, another kid would accidentally swallow some and immediately gag, triggering a dramatic vomit. Every. Single. Day.

Those poor teachers deserved medals. Or therapy. Eventually, the program ended due to logistical nightmares and parent complaints.

Then there were the dye tablets. A sadistic experiment where we chewed pills that turned plaque neon red, exposing our bad brushing habits to the entire class. Public dental shaming at its finest. I'm still processing this trauma.

Recently, I read an article about toothbrushes and oral hygiene, and memories of Swish flooded back.

For instance:

• Brushing for 2 minutes is recommended, but most people only manage 45 seconds.

• Blue is the most popular toothbrush color.

• Some people actually skip brushing altogether on weekends.

So excuse me while I go scrub my teeth. At least no one’s forcing me to swish green goo on a timer anymore.

Today, I went to the grocery store for a special item.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have touched the stuff. Why would I? It held zero appeal.

But everything changed when a friend made me try it. One time turned into two, and now… well, I have a new habit.

Here are some clues:

• Invented in the 1950s and is still going strong

• Comes in many forms

• There are endless variations

• The military uses a lightweight version

• The options change with the seasons

What am I talking about?

Coffee creamer.

That’s right. I trekked to Harris Teeter to prep for tomorrow’s cup of Joe. Funny thing is, I didn’t even drink coffee until my mid-thirties. I loved the smell but thought it tasted like sadness.

Then I discovered the magic ratio: creamer + medium roast. After some experimenting, I’m now the classic cup-in-the-morning kind of guy.

To celebrate my successful store run, I poured myself a mug this afternoon — with a little French vanilla, because why not?

Bottoms up. Somewhere, my past self is sipping water and judging me.

I’ve always enjoyed podcasts, even when they were a hassle.

Back in the Stone Age, this meant manually downloading episodes from a computer (with a cord) to my iPod.

Then I’d hook that device up to a cassette adaptor thingy so it could play through my car speakers. During my commute, I listened to hundreds of sermons, interviews, and one of my favorites… a discussion about theories from the Lost tv show.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.

If that sequence means anything to you: you’re welcome, fellow nerd.

These days, I’m still tuning into new content.

Recently, a show taught me two interesting ideas:

• Songs often end on a major chord — it feels resolved, like a happy ending.

• In storytelling, protagonists have to act — no one else can steal their moment, or the plot flops.

Learning never gets old, but my cassette adapter sure did.

And, yes, I’m still wondering what Lost was actually about.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since I watched a children’s show.

And honestly, I don’t miss most of them. Some even killed a few brain cells. Ahem, Teletubbies.

But when your children ask you to sit and join them, you do it. Back then, these series dominated our TV:

• Arthur

• Caillou

• Clifford the Big Red Dog

• The Berenstain Bears

• The Wiggles

• The Doodlebops

• Dragon Tales

• The Magic School Bus

And then, LazyTown, my favorite. Also, a special shout-out to Phineas and Ferb. Two of the rare programs that didn’t make me want to stick something sharp in my eye.

But the kids have grown up and suddenly I'm left behind. The old has gone, the new has come. And lately, I’ve noticed folks raving about Bluey.

First, I listened to a podcast that mentioned it, then I read that the Bluey empire is valued at $2 billion. Wait—what?! Apparently, even parents and grandparents are hooked, willingly viewing episodes and attending live performances.

When I learned the show’s creator draws stories directly from his own family, curiosity finally got the better of me. So, this week, I took the plunge. Yep… a grown adult, alone, watching Bluey.

And I really enjoyed it. I laughed several times. Credit to the writer for perfectly capturing the joy and quirks of life with little ones.

Plus, it sure beats having “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” stuck in my head. Hey, future grandkids, I’m ready for ya.

Tonight something happened at our house that only takes place 1-2 times a year.

Jake hauled a bedroom TV outside and placed it on top of the deck table. Beside a crackling fire pit and under a starry sky, the backyard became an outdoor theater for sports and movies.

A simple pleasure.

Which reminded me of another free and fun experience back in college: blackout night.

About once a semester, late at night, three or four of us would pile into a large dorm room. The ritual began with someone switching on a loud fan to drown out any noise. Then the air conditioner temp would get cranked to an arctic setting.

After pulling the curtains shut, the edges were taped to the wall for no gaps. Next, a towel was stuffed beneath the door to keep out hallway light.

Then everyone found their own bed, burrowed under thick blankets, and vowed not to get up until we couldn’t sleep another wink.

Finally, we'd kill the lights. It was so pitch black we couldn’t see our hands inches from our faces. Laughter and conversation filled the darkness until we drifted off.

These events often turned into marathon 12-hour hibernations, stretching into the mid-afternoon. A marching band could have stormed through campus unknown to us. Our group usually emerged just in time for an early cafeteria dinner, like patients waking from a coma.

Some of the best sleeps I’ve ever had.

Ah, life's simple pleasures. Here’s to decks and dorm rooms.

Growing up, neighborhood tackle football was my sport of choice.

Mostly 2-on-2. And my buddy and I often beat the older kids on my block.

Our “stadium” was my front yard, complete with cement driveways serving as end zones. Clearly, safety wasn't our priority, proven by the concrete rash marks on our knees and elbows.

But who cared? We were young and invincible and played with reckless abandon. My crowning achievement came when a well-known youth coach “scouted” me and invited me onto his team.

In high school, during an impromptu game, I guarded a friend as he sprinted for a deep route. Our mid-air collision ended on the ground with my knee knocking out two of his teeth. To this day, they’re lost in a field somewhere.

In grad school, my roommates and I walked to a local high school at night, kicking field goals and running pass patterns. A great way to spend a summer evening.

I still enjoy heaving a football, though my tackling days are long behind me.

With Jake and Sam home this week for spring break, I've heard repeatedly, "Hey Dad, wanna throw football?” I always say yes.

Today, Jake and I threw for about half an hour. I love tossing the pigskin, but there's something special about a game of catch with my kids. There’s an ease to it, a connection, creating random yet memorable conversations as we pass the ball. Simple but magical.

And thankfully, no teeth are ever lost.

Jessica is the luckiest person I know.

This past Christmas, my company threw a holiday party. There were about 250 people there, eating a fancy dinner at a fancy lodge.

As we walked in, Jess leaned over and said, “Let’s sit near the front, so when I win the door prize, I won’t have to walk far.” Excuse me? She was only halfway kidding.

And sure enough, she won. Unreal.

That's not a fluke, either. I’ve seen it happen again and again. She’ll probably sweep our family March Madness bracket.

Tonight, we ended up at a restaurant where about 100 people gathered for bingo night. We weren’t even planning to play. But who triumphs in the first round and walks away with a nice trophy? Yep, that would be Jess.

I’m telling you, she’s lucky. All I’m good for is carrying out her loot.

My childhood vacations meant Myrtle Beach, SC.

I remember the sunburns, saltwater taffy, seafood dinners, amusement park rides, and buying a new t-shirt each year.

But there was something else I’ve never forgotten: the brochures.

Most restaurants and beach shops had racks of tourist pamphlets by their entrance. And one always caught my eye: the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum. It showcased the world’s tallest man, a shrunken head, mind-bending optical illusions, and a two-headed calf. If only I could get inside.

Each summer, I’d grab that promotion and beg my parents to take me. In fifteen years of trying, I succeeded exactly once. And it was glorious.

Today in my marketing position, I created a brochure for a Williamsburg history museum. And I thought about those Ripley’s flyers that captivated me as a kid, promising wonders beyond my imagination.

Funny how a childhood obsession turned into an actual job.

Minus any shrunken heads.

I’ve never forgotten what he said.

In 1991, I interned at a nonprofit when an elderly woman approached me. As a staff, we had helped her with some details, and she wanted to show her gratitude by offering me $20.

I knew she didn’t have much to spare, so I politely refused. She insisted, but I pressed the bill back into her hands. With an embarrassed smile, she disappeared into the crowd.

I felt proud about my decision until my mentor appeared beside me. He had seen the entire exchange. Quietly, he pulled me aside and said, “I know what you were trying to do. But remember, sometimes you have to be a good receiver, not just a good giver.”

His wisdom has stuck with me for decades.

In declining her gift, I had unintentionally taken away her chance to give, to feel the dignity of generosity.

I think about that lesson often. The right words can echo for years.

This week, another line hit me hard. Actor Jason Alexander, referencing a concept in A Raisin in the Sun, described his wife this way:

“On my worst day, she remembers me on my best day and beckons me back.”

Sometimes the most generous thing you can do is accept what others need to give.

A few months ago, I cleaned out a corner of the attic.

One box contained an assortment of knick-knacks, including a dusty journal. At first I didn’t recognize it, but when I opened the cover, the memories came rushing back. 

During a two-week trip to London with a church youth group, I had written in this little notebook. The food, the sights, the sounds… all preserved on those pages. I hadn’t seen it since 1997, and reading those entries transported me instantly to that time.

There’s something magical about reconnecting with pieces of the past, especially when they’re pulled into the light after years in the shadows.

Today, Jake organized cabinets in his childhood bedroom. He unearthed his posters, games, swimming ribbons, even old love notes. Treasures from a bygone season.

Among them, he found a license plate and a sports banner, which he liked so much that he hung them proudly on our garage wall. Items once forgotten, now given new life.

Maybe that’s part of the beauty of clearing out neglected spaces: the chance to remember why we saved certain objects.

In rediscovering them, we rediscover a bit of ourselves, too.

My first novel came to life over a decade ago.

I loved the process, but without an author community, I had to teach myself the ins and outs of craft and publishing. It was often a lonely road.

Then, I led a workshop at the local library. To my surprise, twenty strangers showed up. At the end, several suggested we meet again. So, after grabbing their emails, I asked the library if we could make it a regular thing.

Over two years have passed. We’ve met each month since, and now the group has nearly 150 on the list. Every session is a full house.

Most importantly, I finally found my writing people.

Today was our monthly gathering, and we talked about AI. Another great discussion and more connections made.

Proof that “we should meet again” can be the start of something special.