I couldn’t believe she called.

I had almost finished packing the car, only an hour from driving home for summer. Freedom.

Music jammed from our dorm room. My roommates and I were cracking jokes, celebrating how we had survived freshman year.

Then the phone rang.

“Hi, Brian?”

“Yes?”

“This is your organic chemistry professor. I just wanted to call and say… you made a 90 on your final.”

“Awesome! Thanks for telling me.”

A pause.

“No, no. A 90 out of 200,” she said.

Heart drop. “Oh.”

“You’ve done well all semester, so I’m confused what happened.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Tell you what, come to my office this afternoon for an oral exam. If you do a good job, I’ll adjust your score.”

Gulp. “Okay. Thanks.”

Click.

And that fast, summer slammed to a halt.

I grabbed my notes and textbook. No more partying. No more laughs. Just last-minute cramming in an upstairs study room while everyone else hauled out their laundry baskets and mini fridges.

Two hours later, I sat across from her desk and answered hydrocarbon questions. She eventually gave a quiet nod and said she would make the grade change.

To this day, I have no idea what went wrong on that exam. Maybe I blanked. Maybe my head was already halfway to vacation. But I’m thankful an instructor cared enough to help me, even though the timing stunk.

So today, Jake and Sam walked through the door from JMU, all duffel bags and smiles. I hugged them both and said, “Welcome home. Let this sink in — the first hour of summer break!”

And deep in the recesses of my brain... I thought of organic chemistry.

The sound defined my childhood.

It came from the distance, riding the breeze like a secret only kids could hear. A hollow, high-pitched echo piercing the quiet of summer North Carolina afternoons.

Toot-tooot.

The miniature train at the city park. About a mile away, I would always hear it from my front yard.

Built in the 1950s and still chugging today, the diesel-powered choo-choo runs a small loop through woods and over a shallow creek. The highlight comes midway: a dark tunnel, where riders scream their lungs out.

Through birthday parties, lazy morning rides, and spooky Halloween nights — especially when my neighbor got hired to jump-scare passengers — that little loco holds a special place in my heart.

I’ll never forget the day my own kids climbed aboard. As their wide eyes tracked every curve, delighted squeals filled the air. For a moment, time bent backward.

I recently read about a California family who has their own backyard railway. A tenth of a mile long, containing bridges, a tunnel, a general store, and a miner’s camp with tiny boxes of dynamite.

Now I want one in my yard.

If only to blow the whistle. Toot-tooot.

I got it back in 2006.

A license that never expires — and no, it’s not a special driving permit or a 007 license to kill. But I do have the authority to create something incredible, which I've done countless times.

The credential is easy to get, though most folks never bother. There are no required exams or internships. Only a little paperwork and POOF! All official.

Some people turn the skill into a side hustle while others build a career around it. Me? I save mine for friends. And when done right, they respond with pure gratitude.

What is this mysterious qualification? It’s being able to… officiate weddings.

I performed my most recent one a few days ago. Then this week I read about another, more intense certification.

In Japan, there’s a culinary license for preparing fugu, a famous fish delicacy. But to earn it, chefs train for several years, apprenticing under a master.

Why the lengthy process? Because one mistake, and the fish kills. The toxins are 1,200 times more lethal than cyanide, and no antidote exists.

Prepared properly, though, and the result is elegant.

Much like a wedding. Except with less poison.

As a kid, it felt like visiting Disney World.

My grandparents lived in the countryside of Gibsonville, NC, where tractors rolled past open fields and the sky stretched wide. Long rows of crops created the perfect hide-and-seek playground.

And out there in the sticks is where I mastered two forgotten arts: snapping green “string” beans and shucking corn.

For the beans, a pop signaled a clean break, stripping away the stringy bits before storing in mason jars. Meanwhile, the corn husks hid golden treasures beneath layers of silk. We worked on the screened porch, swapping stories between snaps and tugs. A southern tradition.

Fast forward to today when we celebrated Mother’s Day out in the boonies at Indian Fields Tavern. This restored farmhouse, flanked by cornfields and century-old farmland, features a unique restaurant.

Next door at their brewery, we ordered food from a repurposed shipping container. Beside us stood grain silos, along with barrels and rusted farm equipment, while a musician played on a stage.

With my daughters and son-in-law by my side, we toasted the day and honored the special lady in our presence. This time, the only “snapping” came from our phones, capturing lots of photos.

Happy Mother’s Day, Jess. Country looks good on you.

10,000 steps per day, the experts say.

For most folks, that’s about four to five miles of movement. Many people use this measurement as a goal, and though not highly scientific, it's easy to remember.

Today, after hours of yard work, I checked my step count and blinked at the screen:

17,000.

By bedtime, the total reached 24,000. To be clear, not normal for me. My all-time high came from strolling around New York City — 30,000 in a single day. And yeah, I slept like a log that night.

My neighbor likes to say, “Motion is the best lotion.” So true.

All this step-talk got me curious about extreme feats. Jesse Castenda holds the Guinness World Record for walking 142 miles in 1976, totaling roughly 285,000 strides. Just typing that makes me tired.

Earlier this week, NBA commentator Paul Pierce made a bet. If the Celtics dropped Game 2 of the playoffs, he would walk to work. Barefoot and in a bathrobe.

The Celtics lost. And keeping his promise, Pierce set out on a 20-mile trek to the studio the next morning.

He livestreamed the whole thing on Instagram, engaging with fans and hecklers along the way. His journey took over eight hours. That’s a lot of mileage.

Well, I broke no records today, but I’m satisfied. And my reward? Grass clippings in my socks.

A storm barreled in early this morning.

At 3:30am, wind and rain lashed the windows before killing our power. Lights out. A/C dead. And a trembling Golden Retriever glued to my side.

Two hours later, electricity blinked back on, but the experience resurfaced a college memory.

Each week, our school held a chapel service. During my first year, they asked me to speak. I wanted to do something different: what’s called an “illustrated sermon.”

This required dressing like a biblical character to share a message from a unique point of view. To make it more authentic, I had to memorize the presentation. Tricky, but I embraced the challenge.

On that evening, students and professors packed the auditorium. I felt the pressure, with major nerves about forgetting my lines. As the band played, bad weather brewed outside.

Then, finally, the university president introduced me. One minute before I was supposed to go on, the power went out. Pitch black. Only the eerie glow of the EXIT signs remained.

Dr. Hopkins turned to me and asked, “Can you still speak?”

Normally, I would have needed notes, and light, but not this time. I stepped forward on the stage and delivered every word from memory. Somehow, I remembered it all.

Afterward, people told me the darkness amplified the talk. They said my shadowy costume made me look like some kind of ghostly prophet, an ancient figure appearing out of nowhere.

Later, we found out a nearby tornado had knocked out the power. I say that signs and wonders follow me when I speak.

But, no twister today. Just a sleepy guy and a Retriever who thinks thunder is the apocalypse.

The world belongs to the obsessed.

When committed, people go the extremes. I’ve seen it up close, watching my kids chase after pursuits they cared about:

• Sam got up for 6:30 a.m. soccer practice every day for several summers

• Kate mastered a city’s complex bus system, just to get to work and help cover college tuition

• Jake once drove hours through a snowstorm to rescue his stranded brother

• Luke packed up for Boston, chasing a summer internship in a city where he didn’t know a soul

• McKenzie, after a lifetime of homeschooling, entered public school in 10th grade

When determination takes over, humans accomplish surprising things. And while the power of focus often reveals our true character, without a moral compass the path can lead into dark territory.

Take “narco-subs,” for example.

I learned today that drug cartels are now building semi-submersibles deep in the jungle by hand. Why? To move massive quantities of cocaine.

Created for stealth, these vessels skim the waterline and slip through surveillance nets like ghosts. They're clever… and effective. Once loaded, these subs glide across the ocean to deliver their cargo.

Again, the extremes. But it shows what happens when excuses drop and action starts. Focused momentum carries power.

Compared to jungle-built cocaine submarines, emptying the dishwasher suddenly feels manageable.

This post proves I’m full of you-know-what.

So if you don’t appreciate juvenile, middle-school-level humor, just scroll on by. No judgment.

My freshman college roommate, Kedar, had a gift for comedy. This guy could easily connect with people, so we clicked right away and laughed a lot.

One of my favorite memories? His bathroom routine. I know, sounds weird… stay with me.

Kedar never snuck off quietly. When nature called, he announced it to the entire suite, especially if the occasion promised to be an extended engagement.

Then came the soundtrack, blasted on speakers, with his go-to restroom anthem: Robert Plant’s “Big Log.”

Yep.

That toilet flashback resurfaced this week when I stumbled across an article titled, “What’s Your Poop Personality?” Apparently, there are types.

Some fall into the Temporal Poopers camp. Highly predictable, clockwork-like in their timing, often responding to internal rhythms or meal cues.

Others are Locational Poopers. These folks simply cannot go unless they’re in a specific place, usually the safety and familiarity of home. This can stem from anxiety or fear of germs.

So… which one are you?

If you need a second, play “Big Log” while you think.

It happened in an unexpected way.

Several years ago, we rushed to find a new home after selling ours quicker than expected. With a list of neighborhoods in hand, we decided to rent while hunting for the perfect place.

But things didn’t go as planned. Every promising rental denied us for one specific reason:

Carolina. Our one-year-old golden retriever, full of fluff and love.

The landlords saw only a pet policy violation, and rejections rolled in. Out of options, we finally found a listing thirty minutes away in Williamsburg. And thankfully, this owner allowed pets. We loved the property and signed the lease immediately.

Seven years later, we're still here. After renting for a while, we bought the home. And we never would have chosen this neighborhood or this chapter of life without paw prints leading the way.

Carolina passed away a year later from kidney issues, but her mission was complete. Her presence set our family on a fresh path in a different city.

Funny how life pivots on something as random as a landlord policy — and a furry four-legger. That thought hit me today while reading about the process of choosing the next pope.

Cardinals lock themselves in the Sistine Chapel without electronic devices. Vowed to secrecy, they vote by handwritten ballots, and after each round, the papers are burned. Black smoke means no decision, while white smoke signals a successful election.

Transitions come in all forms.

Cardinals have their fancy conclave. But us? We just had a dog.

I wore that videotape out.

Back in the ‘80s, VCRs hit the mainstream. Renting movies turned into a weekend ritual, and popular releases became instant VHS gifts.

One movie dominated my rewinds. I’ve probably seen it 30 times, with about 28 of those times as a teenager.

What film is it?

A few hints:

• You can see a cobra’s reflection in safety glass during a close-up

• R2-D2 and C-3PO are engraved into an ancient wall carving

• A fly climbs into an actor’s mouth mid-line, but he keeps going

• An iconic scene was completely improvised due to food poisoning

Answer? Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Now, though, it’s hard to sit through. After all those viewings, nostalgia outweighs the entertainment.

This evening, Indy came to mind while reading about Marvel Studios. The success of their Iron Man and Avengers franchises fueled endless sequels and streaming shows. But along the way, fans got overwhelmed and confused.

The result? Audience fatigue. Even some diehards stopped showing up. The latest release, Thunderbolts, just hit theaters. Time will tell if it’s a comeback or another costly flop.

Turns out, too much of a good thing can sometimes be bad. Still better than swallowing a fly, though.

Until recently, I didn’t get it.

Expensive watches never appealed to me. Sure, I admire the beauty and craftsmanship. But dropping serious cash on a luxury timepiece like a Rolex? No way.

Why spend thousands on something my phone does for free? The idea seemed absurd, and no argument could’ve changed my mind.

Then my son, Luke, switched my perspective.

He explained a Rolex isn’t just a flashy accessory. It’s an investment. An heirloom to be passed down.

Luke shared a story about retired NFL star Shannon Sharpe. When someone asked why he wore such pricey wristwear, he replied, “You wear your watch to tell time. I wear mine to tell you how valuable my time is.”

Well, okay.

Earlier today, Luke, Jessica and I drove home from a wedding in Greenville, SC. We listened to a podcast all about the Rolex brand — the design, the mystique, the staying power.

Turns out, even James Bond wore one. So who knows? One day, my wrist might sport a Daytona.

I’ll just need Shannon Sharpe’s salary first.

He walked down the aisle ahead of us.

Nearly 28 years ago on our big day, we had a young ring bearer: Jessica’s first cousin, Jake.

He was about five. Sharp and handsome, he rocked a tiny black suit like a kindergartner on a Paris runway.

And he performed his role flawlessly.

Whatever happened to that little guy? Jake grew into a standout baseball player, eventually drafted by the Chicago White Sox.

Today brought a full-circle moment: I had the honor of officiating his wedding. He's come a long way, from ring bearer to ring giver. And he hit a grand slam with an amazing bride.

Congrats, Jake and Kacey.

The place to be.

Growing up, Holly Hill Mall anchored our social lives.

Aladdin’s Castle buzzed with games. The music shop promoted new albums. Big department chains lured shoppers in. But the best part? Running into friends and sipping lemonade at Chick-fil-A.

Now, the shopping center stands hollow, a skeleton of its former self. Retailers vanished and left behind only the memories.

Today, during a road trip, we stopped at a South Carolina outlet complex for lunch and a quick stretch.

Instead, we stepped into a ghost town. The stores were open but with no energy. Just a hush over the whole property.

Sure, Friday afternoon isn’t peak shopping time. But still… creepy. An endless parking lot stretched before us. Even the zombies ditched this place.

I guess Holly Hill wasn’t the only one left behind.

Total letdown.

When the kids were little, I introduced them to two of my favorite childhood movies: E.T. and The Princess Bride.

Years had passed since my last viewing, but the nostalgia held strong. I hyped them up, prepped some popcorn, and settled on the couch with high hopes.

Their review of both films? A big Meh.

Sitting beside them, even I felt the magic slipping. The charm remained, but the sparkle had dulled. Time had changed things.

Flash forward to this evening. While traveling through North Carolina, I took my dad to a restaurant he had never tried. I talked it up and promised a great experience. The place? Chipotle.

We walked in and found chaos. A long line. Trash on the floor and no forks or napkins. Disgruntled employees.

I guess some legends don’t age well. Turns out, my kids weren’t the only ones unimpressed by my picks.

Gone without a trace.

Several days ago, someone asked if we’d received a valuable package from them. A UPS-mailed gift card.

“When did you send it?” we asked.

“Back in November.”

November?

We checked with our carrier and searched through drawers. Nothing... the mystery lingers.

But a lost present hardly tops the list of delivery disasters. This week, I read about a family mailing their mother-in-law’s ashes via USPS. The container disappeared. Imagine that customer service call.

Turns out, this isn't uncommon. A 2023 postal report cited 452 undelivered remains. Geez.

Thankfully, after relentless tracking, the family reclaimed their loved one. Our gift card? No such luck.

Maybe it's gone to a higher place.