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. 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, 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.

Seeing it shocked me.

Several years ago when I visited my hometown, my dad had something waiting for me that I didn’t expect.

As I pulled into his driveway, he greeted me with a grin and a surprise he’d been saving. There, gleaming in the sun like a ghost from my past… was my first car.

A silver 1982 Honda Accord 5-speed hatchback. Running — sort of.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. That little vehicle hauled me through my teens, college, grad school, and into early marriage. We had shared many life adventures together, and my friends lovingly called it “The Silver Bullet.”

After I moved away, Dad had stashed the car behind the garage, coaxing the hatchback out now and then for short errands, like a retired workhorse still trotting around the pasture.

But mostly, it sat in his backyard. Out of sight, rusting in silence.

So, two decades later, my dad casually says, “Got the Honda started. Wanna go for a spin?”

Did I ever.

I wedged the kids inside and settled at the wheel. Time stopped. Everything looked and felt just as I remembered.

With a twist of the key, the engine coughed, then roared to life.

As we cruised the neighborhood, memories flooded every gear shift. The years melted away. I was 17 again, with cassette tapes and a curfew. The rough ride and peeling paint couldn’t stop my heart from racing.

Afterward, when I finally handed the keys back to my dad, I somehow knew it was goodbye. The last ride. And sure enough, a few months later, he sold it.

But for a few minutes on a random Saturday afternoon, I had climbed into a time machine for one final magic journey. The best drive of my life.

Sometimes I don’t recognize “last times,” but other times I do, like that whirl around the block in the Accord.

We anticipate firsts. Graduations. Jobs. Babies. But we rarely notice the lasts. Some goodbyes even show up dressed as regular days, slipping by in disguise.

The last time walking the high school halls.
The last wave to a friend you’ll never see again.
The last cannonball in a neighborhood pool.
The last diaper changed for a child who’s suddenly grown.

I can’t stop the lasts, but I can savor the moments, knowing any one might be the final lap. And that makes me gentler and more grateful.

Silver Bullet, wherever you may be, here’s to you.

What’s your go-to beach read?

I’ve got mine, but more on that in a second.

Today I fell down a rabbit hole about Ian Fleming, the creator of the James Bond series. He had a gift for writing pulp fiction, a fast-paced, action-packed storytelling style. And of course, he threw in some swagger.

Fleming’s novels flew off shelves and into movie theaters, starting in the ‘50s with 007’s first literary appearance.

Pulp fiction thrives on bold characters and dramatic plots. These amped-up tales grip audiences, twist hard, and never let go.

Some book snobs scoff at the genre, claiming it lacks refinement, but these folks also sip coffee with their pinkies in the air.

My favorite modern pulp writer? Lee Child, the author behind the Jack Reacher books. I’ve read 27 of them, most while lounging in a beach chair at Oak Island.

Asked how he hooks readers, Child once answered simply: “Ask a question and make people wait for the answer.”

I dream of being back at my beloved coastline, toes in the sand, flipping pages and chasing answers one page at a time.

Maybe while having a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.

Today, my youngest turned 19.

Happy Birthday, Sam!

We have a few bday traditions that have stood the test of time. First, we count each year out loud, followed by a clap with every number. “Are you 1? Are you 2? Are you 3…?”

Somewhere around 17 or 18, it turns into more of a cardio workout than a celebration, which only becomes funnier with older ages.

Then we offer our “word” to describe the honored person. Not a speech, just an adjective, as we go around the room.

Sam’s words through the years? Funny. Adaptable. Intelligent. Calming. Confident. A solid resume for 19.

And then there’s another custom, started when Sam was 8yrs old. I record his answers to the same list of questions, such as:

Will you get married?
How many children?
Where will you live one day?
Best memory?
Favorite sports teams?
Closest friends?

There are about 25 total, and his replies have changed, like watching a Polaroid develop and slowly coming into focus.

When younger, he forever wanted to “live with Mom and Dad.” But recently, his goal is marriage with 3-4 kids. Time changes things.

I’m grateful for the day Sam arrived in 2006.

I learned something wild today.

Ukraine uses a self-propelled artillery system that shoots 100-pound shells nearly 25 miles.

For perspective, each round weighs about the same as a fully loaded washing machine, yet somehow zips across the sky and lands with laser precision.

That weapon reminded me of another force which travels fast and hits hard. Intrusive thoughts.

I’m going to fail.
No one likes me.
Something bad will happen.
I don’t deserve good things.
I’m not worth loving.

When these strike, it feels real, but they’re mass-produced spam. Urgent subject lines with zero substance.

Not every thought deserves belief, so I don’t debate the toxic ones anymore; I redirect.

Here’s my trick. When those mental missiles streak into my frontal lobe, I say three words out loud:

UP AND OUT.

Works every time. I acknowledge, stand my ground… then dismiss.

Bonus: for an extra stubborn thought, pretend it's a laundry-filled warhead. Take that, dirty socks.

I spent most of the night watching my oldest son on TV.

A major broadcast had a camera locked in on Luke for nearly three straight hours. And he dressed carefully, knowing he would sit near at least two dozen multimillionaires.

Where was he?
Fenway Park, directly behind home plate.

His clothing choice?
A Boston Red Sox jersey.

The multimillionaires?
All the pro ballplayers and wealthy season ticket-holders.

And how did Luke score those seats?
A generous friend’s boss gave the tickets.

A good way to spend a Monday evening. And bonus… the Sox beat the Mets.

The real MVP? The boss who didn’t want to go.

Nothing is better than reading it out loud.

One of my childhood books still holds magic, and I probably read it a thousand times before sharing the experience with my own kids. They loved it, too.

This Sesame Street legend remains the best-seller in the franchise, popular for over 50 years. The fanbase inspired an app, an animated show, and special editions.

The title? The Monster at the End of This Book, featuring Grover.

What makes this book timeless is the interactive style. Young readers become participants in the tale as the main character begs them to not turn the next page.

The story became a family favorite, especially for Sam. So the night before he left for college, I grabbed our worn copy from the shelf. And just for fun, I read it to him again, milking every dramatic pause and hamming up Grover’s iconic line: “You turned the page!”

The classic stories seem to grow up with you.

Even now, a new generation of bookworms is finding their own beloved yarns. This week I learned about a publisher called 831 Stories that’s creating a frenzy among romance fans.

Their formula is clever, offering short, addictive novellas starring independent women and swoon-worthy I’m-in-love finales. Each launch offers goodies like merchandise and digital extras. Their followers have become superfans who treat each upcoming title like a VIP event.

I vote Grover should headline their next romance… if he ever stops blocking the pages.

It deserves way more credit.

There’s an underrated room in most homes. Seldom do folks renovate the space, and guests rarely see it.

The garage.

A few facts:

• Burglars often break in through this area

• Tech giants like Apple, Google, and Amazon all started out there

• So did Disney and Hewlett-Packard

• Nirvana and The Ramones first shredded chords in one

• A Wisconsin father built a full replica of Disney’s Haunted Mansion in his carport

• Over half of homeowners use theirs for storage, not parking

• My dad once relocated his entire business into ours after a fire

• In elementary school, I hit my head on the cement floor, resulting in a forehead shiner

• A watermelon we placed in there somehow exploded, leaving a stench of death for weeks

And today? We spent the afternoon cleaning ours up, digging through the avalanche of college stuff from our returning students: boxes, clothes, furniture, and the mysterious smell of dorm room.

Gotta love garages, the unsung hero of homes.

Guard your melons.

I never could figure out that dang button.

During my teen years, a 150-pound beast dominated half our living room. Not a recliner or a piano. It was our television.

A Zenith “Advanced System 3,” encased in a maple wood console which doubled as furniture and fitness equipment. Moving that thing was a backbreaker.

The whole setup resembled a spaceship control pod. What made the TV truly unforgettable, though, wasn't the size, but the futuristic Space Phone feature.

Straight out of 1980s sci-fi, this little innovation claimed to make and receive calls through the telly. In theory, someone could mute Magnum P.I. and chat with the world like some armchair astronaut.

But nothing happened, no matter how many times I mashed the button.

Over and over, I tried calling through the fancy cabinet, convinced the legendary Space Phone would finally come alive. It never did.

I thought of my old boob tube today when I read about the Apple Vision Pro headset. Some buyers find the gadget underwhelming, especially for the $3,500 price tag.

Turns out, goggles with a screen aren’t the must-have fashion accessory people expected. The weight causes neck pain, and the app selection is meh. Plus, wearers feel self-conscious in public.

I guess tech problems will never end. At least my Zenith never made me look like a ski instructor.