For our family, July 4th never needed fireworks.

When the kids were little, we lived in a neighborhood built for memory-making. A place where doors stayed unlocked and bikes scattered the sidewalks.

The layout helped. Streets curved into a perfect circle, with a patch of woods tucked in the middle. A walking path sliced through and connected one side to the other. At the front sat the swimming pool, the beating heart of summer.

Then, on Independence Day, a special event unfolded.

McKenzie, Luke, Jake, Kate, and Sam decked out their bicycles with streamers, flags, and pinwheels, preparing for the annual parade.

Around 150 others joined in, either on foot or something with wheels. Parents pulled wagons. Golf carts shimmered in red, white, and blue. Dogs wore star-spangled hats.

A firetruck led the way, blaring its horn, and a pickup with Uncle Sam followed behind, tossing candy to onlookers.

Following the procession down each street, everyone met at the park by the pool. After a reading of the Declaration of Independence, there was lunch and a pie-eating contest.

And then came the inevitable big splash competition. An epic showdown featuring children and adults, all graded on who got the biggest cheers.

The only thing louder than fireworks? A dad belly-flopping in front of 150 neighbors.

After almost a decade in that community, we moved away seven years ago. But those memories feel like yesterday, resurrected every July 4th.

Turns out the best part of the Fourth never lit up the sky.

Something special happened tonight on a front porch.

Not just any porch, but the one from my childhood. I spent countless hours running through the grass it faces, chasing lightning bugs and playing football. Yet I always ended up on those concrete steps with friends, consuming thousands of popsicles and drinking from the nearby water hose.

It was our stage for everyday life, where we greeted the mailman and welcomed visitors. Where we handed out Halloween candy and waved at neighbors.

Funny how a small space can hold such emotional weight, but the meaning often hides until enough years have passed.

The yard is quiet now. The paint on those stairs flakes off in strips, like time shedding skin.

But tonight, something magical returned.

While in town for a quick visit, the July 4th fireworks show took place at the city park, about a mile away. And from that familiar stoop, I could see the explosions in the sky, over the treetops.

The best part was my dad standing beside me, both of us looking at the bursts of color, sharing the same view I hadn’t seen since the early 90s, when I last lived at home.

For a few perfect minutes, time doubled back. Everything was just as it had been.

Breathtaking.

I may have to drink from the water hose next.

It began the summer I was 13, with a neighbor and a VHS player.

He had a stack of tapes and a mission to educate me on scary films. We’d stay up late watching movies that made me double-check the locks before going to bed.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Friday the 13th.
The Shining.

All the greatest hits of nightmares.

But while he turned into a superfan, I veered in the other direction. I like to feel better after a movie, not worse. And no part of me wanted a Camp Crystal Lake t-shirt.

Then this week, I heard about something new: Summerween.

A second Halloween, except in June. Folks carve jack‑o’-melons and swap ghost stories in the backyard. The parties include slasher flicks and costumes with a seasonal twist: zombies in lifeguard gear, vampires with board shorts, witches wearing sunhats.

I think I’ll pass.

It’s all fun and games until someone brings out the chainsaw.

These wise words somehow seem to stick.

When my kids were small, bedtime came with a ritual. I’d tuck them in, head for the door, then turn back with the same parting prayer:

“May God give you the wisdom to know what is right and the courage to do it even when it’s hard.”

Sometimes I’d trail off mid-sentence, letting them finish the thought.

Now they’re grown, but they still remember. And when they’re home, they often beat me to it, shortening the phrase by only saying, “Even when it’s hard.”

With everyone spread far and wide, I text Dad’s Weekly Wisdom to our family group chat. While I’m no mountaintop monk, I try to share what I learn.

But today, Jake gave me a gem he heard from his JMU professor, Dan Schill. Only four words, but man, so powerful:

“Start before you’re ready.”

I love that. Don’t wait for permission or perfect conditions.

Motion creates momentum, which brings clarity and confidence. Readiness often follows action, not the other way around. Otherwise, it’s tempting to mistake planning for progress.

I’ve always gained more from leaping than lingering. Think of the high dive. At some point, stop counting stairs and just jump.

For me, here’s the secret: courage is more important than competence, especially in the beginning.

Trust the path will unfold as you walk. Instead of waiting for a magic reveal beforehand, take the first scary step.

That initial fight against inertia is the hardest. But movement doesn’t need to be monumental. A nudge can do wonders.

Or, in Jake’s own words: “Go on 2, not 3.”

Even when it’s hard.

How does this place get so much buzz?

I remember when a new store opened near my childhood neighborhood. The sign appeared without fanfare, containing the block letters: Domino’s Pizza.

We had never heard of it before. But soon, the mystery started a movement. When the promise landed — 30 minute delivery or free pizza — families treated the restaurant like magic, ordering multiple times a week. Our sleepy town lost its mind.

Fast forward to today. A business launched in Virginia, and the grand opening went bonkers. People arrived hours before the ribbon-cutting. And parking? A clogged nightmare. One attendee described waiting 45 minutes just to get out of the lot.

A local media outlet interviewed someone who described the crowd as “worse than Costco on a Saturday morning.” That’s serious trauma.

What store could stir up this level of hysteria?

Buc-ee’s.

Yep, Virginia’s first location, at 74,000 square feet with over 120 gas pumps and a price tag of more than $60 million. Even the Governor and Lt. Governor showed up.

I truly wish Buc-ee the Beaver well. Maybe one day I’ll stop by to see what all the fuss is about. But I’m not going anywhere near that madness anytime soon.

Too bad I can’t get Beaver Nuggets delivered in 30 minutes or less.

A first time for everything.

Today we visited a local museum to escape the heat. But there was a challenge… long walks aren’t an option for Dad.

Thankfully, the gallery had a solution: free mobility scooters for those needing help. After a quick lobby demo, Dad zoomed off, weaving through exhibits like a race car driver.

I recently read about a 93yr old World War II vet. Once a devoted motorcycle rider, his friends surprised him with a scooter customized to resemble a Harley Davidson.

Unfortunately, Dad’s wheels didn’t come with chrome or flame decals.

But he still handled corners like a champ. Next stop: Daytona.

Today I gave my 89yr old dad something he hadn’t seen in ages.

Around 8:15pm, Jess and I got in the car with him for a short drive and the promise of a spectacle.

It didn’t disappoint.

After parking, we followed a trail until we found a bench with a perfect view. There, we watched the sun perform a slow descent across the James River.

A summer sunset at Jamestown Beach.

The daily finales are stunning over the water as the fireball disappears into the darkening Virginia sky. And the shore offers a wide-open sightline, near the spot where our nation began in 1607.

Where Dad lives, the horizon lines are blocked due to many trees. But this evening, he enjoyed a front-row seat, grinning like a kid, soaking in the amazing sight.

Some sunsets linger a little longer. This one will stick around for years.

This is not how I wrote the script.

Quiz: What converts a car’s mechanical energy into electrical energy?

Answer: An alternator.

This morning, our car wouldn’t start. A jump got me rolling, but AutoZone’s diagnostic brought the verdict: the alternator died.

I dropped the sedan at a repair shop and drove a different car to North Carolina to grab a second vehicle. Arrived, stepped out, and — surprise! Dead battery.

Another jump, another AutoZone. And the culprit? Yep, an alternator.

Now I hunted for a mechanic at 3:30 PM on a Friday. The first one couldn’t. The second was found by Jess, after several frantic phone calls.

Thankfully, they fixed it in a couple of hours while I waited, then I hit the road and got home by 11pm.

A day for the books:

7 hours of driving
3 mechanics
2 states
2 AutoZones
2 new alternators

Almost makes me yearn for the horse and buggy days.

Fear lied to me for years.

For a long time, I ignored a preventive medical procedure. Just the idea made me shutter.

Doctors called it routine, but I wanted nothing to do with the whole deal. Worst-case scenarios played in my mind. Some people freaked me out by describing the prep like a medieval torture chamber. I almost canceled but finally stuck to the plan.

The dreaded exam?

A colonoscopy.

And it was a breeze. Sure, a few yucky drinks and mild inconveniences, but nothing terrible. Afterward, I laughed. All the panic wasted on something about as annoying as a traffic jam.

I thought of that today when I came across this quote:

Worry is the misuse of your imagination. What if we used our imagination to think of all the good things that could happen?
— Ray Sefah

Anxiety, I’ve learned, means I’m drifting into a future which doesn’t exist. It’s my reminder to return to the present.

In the end, the tube of doom was more meh than medieval.

This takes me right back to my mid-twenties.

In the 90s, I worked at a youth camp in Virginia. Tucked deep in the boonies, the property became a sauna in July. Zero air conditioning meant surviving with box fans and prayer.

During one of those summers, I listened to a particular CD on repeat. The catchy tunes and whip-smart lyrics spoke to that season of my life.

When I hear those tracks now, I’m reminded of the gravel paths and back-of-the-knees sweat. Also, the cafeteria tater tots.

And the album that ushers these memories? Going Public by the Newsboys, released in 1994.

I thought about those songs again after recently learning the band got pulled from radio and dropped by their label, following misconduct allegations against their lead singer. Promoters and venues have canceled their tour dates.

The news stings but doesn’t stop me from listening to that nostalgic album. One track in particular — Spirit Thing — still hits home. And four lines always stick with me:

I took the pulpit
Then backed down again
Some things in heaven
Cannot be explained

I close my eyes. Somewhere deep in my mind, the cicadas hum and the box fan whirs.

In my childhood, only one thing could rival the ice cream truck.

During the summer, another vehicle rolled into our neighborhood, much quieter than the circus-music van of frozen sugar. And it offered something maybe even more satisfying. Some of the treats were sweet, while others stirred a different kind of hunger.

What was this mysterious wonder?

The bookmobile.

Oh, the memories of climbing those steps into the cooled interior and breathing in the scent of paper. The library-on-wheels handed out books like candy, feeding our imaginations during the vacation months.

I remembered that experience today when I read about the Traveler Restaurant in Connecticut.

The original owner, an avid reader, ran out of space at home. So he brought a few thousand volumes into his restaurant and told diners they could take one with them.

New owners kept the tradition, and now every guest can choose up to three free books with their meal. They give away around 100,000 a year.

Yes, the magic of reading is still alive.

And the best part… paperbacks melt a lot slower than popsicles.

This moment in my dorm room changed everything.

Graduation loomed. I had nearly finished my undergrad degree in Georgia, but I wasn’t sure what lay ahead. The future awaited like a thick fog.

Do I go back home to North Carolina? Take a leap to a big city like New York or LA? Every blurry option contained possibility.

And then one night I was alone in my room. Playing soft music from a CD, I knelt in the middle of a rug and whispered a simple prayer.

God, I don’t want to get up until I know what to do next.

Somewhere in those moments, maybe an hour later, a deep clarity settled in. And for the first time, with certainty, I knew.

But it required moving to a place I had never considered (or even visited) and doing the unexpected….

Virginia Beach, Virginia for a graduate program.

It was crazy risky. More classes. Few connections. No source of income. But somehow, I felt it in my bones.

So I went. And that one decision sparked a chain reaction of events… jobs, conversations, twists… which miraculously led me to Jess, five children, and 28 years of marriage.

Today I thought about that experience when I came across this quote:

“When we’re not sure how to decide, we should choose the bigger life.”
– Gretchen Rubin

Over the years, I’ve shared this wisdom with my kids, trying to live it myself, though imperfectly. And I’ve repeated something along these lines to them:

When you have the choice between watching a game on TV or hanging out with friends?
Hang out with friends.

Staying in an unsatisfying job or making a change?
Make the change.

When you can sit it out or dance?
Dance.

That last line is from a country song, but you get the drift.

Pick the path with more possibility, the step that stretches, the scarier road, the move that obliterates the pros-and-cons list. The one full of life.

It leads to amazing places.

2 → 1 > 2

At first glance, it defies logic. How can subtraction mean addition, or even multiplication?

Today, we listened to the story of Jesus feeding a large crowd, when one lunch expanded into thousands.

Then we witnessed another miraculous moment. Our friends, Ethan and Karylin, spoke their vows and entered into marriage.

As two became one, something greater was born. With their union, strengths combined and weaknesses found cover.

In the world’s math: 2 becoming 1 is loss.
In God’s math: 2 becoming 1 multiplies love and purpose.

Here’s to a lifetime of joy for the new Michaux family.

Divine arithmetic at its best.

I know what I was doing at 10:32pm, exactly 25 years ago today.

Some memories blur over time. This one never faded.

In that instant, something big happened. Everything changed. The emotions hit like nothing I’d known, and even now, they remain just as powerful. Maybe more so.

On June 21, 2000, we welcomed McKenzie, our firstborn, into this world. My first three words: She’s so beautiful.

This afternoon we visited with her and Will. We strolled through a museum, talked over lunch, celebrated with gifts, then smiled for photos.

Happy Birthday, Kenz!

You made me a dad. I’m still proud to be yours.

These groups of four achieved amazing things:

John, Paul, George, Ringo
Jordan, LeBron, Magic, Bird
Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, Raphael
Bert, Ernie, Big Bird, Cookie Monster

So, here’s another to add to the list:

Luke, Sam, Jake, and me

My sons and I played a round of golf today, with sunshine overhead and lots of laughter between our carts. Some shots soared, while others (mostly mine)... not so much.

But none of that mattered.

Times like this are rare now. Luke lives out of town, and Jake and Sam are away at college. Getting all of us together takes effort, which makes it even more special.

Yeah, history won’t remember our scores, but we weren’t chasing a trophy.

We were after something better.

As a kid, this strange fascination never let go.

For a while, I fell under its spell and became completely obsessed. I practiced and got pretty good. Even all these decades later, I still have a soft spot for this skill.

So, what took up so much space in my head?

Magic.

I perfected sleight-of-hand and loved visiting dusty magic shops filled with wonders. Over time, I had all the cool stuff… coin illusions, foam rabbits, black wand and hat.

I put on full shows for my family and friends and even owned a hardback bio of Harry Houdini, the legendary escape artist. On certain weekends, I watched David Copperfield TV specials at my grandparents’ house, especially his Statue of Liberty vanishing act.

But out of all the illusions I mastered, one act always stole the spotlight. And it's the easiest of them all.

The Magic Coloring Book.

The set-up is simple. When I first flip through the book, the pages are blank. A second pass reveals black-and-white outlines, then finally — voilà — full color illustrations appear before vanishing again.

Audiences go nuts about it. As a substitute teacher, I’d whip that trick out and instantly tame the wildest beasts: middle schoolers. My bargain? With good behavior, they would learn the secret at the end of class.

My bribery worked every time. Better than candy.

This week, I remembered my old routines when I read about an American magician who fled to Brazil after receiving death threats.

Why? Because he revealed the secrets behind famous illusions, like sawing someone in half and levitation. The danger came from fellow magicians, trying to protect their intellectual property.

So far, no one's come after me for exposing the Magic Coloring Book.

But I’m ready to vanish if things get dicey.

A moment that stopped us in our tracks.

Years ago, hiking deep into a rainforest in Belize, our guide promised a spectacular view if we kept going.

After a long stretch walking under thick canopy, there arose a sound. A rumbling, maybe thunder. When we finally pushed away the last cluster of branches, there it stood.

A waterfall, tall and wild and alive.

Crystal blue water poured into a natural pool, surrounded by forest, as if nothing else existed. For an hour, our group swam, took pictures, and shook our heads at the beauty. Like stepping into a movie.

This week offered a similar experience, only a short drive from home. Leaving an evening event, with the sun dipping low, something breathtaking filled the sky.

A double rainbow.

Brighter and bigger than any I’d ever seen, our car followed after it, trying to get closer. But rainbows shift based on perspective, forever out of reach.

Still, we chased the colored lights until finding the perfect spot. A quiet bridge on a back road gave us an unobstructed line of sight.

And there it towered above us, in a massive twin arch, painting the horizon and glowing over the river, enormous and perfect and majestic.

Once again, our jaws dropped in awe.

The brush of our Creator is always moving, whether we notice or not.

My favorite album of the 80s.

A big statement, since this marked the golden age of pop music legends. Michael Jackson moonwalked. Prince draped the world in purple. Madonna ruled MTV, and Springsteen gave grit in a red bandana.

But one band lived in my Walkman.

Their popular single described craving a hardcore drug — oooooh, scandalous — until I realized the illicit substance was just love.

I’m talking about Huey Lewis and the News.

Their smash LP, Sports, landed in 1983, and I played it so often the cassette tape practically fell apart.

Today, I learned three facts about that iconic cover which shows the group crammed inside a dive bar.

1) There’s a guitar made from a toilet seat hanging on the wall
2) The TV in the background displays Dwight Clark’s legendary 49ers catch
3) Huey Lewis had a hangover during the entire shoot

Takes me back to those pencil-rewinding cassette days.

I’ll never look at them the same again.

Why did I memorize 20 random objects?

This weekend, I stood in front of a room at our local library and led a memory workshop.

The goal? Teach folks how to remember a speech without fumbling with notes. Also, how to conquer the grocery store using no list. Or both. There are countless uses in between.

Before the event, I asked ChatGPT to create twenty unrelated items, as if shopping at WalMart. Then I gave myself five minutes to memorize them.

On Sunday, I stepped up with the list projected behind me and rattled off each object in order. Then backward. Then every other one.

The group leaned in.

I told them I could easily retain double or triple the amount. Give me a little more time, and I could manage over a hundred. And believe me, I’m not some brainiac.

Naturally, they wanted to know how. And turns out, there’s a method. A couple decades ago, I read about a strategy used by ancient orators. And I learned it.

I wondered if I could deliver a thirty-minute speech without relying on notes. I nervously tried, and it worked. My talks sounded more natural, so I kept refining the technique, which I’ve now used for years.

Sometimes people ask, “How do you remember an entire presentation?” The same way I did the shopping list.

It’s called the Memory Palace.

The idea is simple. You recall things by placing them inside a mental map of a familiar place: your house, your office, or your childhood school.

You walk through that space in your mind and “store” each item at a specific spot. Then, when you’re ready, take a stroll through the palace and collect the memories like you left them on a shelf.

The crazier the visual cues, the better. Your brain recalls visuals much easier than abstract information.

I walked the audience through a sample exercise. And judging by their faces, they embraced the concept.

Now if I can just remember where I put my reading glasses.

This wasn’t supposed to take so long.

At Christmas, Sam gave me a present he chose carefully, knowing my preferences. It felt heavy and solid inside the wrapping paper. Like a brick, only thicker, as if lifting a dumbbell.

And after opening, a book was revealed: The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson.

This epic fantasy novel isn't a flimsy, bargain-bin find. With 1,007 pages, it’s a whopper.

So, I dove in. A few sections here, a chapter there, usually at night before sleep took over. The plot sprawled across cities and timelines, slowly unraveling characters like a mystery bundled in armor and swordplay.

And today, on Father’s Day, I finally reached The End.

The story earned its weight, right up there with the other biggest book I’ve ever finished (besides the Bible) — Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings compilation.

Amazing what can be accomplished, one bite at a time.

Bonus: I now have biceps strong enough to lift Volume Two.