Month: March 2026

Why I Choose to Stay Tattoo-Free at Over 80
Daily writing prompt
What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?
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Why I Don’t Want a Tattoo—at over 80, I’m Good Without the Ink.

At over 80 years old, I’ve seen trends come and go quickly, and I don’t want them sticking to me. Tattoos are everywhere these days, like mushrooms after rain, and it seems there’s a parlor on every corner! I heard the tattoo industry could make $4 billion by 2032. My grandkids have tattoos of dragons and quotes, and I respect the art! But when they ask, “Grandpa, why don’t you get one?” I laugh and say, “I don’t want a tattoo, never have, and at my age, I only need ink for my printer.”

Back in my day, tattoos were mostly for sailors, bikers, or those who had been in jail. I served in the Army in ’64 but didn’t get any tattoos like an anchor or “Mom” on my arm because I didn’t see the need. Now, I see younger guys showing off their tattoos and I understand—they use them to express who they are. As for me, I have more than 80 years of life stories; I don’t need tattoos to share them.

And the pain? No thanks, I’ve already got enough aches—my knees creak like an old porch swing, and my back hurts if I sit too long, like a child upset about missing dessert. Why add the pain of a needle to my troubles? I know some say it’s not that bad, but I’ve seen tough guys cringe at rib tattoos as if they saw a spider. I avoided shots as a kid and complained through every flu jab. I’d rather save my toughness for hauling firewood than for enduring a tattoo session—I’m not trying to win a medal in pain tolerance!

But the real kicker? I like me as I am. This weathered hide—scarred from a fall off my bike at 12, wrinkled from summers fishing with my boys—tells its own tale. I don’t need ink to mark where I’ve been. Laugh lines, earned from a lifetime with my Wifes, say plenty. A tattoo wouldn’t add to that—it’d just feel like graffiti on a house I’ve spent decades building.

Choosing not to get one isn’t about being stubborn or old-fashioned; it’s more like a wise old owl saying, “Nah, I’ll pass!” After over 80 years of dodging trends, I’d like to think I’ve earned the right to say, “Thanks, but I’ve got my own vintage style!”

Maybe one day I’ll really throw them off—waltz into a parlor and strut out with a full-sized grizzly bear casually perched on my shoulder, like it’s the latest fashion trend! Just kidding, I’ve grown smarter over the years—no one wants to be known as the person who tried to cuddle a bear. For now, I’m happily twiddling my thumbs with my blank canvas. It’s been my trusty sidekick this whole time. Why on earth would I mess with a good thing when it’s serving me so well?

The Power of Being Yourself: My Story
Daily writing prompt
What is one word that describes you?
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For most of my life, I have tried to be something I was not, constantly feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on me. Many times, throughout various stages of my life, I heard, “You should be like, whatever name you want to insert,” and it struck a chord of frustration deep within. In my younger years, I repeatedly heard, “You should be more like your brother.” Just because he is five years older than me, does that mean I should mold myself to resemble him? I guess I was a handful when I was young, bursting with energy and enthusiasm that didn’t quite align with the quieter demeanor expected by those around me. Going to school, I faced the same external comparisons; teachers and peers alike would say, “You should be more like Johnny,” who seemed to embody the ideal student. Even at church, I heard confessions about sinfulness, being told that I was a sinner and should strive to be more like the saints and apostles, paragons of virtue and righteousness. Well, I got the picture loud and clear: I should be somebody I am not, contorting my identity in an effort to fit in with the surrounding society. This persistent pressure to conform has woven a complex narrative of identity conflict, leaving me questioning the very essence of who I truly am amidst the cacophony of voices telling me who I should strive to become.

My teenage years were very difficult for me. For some reason, I was angry and mad all the time, often feeling like I was in a constant storm of emotions that I couldn’t control. I hated myself and my situation, feeling trapped in a world that seemed to misunderstand me at every turn. Was it because I was trying to be somebody I was not, desperately seeking approval from peers while losing sight of my true self, or was it just the hormonal change that everyone goes through during that age? The confusion was overwhelming, and every day felt like a new battle. I often wondered if there was a way out of this turmoil or if I was destined to feel this way forever. One will never know, but those memories have shaped the person I am today, reminding me of the struggles that many people face during a pivotal time in their lives.

I was drafted into the army later, and looking back now, I think this is one of the best things that happened to me in that period of my life. During the tumultuous Viet Nam era, I found myself in a unique position; my service period was served in Germany instead of Viet Nam, unlike the seven other men drafted on that day who all went to the frontlines in Viet Nam. Why I went to Germany and not Viet Nam is a mystery I will never fully comprehend. Perhaps fate had a hand in it, guiding my journey toward experiences that would shape my understanding of the world. In the service, you meet all kinds of people from many different areas of the country, each with their own stories and backgrounds, and it was in the midst of this blend of humanity that I began to realize that the human race is not that bad. Those I encountered were basically good, each one simply trying to navigate the myriad challenges in front of them, forging friendships in shared adversity, and teaching me valuable lessons about resilience, camaraderie, and the importance of empathy in a world rife with conflict.

I have spent maybe two thirds of my life trying to be somebody that I am not. You may believe this or not, but, one day I was taking a walk around the greenbelt near our home, a serene place filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle chirping of birds. There was nobody around, and I was just having some silent time to my own, immersed in the peaceful ambiance of nature. Then suddenly, in that moment of stillness, a loud voice came out and spoke. “Tom, stop trying to be somebody else, just be yourself! Your purpose in life is to be yourself!” Those words resonated deeply within me, echoing against the backdrop of my insecurities and fears. After that event, I made a conscious decision to just be myself, fully embracing my flaws and uniqueness rather than masking them behind a façade. Since that transformative day, I have found a profound sense of peace and joy within me, realizing that the journey of self-acceptance can lead to genuine happiness. I even like myself now, embracing my quirks and individuality with pride. This is one significant positive change I have made in my life, and it has opened doors to new connections and experiences that reflect my true self.

How a Compliment Changed My Perspective on Parenting
Daily writing prompt
What was the best compliment you’ve received?
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When my son was a teenager, he strutted around like he had a PhD in life, firmly believing he had all the answers—spoiler alert: he didn’t! His boundless confidence sometimes had me raising an eyebrow as he made bold choices during those delightful years of chaos. He dabbled in rebellion and curiosity, all while figuring out that adulthood came with a side of responsibility and a pinch of life’s absurd complexities. As he navigated through conflicts, emotional rollercoasters, and the glorious mess of school, I watched him slowly transform into a young man who could actually hold a conversation! I was the supportive ghost in the background, popping up to offer advice when necessary and letting him trip over his own feet—figuratively speaking! Ultimately, he emerged wiser (and slightly less convinced he could conquer the world in one day), with a much clearer view of this hilariously unpredictable world we live in.

Somewhere around twenty-five, he said to me, “Dad, I’m amazed at how much smarter and wiser you’ve become in the last ten years. I often think about the lessons you’ve taught me, from your stories of perseverance to your insights on life and relationships. Your experiences have shaped who you are and greatly influenced my perspective. I hope to carry some of that wisdom into my own life as I enter adulthood and face my challenges. I will remember your encouragement and how you handled obstacles with strength and grace. I want to share these lessons with my future children, as I believe it will help them understand the world and find their own way.”

This was the best compliment I could have ever received. It made my day, lighting up my spirits and filling me with an overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude. Every detail of that moment is etched in my memory; from the warmth of the sun on my skin to the sound of laughter that surrounded me, each element adding to the magic of that experience. I can still recall the smile on the person’s face as they delivered those kind words, a memory so vivid that it feels as though it happened just yesterday. Over the past 25 years, that compliment has remained a guiding light during challenging times, reminding me of the power of kindness and the impact one simple gesture can have on a person’s life. It is a treasured moment that I hold close to my heart, serving as a constant reminder to cherish such uplifting experiences.

Saint Patrick’s Day

Every March 17th, the world collectively decides that it’s Irish—at least for a day. Saint Patrick’s Day has a way of turning ordinary streets into rivers of green, transforming quiet mornings into lively parades filled with laughter and music, and convincing even the most introverted among us that yes, we do want to wear a shamrock hat the size of a small satellite dish. Families, friends, and neighbors gather to celebrate with spirited song and dance, while the aroma of traditional Irish dishes wafts through the air, tempting even the pickiest eaters. It’s a holiday that blends history, myth, and a good dose of cheerful chaos, inviting everyone to take part in a shared joy that transcends borders and backgrounds. Whether it’s lifting a pint of Guinness or joining in a spirited jig, the infectious energy of the day creates memories that last a lifetime, and that’s exactly why it endures as a beloved cultural phenomenon across the globe.

At its heart, Saint Patrick’s Day honors Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, who—according to legend—drove the snakes out of the country. Historians will gently remind you that Ireland never had snakes to begin with, but facts rarely stand a chance against a good story that has woven itself into the fabric of Irish culture. Patrick’s real legacy is far more grounded: he helped spread Christianity throughout Ireland, using his compelling sermons and charismatic personality to convert many to the faith. Beyond his religious contributions, he also became a symbol of resilience, faith, and cultural pride, inspiring generations to embrace their heritage. Not bad for a man who started out as a kidnapped teenager forced into shepherding, enduring hardships that would later shape his profound understanding of the human spirit and his unwavering commitment to his mission. The holiday now serves not only as a celebration of Patrick himself but also as a day for Irish people around the world to honor their traditions and come together in a display of solidarity and joy.

Over the centuries, the day evolved from a solemn religious observance into a global celebration of Irish heritage, deeply rooted in stories of culture and community. And when the Irish diaspora carried their vibrant traditions to new shores—especially the United States—Saint Patrick’s Day blossomed into the festive, parade-filled spectacle we know today, showcasing not just the color green but a tapestry of Irish music, dance, and culinary delights. In fact, the first recorded Saint Patrick’s Day parade didn’t happen in Ireland at all; it happened in New York City in 1762, when Irish soldiers marched through the streets to reconnect with their roots and honor their ancestors. As the celebration grew, it attracted people of all backgrounds, uniting them in a shared appreciation for the joy and spirit of the Irish. Today, cities from Boston to Chicago to Sydney host their own celebrations, each adding its own flair and unique local customs that make the day even more special. Chicago even dyes its river green, proving that no body of water is safe from holiday enthusiasm, while countless other cities adorn their streets with shamrocks and festive decorations, creating a sea of green that can be seen from miles away.

Of course, no discussion of Saint Patrick’s Day is complete without mentioning the color green. Green shirts, green hats, green beer—if it can be dyed, decorated, or draped in green, it will be. The tradition stems from Ireland’s lush landscape and the green stripe in the Irish flag, which symbolizes the lushness of the countryside and the connection to nature. However, it is also tied to folklore and ancient beliefs. Wearing green supposedly makes you invisible to leprechauns, mythical creatures associated with mischief and good fortune, who are said to pinch anyone they can see, especially those not wearing this vibrant hue. This explains why, on March 17th, even the most mild-mannered coworker suddenly becomes a vigilante pincher, enforcing leprechaun law with surprising enthusiasm and transforming workplaces into battlegrounds of laughter and playful antics. People engage in friendly contests to see who can wear the most outrageous outfits, festooned with shamrocks and other Irish symbols, ensuring that the spirit of revelry permeates the air as everyone comes together to celebrate heritage, unity, and the joy of community.

Food and drink also play starring roles in the celebration of Irish culture. Corned beef and cabbage, though more Irish-American than traditionally Irish, remains a beloved staple and a symbol of the festive spirit. Bakeries churn out fragrant soda bread daily, their warm loaves tempting passersby with the promise of comfort and nostalgia. Pubs overflow with revelers sharing laughter and stories, filling the air with an infectious energy that draws everyone into the celebration. Musicians strum traditional tunes, and somewhere, someone is insisting they can definitely do an Irish jig despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, adding to the merriment and occasional hilarity of the night. It’s all part of the charm that makes these gatherings unforgettable, as families and friends come together to celebrate heritage, community, and the joy of simply being alive.

But beneath the laughter, the costumes, and the questionable dance moves, Saint Patrick’s Day carries something deeper: a sense of belonging that transcends borders and backgrounds. It’s a day when people come together—Irish or not—to celebrate culture, community, and the joy of shared traditions that have been passed down through generations. Streets are filled with vibrant parades, showcasing not only spirited music and lively performances but also the rich tapestry of stories that connect us all. It’s a reminder that heritage isn’t just about where you come from; it’s about the stories you carry and the people you share them with, fostering connections that unite us in a world often characterized by division. On this festive occasion, we raise our glasses not only to the Irish spirit but to the universal ties of friendship and camaraderie that bind us, allowing everyone to feel a part of a larger family and collective history.

So whether you’re raising a glass filled with your favorite Irish stout, watching a lively parade filled with vibrant floats and joyous music, or simply enjoying the spectacular sea of green around you as friends and family gather to celebrate, Saint Patrick’s Day invites you to join the festive atmosphere of merriment and goodwill. The streets come alive with laughter and cheer, as people of all ages don their best green attire, embodying the spirit of the day. After all, on March 17th, everyone gets to feel a little lucky, sharing stories, traditions, and a profound sense of community that unites us all in the joyous celebration of culture and heritage.

The Bridge is Gone

For most of my life I had vivid active dreams, rich in detail and bursting with creativity. I loved my dreams; in many instances, they were more exciting than my waking hours, often taking me on fantastical adventures that seemed to transcend reality. When I woke up, I could remember my dreams clearly, recapping them in my mind and eager to share them with anyone who wanted to listen. These moments became cherished rituals, where I would recount my nocturnal escapades to friends and family, captivating them with the intricate plots and the colorful characters I encountered. Each dream felt like a new episode in an ongoing saga, and these were very enjoyable times for me, reliving my dreams and savoring the whimsical experiences that slipped away with the dawn.

In 2018, the eleven-millimeter kidney stone that has grown throughout my life decided that it was time to try to relocate down to my bladder, causing significant anxiety. Obviously, a stone of that size could not navigate down that small diameter tube without creating complications. After several days of discomfort, I was rushed to the hospital, where the doctors explained the procedure. They put me under anesthesia and went up through the basement with their laser to break up the stone, a process that felt surreal yet hopeful. I was relieved of the pain as the stone was efficiently shattered into grains of sand, marking a significant turning point in my medical journey. However, I experienced an unexpected side effect: I passed what resembled chocolate milk for eight long hours, which was both surprising and unsettling. Despite the ordeal, I survived with a newfound appreciation for my body’s resilience, and the enlarged kidney eventually reduced to normal size, leaving me without any long-term effects. This experience not only altered my perspective on health but also deepened my understanding of the body’s incredible ability to heal.

Unfortunately, since I was put under anesthesia, “the bridge is gone.” I have lost the ability to remember my dreams once I wake up. When I am asleep, I still dream as usual and enjoy the dreams while sleeping; they are vibrant, full of life, and often weave intricate stories that feel profoundly real. However, upon waking, it’s as if the dream world has evaporated into thin air, leaving no trace behind. I then wake up and all is gone, leaving me with a sense of emptiness and frustration. I can’t even remember what the dream was about, which feels like a cruel twist of fate. Those fleeting moments of exploration and insight have become a distant memory. I miss my dreams dearly and the ability to enjoy and recap my dreams in my conscious life, as they used to offer me profound insights into my thoughts and emotions. Now I feel like I am just a mere mortal, detached from that rich tapestry of imagination and creativity, and no longer that special gift I had for a large part of my life, which made me feel unique and connected to a deeper realm of existence. Each passing day amplifies that sense of loss, as if a vital part of my essence has been stripped away, leaving a hollow echo where dreams once lived.

Friday the 13th Tale

Rain had been drumming on the roof of the old rental house since Wednesday. By Friday morning it had settled into a steady, patient hiss, the kind that makes you feel the world has decided to stay muffled and gray for a while.

Julie pulled into the narrow driveway at 2:17 p.m., killed the engine, and sat listening to the windshield wipers tick one final time before silence took over. She was thirty-one, recently divorced, recently unemployed, and—most pressingly—recently out of places that felt safe. The realtor had described the house on Bryant Avenue as “quiet” and “full of character.” Julie had heard both of those phrases used before when people didn’t want to say “cheap” and “probably haunted.

” She carried only three things inside: a duffel bag, a cardboard box of books she refused to leave behind, and a small ceramic black cat her grandmother once swore would ward off bad luck. The irony wasn’t lost on her as she set it on the window sill facing the street.

The house smelled of damp cedar and old pennies. The floorboards groaned like they were disappointed she’d shown up. She found the thermostat (ancient, beige, suspiciously warm to the touch) and cranked it to 72°F. Nothing happened. Of course.

By dusk the rain had thickened into ropes. Julie made instant coffee in a pot she didn’t trust and sat at the kitchen table scrolling through job listings on her phone. Every few minutes the lights flickered—once, twice, three times—like someone was trying to send Morse code and kept forgetting the alphabet.

At 11:44 p.m. the power went out completely.

She laughed once, short and bitter, then lit the single emergency candle she’d brought. It was cinnamon-scented, the kind that smells like a mall at Christmas, which somehow made the darkness feel more personal.

That was when she heard it.

Not footsteps. Not exactly.

More like… weight shifting. Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the second floor.

Julie froze, candle flame trembling between her fingers. She told herself it was the house settling, or the wind, or the dozen other reasonable explanations people cling to at 11:47 on Friday the 13th.Then the sound came again. Heavier this time. Closer to the staircase.

She stood. The floorboard beneath her left foot gave the smallest, saddest creak.

Upstairs, something answered with a single, slow creak of its own.

Julie didn’t scream. She’d screamed enough in the last eight months. Instead, she picked up the ceramic black cat—suddenly much heavier than it should have been—and walked to the foot of the stairs.

The candlelight reached only three steps before the dark swallowed it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded thin, like paper held too close to flame.

Nothing answered.

But the air changed. It grew thicker, colder at the edges, the way a room feels when someone has just left it and the door is still swinging shut.

Julie took one step. Then another.

On the fifth step the candle went out.

Complete dark.

She waited, heart knocking against her ribs like it wanted out.

Then—very softly, almost politely—someone tapped twice on the wall to her right.

Tap. Tap.

Julie closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the darkness didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt crowded.

She turned and went back down the stairs faster than she meant to, nearly tripping at the bottom. The ceramic cat slipped from her hand and shattered on the hardwood—tiny black shards skittering in every direction like spilled ink.

She didn’t stop to look at them.

She grabbed her keys, her phone, her coat, and was halfway to the front door when the lights snapped back on.

Every bulb in the house blazed at once, painfully bright.

Julie stood blinking in the sudden glare.

The power had returned exactly at midnight.

She looked back toward the staircase.

Nothing moved.

The house was quiet again—too quiet, the kind of quiet that waits.

She opened the front door anyway. Rain lashed her face. The street was empty, black except for one streetlamp flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay awake.

Julie looked down.

The ceramic cat lay in pieces on the floor behind her, but the largest shard—the one that had been its face—was turned toward the door. The painted eyes stared straight at her.

She stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

She didn’t lock it.

She never went back inside to find out whether the lights stayed on, or whether the tapping started again when she was gone, or whether the house simply waited—patient, polite, disappointed—for the next person who thought “quiet” and “full of character” sounded like a good deal.

She drove until the gas station on Route 17, ordered terrible coffee, and sat in the parking lot until dawn broke gray and ordinary.

Later, people would ask why she left so suddenly.

She always gave the same answer:

“Because it was Friday,” she’d say, “and the house already knew what day it was.

” And then she’d smile the small, careful smile of someone who has learned not to argue with calendars.

Or with houses that answer in the dark.

National Popcorn Lover’s Day

National Popcorn Lover’s Day is a fun, unofficial food holiday dedicated to celebrating one of the world’s most beloved snacks: popcorn! It’s observed annually on the second Thursday in March—which means in 2026, it falls on March 12

Quick Facts

  • Founded in 2012 by Bob Matthews from Rochester, New York. He and his wife had a regular Thursday “date night” tradition centered around fresh popcorn, so he picked the second Thursday in March to make it a recurring celebration. (Some sources call it “National Popcorn Lover’s Day,” but Bob originally just named it Popcorn Lover’s Day without the “National” prefix.)
  • It’s all about honoring popcorn in every form—from classic buttery stovetop pops to gourmet flavors, movie-theater style, or even growing your own kernels.

Popcorn has a rich history going back thousands of years (oldest kernels date to around 3600 BCE in what is now New Mexico), with Native Americans and Aztecs using it for food, decoration, and ceremonies long before it became the ultimate snack. Popcorn is surprisingly versatile and can be a healthier snack when air-popped or lightly seasoned (low in calories, whole grain, and fiber-rich). Whether you’re team sweet, savory, or loaded with toppings, today (or Thursday) is the perfect excuse to indulge guilt-free.

What’s your go-to popcorn flavor?

Happy Popcorn Lover’s Day—may your bowl never run empty!

Lessons from a Life Well-Lived

Time has a way of slipping past us quietly. One day you’re young and racing through life without a second thought, and then—almost without noticing—you look up and realize you’ve lived through more seasons, more changes, and more chapters than you ever expected. And somehow, it all adds up to a life that feels full in ways you couldn’t have planned.

When I think about my years on this earth—time after time, decade after decade—I don’t see a straight line. I see a collection of moments, each one shaped by the people I met, the places I lived, and the choices I made without knowing how important they would become. Life doesn’t announce it turning points. They arrive quietly, disguised as ordinary days.

What surprises me most is how each stage of life carries its own kind of beauty. When you’re young, everything feels urgent. You want to get somewhere, be someone, make something happen. You don’t always know what that “something” is, but you chase it anyway. And that’s good. That’s how you learn who you are.

Then the middle years arrive, and life becomes a little more structured. You work, you raise a family, you build routines that keep the days moving. You don’t realize it at the time, but those routines become the backbone of your story. They’re the quiet proof that you showed up, day after day, and did what needed to be done.

And then, eventually, you reach the later chapters—the ones I’m living now. This is the season where you finally have the time to look back and appreciate the long arc of your own life. Not with regret, not with longing, but with a kind of gentle gratitude. You see how everything fit together, even the parts that didn’t make sense at the time. You understand that the small things were never small. They were the foundation.

What I’ve learned, time after time, is that life doesn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful. You don’t need fame or fortune or a headline moment to say you lived well. Sometimes the most important things are the ones that never make it into a photo album or a social media post. A conversation that stayed with you. A friendship that shaped you. A quiet morning that reminded you the world is still good.

At this age, I don’t measure life in years anymore. I measure it in the people who walked beside me, the memories that still make me smile, and the simple fact that I’m still here—still learning, still curious, still grateful for another sunrise.

Time after time, this earth has given me more than I ever expected. And the best part is knowing that every day, no matter how ordinary it seems, still has something to offer. That’s the real gift of a long life: the understanding that meaning isn’t found in the years themselves, but in the way you choose to live them.

March 10th, 1876: The Legacy of Bell’s First Phone Call

Every major invention has a moment when history shifts—sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, and sometimes with a simple sentence spoken into a strange new machine. On March 10, 1876, that moment arrived when Alexander Graham Bell leaned over his experimental device and spoke the words that would echo across generations:
“Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.”
With that single line, Bell wasn’t just calling his assistant in the next room. He was calling the future.

Bell and his assistant Thomas Watson had been working tirelessly on a device that could transmit the human voice over electrical wires. At the time, this idea sounded almost impossible. The telegraph existed, but it could only send dots and dashes. The human voice—its tone, emotion, and nuance—was something entirely different.
Their workshop was cluttered with wires, coils, magnets, and the kind of improvised equipment that only true inventors can make sense of. And then, on March 10, 1876, everything came together.
Watson heard Bell’s voice clearly through the receiver. Not a buzz. Not a garbled sound. A real sentence.
In that moment, the telephone was born.

It’s hard to overstate how revolutionary that first call was. Before the telephone, communication over distance was slow, limited, and impersonal. After the telephone, the world began shrinking families could stay connected, businesses could operate faster, and news could travel instantly.
Bell’s invention set off a chain reaction that eventually led to switchboards, long‑distance calling, rotary phones, cordless phones, cell phones, and the smartphones we carry today. Every device we use now traces its lineage back to that one sentence spoken in a small workshop.

We live in a world where communication is effortless. We text, call, video chat, and send messages across the globe in seconds. But it all started with a simple experiment and two men who believed the human voice could travel through a wire.
Bell didn’t just invent a device—he opened the door to a new era. His first call marked the beginning of modern communication, shaping how we connect, work, and live.

“Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.”
It’s a short sentence, but it carries the weight of a technological revolution. It reminds us that history often turns on small moments—moments that don’t feel monumental at the time but end up changing the world.

The Evolution of Shopping
Daily writing prompt
Where would you go on a shopping spree?
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I am over eighty years old, and surprise, surprise – I’ve never been on a shopping spree! Honestly, that fact alone tells you more about my childhood than your grandmother’s wild tales. Back in my day, shopping wasn’t a thrilling adventure or a chance to pamper oneself; it was more of a clandestine mission. Armed with a grocery list that would make a soldier proud, we sought out the essentials. We snagged what we needed, nothing extra, and we squeezed every penny like it was on a diet!

A “shopping spree,” in today’s world—meandering through shops, snatching up frivolous items, splurging on whatever catches your eye—was a foreign concept in my upbringing. My family drilled into me the art of budgeting with surgical precision. Every purchase was meticulously calculated. Clothing was stretched to its limit, and significant expenditures were not only debated but often shelved indefinitely. Even as an adult with my own paycheck, the ingrained discipline of buying only what was truly necessary clung to me like a second skin.


Over the decades, I watched the world change. Shopping malls appeared, credit cards became common, and later the internet turned buying into a few clicks. But even with all those changes, the idea of a shopping spree never became part of my life. I stayed rooted in the mindset I learned early on be practical, be thoughtful, and don’t buy more than you need.


Now, peering back through my trusty telescope from the lofty heights of eighty-plus years, it’s quite the chuckle to see how that pattern has danced through my life. We’re not talking about a dramatic saga of deprivation or the horrors of missed opportunities. Nope, it was just how I rolled—guided by some vintage values from yesteryear, where pinching pennies was practically an Olympic sport and “splurging” meant celebrating by getting the slightly fancier brand of coffee, because why not live dangerously?


In a world where shopping sprees are common, even celebrated, my experience stands out as a reminder of how differently generations approach money, possessions, and the idea of “treating yourself.” My life has been full in many ways, but it has never included the moment of walking into a store with the intention of buying whatever I wanted. And that, in its own way, tells a story about who I am and the times that shaped me.

I appreciate my identity and perspective. It is common to encounter reports concerning the nation’s national debt and the burdens individuals bear from their credit card debts. This growing indebtedness requires urgent attention and resolution. We cannot continue on this trajectory without anticipating significant changes to the future of our country.

The Pressure of Justifying My Retirement Activities
Daily writing prompt
What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
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The question I dread post-retirement is, “What do you do with yourself all day?” As if I need to provide a daily report on my extensive couch lounging and snack devouring! Seriously, after forty years of logging hours and meeting deadlines, I feel like I’ve clocked enough time to earn my honorary degree in ‘Chillin’ 101.’ Give me a break! I don’t owe anyone a detailed itinerary now; I’m entitled to bask in the glorious freedom of retirement. Sure, I might blog about my obsessions, turn my yard into a botanical paradise, or hit up a restaurant just to savor a meal leisurely—because who doesn’t love eating without a frantic countdown? Cleaning? Only if I’m in the mood, and if I get distracted, hey, that’s just a part of my new adventure! Or, I might just do absolutely nothing—reveling in the bliss of doing absolutely nothing. This time is a gift, and I plan to unwrap it however I please, without feeling the need to justify my choices to anyone, not even my plants!

I know it’s just a conversation starter, but for some absurd reason, when someone asks, “What are you doing?” I feel like I’ve been put on trial! This seemingly innocent question makes me feel like I need a PowerPoint presentation to justify my existence or prove that I’m still achieving great things, even in retirement. Hello, I’m retired! My agenda now consists of expertly napping, binge-reading mystery novels, and mastering the fine art of doing absolutely nothing. Yet, that pesky question flips a switch in my brain, and suddenly I’m sweating over how to defend my daily agenda of quality time with my couch and the occasional ice cream binge. It’s like society’s got its invisible scoreboard, and I have to keep scoring points to validate my decision to kick the daily grind to the curb. Why can’t I just “be”? Apparently, I have to present a dazzling tale of busyness and purpose, complete with charts and graphs that show my impressive hobby stats!

Lessons Learned from My Failed Marriage
Daily writing prompt
How has a failure, or apparent failure, set you up for later success?
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My failure that changed my life was my first marriage. Looking back, it was destined to fail. I was 28, recently out of the army and looking for love and a traditional American life of a wife, children and a home to grow old in together. I met a young girl ten years younger than me. I was ready to get married, and she needed a reason to stay in Denver after her beautician training. She had to return to her parents’ farm if she had no reason to stay in Denver. We started dating and that resulted into a marriage six months later. At that time, I had the conviction that any marriage could be worked out if the two involved wanted to make it work. We went to counseling and tried to make it work. However, after eleven years we decided that the marriage was unrepairable. However, that relationship produced two sons that I will always love. My ex and I still are able to talk civil and see each other and not think of violence. The lesson I learned was that there are relationships that no matter what is tried, there is no solution to save the relationship.

That was the moment of failure that changed everything. Yet, through that pain, I met someone who had faced the same heart-wrenching struggle, igniting an extraordinary connection between us. After a decade filled with profound understanding, transformative growth, and unforgettable shared experiences, we united in marriage, and for over forty blissful years, we have thrived together. This union is the dream I held close in my youth, overflowing with love, laughter, and steadfast support. I often share with anyone willing to listen, “my wife is a heavenly gift,” and I truly feel immensely blessed to have this precious second chance to create a vibrant and meaningful relationship—one that not only nourishes my soul but also radiates joy and inspiration to everyone around us. Together, we have weathered life’s storms and savored its triumphs, emerging ever stronger, and I treasure every fleeting moment we are fortunate to share.

Three Tools I Can’t Live Without
Daily writing prompt
What are three objects you couldn’t live without?
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My laptop: The Hardworking partner
My laptop is my only partner that never complains or takes breaks and doesn’t question why I’m still not dressed at noon. It has been with me through drafts and rewrites, and there are times I shout, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” even though it did nothing wrong.
It’s the only device that knows the real me:

  • The me who has 47 tabs open “for later.”
  • The me who internet searches things like “how to fix the thing I just broke.”
  • The me who swears I’ll organize my files someday. (I won’t.)
    If this laptop ever dies, I’m going with it.

My Smartphone: The Pocket-Sized Chaos Manager
My phone is essential to my life. It’s my camera, calendar, flashlight, weather app, GPS, alarm clock, entertainment system, and sometimes my therapist (“why am I like this?” searched at 1 a.m.).
I check for it every time I leave the house: Keys? Wallet? Phone?
If I forget something, I’ll manage.
But if I lose my phone, I worry it has been stolen by raccoons.

The Internet: My Invisible Roommate
The internet is a roommate who doesn’t pay rent but shapes the whole mood of the house. When it works, everything is great. When it doesn’t, I find myself unplugging and replugging devices like I’m trying to save them.
Honestly,
The internet is where I work, play, learn, procrastinate, and get lost in searches like “What happened to that actor from that show I watched in 1998?”
Without it, I’d have to depend on my own memory, which isn’t reliable.

Why I Can’t Live Without Them (And I’m Not Even Sorry)
These devices are essential to my daily life. They help me write, connect, navigate, and stay somewhat organized.
I could try to live without them, but I’d rather not. I’m not suited for the wilderness, let alone low battery mode.

The Truth
I don’t need these devices because I’m addicted.
I need them because they’re how I move through the world—how I create, communicate, and keep track of everything from birthdays to grocery lists to the name of that actor from that show in 1998.
In our fast-paced society, these tools have become essential extensions of ourselves, allowing us to navigate daily life with greater ease and efficiency.
They’re not merely gadgets; they’re co‑stars, seamlessly integrating into my routine and enhancing my ability to connect with loved ones, pursue my passions, and manage my responsibilities.
With every notification that pops up, there’s an opportunity for interaction and a reminder of the people and experiences that enrich my life, emphasizing the importance of these devices in shaping my modern existence.

I am over eighty and I may be wrong about this, but I believe these items have helped me keep my brain active and have significantly contributed to slowing down the advance of dementia. Engaging in activities that challenge my thinking, such as puzzles, reading, and even learning new skills, has proven beneficial over the years. My old philosophy is, if you don’t use it, you lose it, and I take this to heart daily. Each day presents an opportunity for mental exercise, whether it’s through social interactions, playing memory games with friends, or even simply reflecting on my life experiences. Staying mentally stimulated is not only a way to maintain my cognitive function but also a source of joy and fulfillment in my twilight years.

How Military Service Shaped My Growth Journey
Daily writing prompt
What experiences in life helped you grow the most?
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It was early 1964. I held a stable position and felt a sense of security within my daily routine. Just a year prior, I had acquired a striking red two-door car that drew the attention of others. My life was filled with excitement, aspirations, and potential. I was in search of love, contemplating a future partnership, and my modest savings afforded me a sense of financial independence. However, in February, I received a letter that altered the course of my life: “You have been selected to join the United States Army.” I had been drafted. This unexpected development compelled me to reevaluate my plans and confront an uncertain future.

In March 1964, I took the oath and boarded a train bound for Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, to undertake basic combat training. Following several rigorous months, I successfully completed my training in July and received orders for advanced individual training at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, where I would acquire critical skills for my designated role. By November, I found myself at Fort Dix, New Jersey, preparing to embark on a ship to Bremerhaven, Germany. The journey was lengthy, yet I ultimately arrived and proceeded to Nuremberg to report to the 2nd Armored Cavalry Regiment. This assignment held significant weight, as I was tasked with the crucial responsibility of patrolling the border between Germany and Czechoslovakia during a particularly precarious period in history.

In March 1966, I received orders to return to Fort Hamilton, New York, where I was formally discharged from the Army, signifying a significant transition in my life. Upon returning home to Denver, I was subsequently assigned to the 244th Engineer Battalion at the Rocky Mountain Arsenal. This assignment required me to fulfill a two-year commitment in the Army Reserve while concurrently managing my civilian responsibilities. After completing my active reserve period, I obtained my discharge; however, I was still obligated to two additional years in inactive reserve. Throughout the tumultuous Vietnam era, a pervasive sense of uncertainty loomed, as we faced the possibility of our unit being called back to active duty. Fortunately, I did not receive deployment orders, which permitted me to concentrate on my personal aspirations and future endeavors.

This experience significantly contributed to my personal growth and broadened my understanding of human diversity. The most impactful aspect was engaging with individuals from varied backgrounds. I encountered people from different regions of the country and diverse nationalities, each possessing distinct narratives and insights that deepened my comprehension of the world. This immersion in various cultures equipped me with essential skills that have been advantageous in both personal and professional contexts. I consider it the most pivotal experience of my life, as it taught me to recognize and appreciate differences while finding commonalities. I realized that, fundamentally, most individuals are inherently good, striving to navigate challenging circumstances to enhance their lives and those of their loved ones.

No February 29th This Year

A child born on February 29th arrives in the world like a secret—appearing only when the calendar makes room for them. In this story, that rarity becomes both a blessing and a quiet burden.


Evan Callahan grew up hearing the same line from strangers: “So you’re only three years old?” He learned to smile politely, but inside he carried a different truth. Leap Day wasn’t a joke to him—it was a private constellation he orbited, a date that made him feel set apart in ways he couldn’t always name.


His parents celebrated him every year, of course. On non‑leap years they chose February 28th for the cake, though his mother insisted that “your birthday is whenever we say it is,” and his father insisted that “you deserve two days, kid.” But Evan always felt the difference. February 29th had a weight, a shimmer, a gravity. The other days were stand‑ins.

Every leap year became a milestone.

  • Age 4: He learned to ride a bike on a warm, windy afternoon.
  • Age 8: He won the school science fair with a project about time—how it bends, how it’s measured, how humans try to tame it.
  • Age 12: He discovered he loved writing, especially stories about people who lived between worlds.
  • Age 16: He kissed someone for the first time, under a sky that felt too big for the moment.
  • Age 20: He left home, carrying the quiet belief that he was meant for something unusual.
    Each leap year felt like a doorway. He stepped through it older, yes, but also more aware of the strange cadence of his life.

The hardest years were the ones when February had only 28 days. Evan felt it most sharply at 17. He was in college, lonely, and the world felt too loud. His friends joked about his “missing birthday,” but he felt the absence like a skipped heartbeat. He walked the campus alone that night, wondering why a date mattered so much.
He realized it wasn’t the number. It was the ritual. The pause. The moment of being seen.

On his 24th birthday—his sixth real one—Evan decided to do something different. Instead of a party, he booked a train ticket to the coast. He wanted to watch the sunrise over the ocean on the exact day he was born, something he’d never done.
On the train he met Maeve, a photographer traveling for a project about “rare days and rare people.” She asked if she could take his portrait. He said yes, and they talked until the wheels stopped turning.
She told him something he’d never considered:
“You’re not missing birthdays. You’re collecting them. Most people get one a year. You get one every four years, but it’s worth four times as much.”
They watched the sunrise together the next morning. She captured the moment—Evan standing at the edge of the world, the light catching him like a secret finally revealed.

Evan and Maeve stayed in touch. Then they stayed in love. They built a life that didn’t follow the usual calendar. They celebrated small things with big joy and big things with quiet reverence.
On his 28th birthday—his seventh real one—Maeve handed him a small, wrapped box. Inside was the photograph from the morning they met, framed in reclaimed wood.
On the back she’d written:
“You were born on a rare day, but you live every day like it matters. That’s the real gift.”

Being born on February 29th didn’t make Evan younger or older. It made him attentive. It taught him to notice the spaces between moments, the years that feel ordinary, the days that feel like gifts.
He learned that rarity isn’t about scarcity—it’s about significance.