On a recent trip to my hometown in North Carolina, I walked three blocks from my dad’s driveway to revisit an old building. It’s a small, familiar place weathered with age. In that little 20x20 ft structure, my love for the arts first sparked to life.

Years ago, it was an art studio run by Mrs. Riddle. Back in elementary school, I’d pedal my ten-speed there for afternoon sessions. It was a haven where I explored cartooning and experimented with charcoals, drawing anything that came to mind.

As I stared at the structure, I wondered what had become of my teacher. A quick search revealed her obituary; she passed away fifteen years ago at the age of 98. Reading it, I uncovered something I’d never known about Mrs. Riddle: she spent many years as a forensic artist for local police, using her talent in ways that left a lasting impact.

As I gazed at the timeworn studio’s corner window — which is where my desk sat inside — memories of those childhood afternoons came flooding back. And the thought struck me. Unassuming places like this can be the launchpad for a lifetime of discovery. Discovering not just the arts, but the remarkable people who shaped you along the way.

And as I’ve learned, those discoveries often come decades later.

I walked Cali today in my childhood neighborhood. That’s when an old memory came to mind. My dad’s home sits at the bottom of a steep road, and back in the good ol’ days when it snowed, the city would close the street for sledding.

Kids appeared by the dozens pulling plastic and wooden sleds. A winter paradise for hours. We’d make barrel fires at the top to warm up before fearlessly launching ourselves down the hill over and over.

Those days are forever gone. The city doesn’t close roads anymore, probably something to do with insurance and litigation. That means the new generation of kids have no idea what they’re missing. Thank goodness my time was before all the red tape.

But not everything from those distant winters is lost. Tucked away in my attic is a vintage Sears sled, a speed machine of wood and metal, still in great shape from all those snowy rides. A relic of America in the 70s, both me and the sled.

What’s one road you dread to drive? Maybe it’s a five-lane monster leading into a city, or one of those nerve-wracking pretzel roundabouts. Mine is Highway 5, a skinny, curvy 2-lane road. I drove it today, a 26-mile country adventure of turns and trucks and tractors.

It’s part of a 3 1/2 hr drive to visit N.C. family. Sometimes I get stuck behind an 18-wheeler crawling way under the speed limit. Other times speeding cars trail so close, they’re practically in my backseat. And at night, or in bad weather, it’s white knuckle territory. Pitch black and deserted. Also, deer.

But challenges often open doors to the good stuff. Highway 5 leads me back to my childhood roots, and that drive, no matter how long and winding, is always worth it to see the people I love. Cue the Beatles song… you know the one.

They say sitting too much can kill you. Really bad for health. But I work in an office, so what should I do?

Hello, stand-up desk. Yep, just started using one. Maybe now I won’t end up in an early grave.

The results are still out, but standing is supposed to reduce back and neck strain while improving circulation. Bonus points: I’ve heard it can make me more productive AND help burn calories. Wow. Imagine if I add a walking pad? Maybe use my free hand to curl dumbbells? I could also strap on a fat jiggling belt.

The set-up might look stupid, but this is the start of a new me. Here I come summer. That’s right, people will see me lounging under a beach umbrella and think, Now there’s a guy who must use a stand-up desk.

Whenever I see a soda can pull tab, I smile. My dad started collecting them when a Boy Scout knocked on his door and asked for tab donations for a project. Dad took the challenge, and soon, overflowing jars filled his kitchen cabinet. Thousands of tabs. Only one problem… the Scout never came back.

Over time, Dad’s memory has faded with age, but his dedication has never wavered. He continues saving tabs, convinced the boy will someday return. We know otherwise — it’s been nearly a decade. But still, this has become a cherished family story. When my kids were small, they loved peering at the jars of shiny tabs whenever they visited Paw-Paw.

This week, though, disaster struck. Those little collectibles were accidentally thrown away when someone cleaned his house. After hearing what happened, we panicked. That is, until we made a surprising discovery: you can buy a thousand of them on Amazon for $9. What?! Looks like Dad will never know the difference. Crisis averted. So hey, any Scouts out there who need soda tabs?