For years, my family reunion happened every December, overflowing with aunts, uncles, cousins, and an endless spread of Southern food. Deviled eggs, anyone?

But tonight offered a different annual get-together: the Duke-UNC basketball game. The contest is a slice of home for me. I grew up about 30 minutes from both campuses, and the rivalry runs deep.

I’ve always bled Carolina blue, and whenever I watch, I’m reminded of old friends and the years of bets and trash talk at school.

This evening wasn’t great for the Heels. A blowout loss. During player introductions in Durham, the Cameron Crazies have a tradition of chanting at opposing starters: “Hi ____, you suck!” Sadly, given the outcome of the game, they weren’t all that wrong. But that’s okay. We’ll get another shot soon.

Reunions always come back around.

Back in my Boy Scout days, we had a camping trip where no one was allowed to talk. The entire weekend — silent. Imagine telling a troop of 13yr old boys to zip it.

Each person carried a stick, and if you were caught speaking, anyone could ask for it and cut a notch with their knife. Notches meant no merit badge. And no merit badge meant you just wasted your parent’s money. Not a pleasant way to return home.

I struggled, but somehow kept my mouth shut. And it actually taught me something valuable: if we all thought before we spoke, the world would be a much better place.

I’ve remembered that lesson over the years. Take today, for instance. Someone got on my nerves, but I bit my tongue.

But honestly… even when I hold back, that doesn’t always mean my thoughts are as pure as the freshly fallen snow. If you push me too far, I (probably) won’t say the words, but this is what I’ll be thinking:

I hope every time you wear a new pair of socks, you step in something wet.

May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

May all your babies be born bald.

There, that feels better. I think I just earned myself a merit badge.

As a kid, I had a hollow book on my shelf. From the outside, it looked like any other novel, but inside was a hidden compartment where I stashed my treasures: cool bottle caps, dog-eared baseball cards, a few quarters.

I like to think I have a similar place in my mind. A quiet nook behind a cover titled, On The Other Side. In that deep, secret area, I store the questions too big for answers in this life, the mysteries I can only hope to understand once I step into the great by and by.

Yesterday, I added some new contents. It involves the tragic crash last night of a commercial jet and a military helicopter in D.C. No one survived.

And then there’s this: Jess has a first cousin whose wife is an American Airlines attendant. She was scheduled to work that flight but called out sick before her shift.

Ok, my frontal lobe just melted. How is that explained?

Of all days, of all flights, she felt too ill to go. And her life was spared. Was it chance? A thread in some unseen matrix? And why does the pattern always seem to weave tragedy for some and a narrow escape for others?

Sigh.

On the other side.

Every morning starts the same. Shower. Walk downstairs. Work out. It’s usually still dark outside, and about 99.9% of the time, I do not feel like exercising.

But I have a trick. I tell myself: Brian, once you’re done, you’ll enjoy the newspaper and a hot cup of coffee.

Start the Rocky music. Knowing my “reward” keeps me moving. Eye of the tiger.

And here’s what I’ve realized — one of the most underrated secrets to a happy-go-lucky heart: Always have something to look forward to.

It’s about savoring the present by anticipating the future. What gets me through a cold January? Counting down the days until our family beach trip, where I slather on sunscreen and throw a frisbee with the kids and walk on the pier and stare at the ocean and shine a flashlight at night searching for crabs in the sand.

The same trick works in daily micro ways. A long drive becomes a break when I have a podcast or audiobook queued up. Cleaning the garage or tackling yard work feels less like a chore when there’s a little treat at the end. Maybe a McDonald’s sweet tea. Or a Starbucks latte. Hey, I earned it.

The power is always in my hands to plan a fun future. That way, even dreaded tasks lose their bite when something good waits on the other side.

Might be time for some more push-ups.

Financial planning frustrates me. Why? Because math and I don’t always get along. Honestly, I’d rather walk barefoot on Lego’s than study a spreadsheet. But it’s kind of like organizing a closet or scrubbing dishes or going to the dentist. Once I do it, I feel much better.

Thankfully, I married a woman who’s a whiz with numbers. This human calculator can slice and dice with the best of ‘em. Funny how opposites attract. And I’ve learned that in great partnerships, 1+1 somehow equals 3.

Take that, math.

Haircuts can be stressful because I’ve had my share of bad ones. For a long time, I bounced between several franchise spots, with wildly inconsistent results. Just when I’d find someone good, they’d vanish, and the search would start all over again.

A couple of years ago, my son recommended a private shop owned by a stylist. I had nothing to lose, and it turned out to be a smart decision. The haircuts are always fantastic. But there's one thing this place does that keeps me coming back, something none of those chains ever thought to do.

At the end, she applies hot shaving cream to my neck, followed by a straight razor shave. Then she wraps a warm towel around my head for a scalp and shoulder massage. Ahhh, any tension melts away. I tell people about it all the time. Plus, it’s included with each cut.

Sometimes what sets you apart doesn’t have to be a grand gesture; it can be the little, thoughtful extras that no one else offers. Shaving cream, a razor, hot towel.

Small things matter.

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?

This morning, I drove to work with everything blanketed in cotton-white snow. The scene looked magical. But by the time I headed home, it had melted into a dirty slush. Amazing how quickly things can change. A reminder to embrace every moment. Snow, slush, sun, rain. When only the perfect days are treasured, life loses so much of its color.

We officially live in the age of the Jetson’s. For those of a certain age, you get the reference. Fun fact: some die-hard fans, after much research, believe that George Jetson was born in 2022. Which makes him three.

But need more evidence that flying cars are near? Tonight I went to a Mexican restaurant and got served my meal by a robot. No joke. A little bot with wheels, blasting mariachi music, cruised to my table carrying our hot plates. Turning to leave, it chirped, “Bye!” then rolled off again.

Uh… whoa. The Jetson era, indeed.

Sometimes, maybe even often, it’s good to have a change of scenery. Jess wanted to work in a different space today, so I temporarily moved her home office to the living room — a sunlit area with big windows, a fireplace, and TV.

But there were challenges. Her two monitors needed makeshift tables, and we used a clipboard as an extender for her keyboard. Space for the mouse? No problem. I found a basket, flipped it upside down, then topped it with a glossy magazine for a smooth surface.

Bingo. New scenery, new vibe.

What’s the best way to stay encouraged as a writer? While books and podcasts are nice, the #1 way is being a part of a writing community. Sounds cliche, but it’s true.

When I first started writing novels, I had zero writing friends. Zilch. I knew that had to change. So almost two years ago, on a cold February afternoon, I launched a monthly writing group sponsored by the Williamsburg library.

Around 120 are on the rolls, and about 35 show up each month. But the best part? I’ve now got lots of writing friends. A whole roomful. When you need encouragement, you shouldn’t wait for it. Just make it.