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’s 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, my son and 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.

It had to be the worst present ever.

This week, many schools hold their commencement ceremonies, including a few for friends. It got me thinking about my high school graduation.

I received lots of thoughtful gifts. Cards. Checks. Books.

And then came that one item. I opened the box, paused, and shook my head.

Fingernail clippers. A whole case of them. Enter the sad trombone: wah wah wahhhhh.

Not exactly a dream present. I mean, who gives a cuticle trimmer to an 18-year-old guy? Nobody else, before or since.

Sure, the thought was incredibly kind, and they even engraved my name on the front. But I had no plans to ever touch those nail tools.

With a shrug, I buried them deep inside my bathroom cabinet. Out of sight, out of mind. Forgot all about them. Until one day, I started using them.

Years flew by. College. Grad school. Marriage. Kids. Career. Through every chapter, that manicure gear stayed sharp and reliable.

For three decades, they never failed me. Every trim brought back memories of those friends — and their gift kept on giving.

Eventually, the case crumbled apart, and the trimmers lost their edge. I had a moment of silence before placing them gently in the trash… the greatest, most useful, longest-lasting gift of my life.

Class of 2025, take note: sometimes the things we overlook turn out to be the best.

Practical almost always beats flashy. So, forget the balloons — give a grad some clippers.

I couldn’t believe she called.

I had almost finished packing the car, only an hour from driving home for summer. Freedom.

Music jammed from our dorm room. My roommates and I were cracking jokes, celebrating how we had survived freshman year.

Then the phone rang.

“Hi, Brian?”

“Yes?”

“This is your organic chemistry professor. I just wanted to call and say… you made a 90 on your final.”

“Awesome! Thanks for telling me.”

A pause.

“No, no. A 90 out of 200,” she said.

Heart drop. “Oh.”

“You’ve done well all semester, so I’m confused what happened.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Tell you what, come to my office this afternoon for an oral exam. If you do a good job, I’ll adjust your score.”

Gulp. “Okay. Thanks.”

Click.

And that fast, summer slammed to a halt.

I grabbed my notes and textbook. No more partying. No more laughs. Just last-minute cramming in an upstairs study room while everyone else hauled out their laundry baskets and mini fridges.

Two hours later, I sat across from her desk and answered hydrocarbon questions. She eventually gave a quiet nod and said she would make the grade change.

To this day, I have no idea what went wrong on that exam. Maybe I blanked. Maybe my head was already halfway to vacation. But I’m thankful an instructor cared enough to help me, even though the timing stunk.

So today, Jake and Sam walked through the door from JMU, all duffel bags and smiles. I hugged them both and said, “Welcome home. Let this sink in — the first hour of summer break!”

And deep in the recesses of my brain... I thought of organic chemistry.

The sound defined my childhood.

It came from the distance, riding the breeze like a secret only kids could hear. A hollow, high-pitched echo piercing the quiet of summer North Carolina afternoons.

Toot-tooot.

The miniature train at the city park. About a mile away, I would always hear it from my front yard.

Built in the 1950s and still chugging today, the diesel-powered choo-choo runs a small loop through woods and over a shallow creek. The highlight comes midway: a dark tunnel, where riders scream their lungs out.

Through birthday parties, lazy morning rides, and spooky Halloween nights — especially when my neighbor got hired to jump-scare passengers — that little loco holds a special place in my heart.

I’ll never forget the day my own kids climbed aboard. As their wide eyes tracked every curve, delighted squeals filled the air. For a moment, time bent backward.

I recently read about a California family who has their own backyard railway. A tenth of a mile long, containing bridges, a tunnel, a general store, and a miner’s camp with tiny boxes of dynamite.

Now I want one in my yard.

If only to blow the whistle. Toot-tooot.