The place to be.

Growing up, Holly Hill Mall anchored our social lives.

Aladdin’s Castle buzzed with games. The music shop promoted new albums. Big department chains lured shoppers in. But the best part? Running into friends and sipping lemonade at Chick-fil-A.

Now, the shopping center stands hollow, a skeleton of its former self. Retailers vanished and left behind only the memories.

Today, during a road trip, we stopped at a South Carolina outlet complex for lunch and a quick stretch.

Instead, we stepped into a ghost town. The stores were open but with no energy. Just a hush over the whole property.

Sure, Friday afternoon isn’t peak shopping time. But still… creepy. An endless parking lot stretched before us. Even the zombies ditched this place.

I guess Holly Hill wasn’t the only one left behind.

Total letdown.

When the kids were little, I introduced them to two of my favorite childhood movies: E.T. and The Princess Bride.

Years had passed since my last viewing, but the nostalgia held strong. I hyped them up, prepped some popcorn, and settled on the couch with high hopes.

Their review of both films? A big Meh.

Sitting beside them, even I felt the magic slipping. The charm remained, but the sparkle had dulled. Time had changed things.

Flash forward to this evening. While traveling through North Carolina, I took my dad to a restaurant he had never tried. I talked it up and promised a great experience. The place? Chipotle.

We walked in and found chaos. A long line. Trash on the floor and no forks or napkins. Disgruntled employees.

I guess some legends don’t age well. Turns out, my kids weren’t the only ones unimpressed by my picks.

Gone without a trace.

Several days ago, someone asked if we’d received a valuable package from them. A UPS-mailed gift card.

“When did you send it?” we asked.

“Back in November.”

November?

We checked with our carrier and searched through drawers. Nothing... the mystery lingers.

But a lost present hardly tops the list of delivery disasters. This week, I read about a family mailing their mother-in-law’s ashes via USPS. The container disappeared. Imagine that customer service call.

Turns out, this isn't uncommon. A 2023 postal report cited 452 undelivered remains. Geez.

Thankfully, after relentless tracking, the family reclaimed their loved one. Our gift card? No such luck.

Maybe it's gone to a higher place.

I remember where I was standing.

Some moments strike without warning. Quiet, sudden jolts knocking the wind from your chest.

More than a decade ago, I flipped through the mail in our kitchen. A quarterly magazine from my college had arrived, and the pages always listed alumni updates: weddings, new babies, career milestones.

To my surprise, a photo of a good friend — my grad school roommate for several years — stared back at me. We still connected every few months, despite living states apart.

Above his image, two words: “In Memoriam.”

Time stopped.

The article explained his unexpected death. A medical issue no one saw coming, taking him in his sleep. I hadn’t even heard about the funeral. This was before the constant drip of social media posts, when news traveled much slower.

I glared at the page, struggling to process the loss. How could this be?

Today brought a similar blow. At lunch, I got word another college friend had passed. We had worked several summers together and clicked instantly. Just last week, I’d seen Facebook photos of her smiling with her family, celebrating her granddaughter’s first birthday.

Now she's gone, too.

These moments hit hard. They remind me how life is fragile, and to be grateful for the people beside me, for the ordinary days, for the bonds that outlast geography and time.

Dave… Angie…

Always with me. Thanks for the special memories.

The nerves kicked in.

Before starting middle school, I was worried. The enormous building dwarfed my cozy elementary school. My biggest fear? Getting lost. Middle school meant racing from class to class, room to room.

Luckily, an older friend had already mastered the maze. He sketched a detailed map of the entire structure, and I memorized every corner like my life depended on it.

And my plan worked. On day one, I strutted through those hallways with confidence. Classmates looked on in awe. For that first week, I ruled the sixth graders.

But not all maps work so well.

Yesterday, we picked a new trail at a nearby park. The website advertised an “easy circular path,” roughly a mile long. Sounded perfect.

Except it wasn’t.

Steep inclines never ended, and after 1.5 miles with no loop in sight, we checked Google Maps. The promised circle became a straight line into nowhere.

So we turned around and trudged back the way we came. Another 30 minutes on tired legs. Whoever wrote those directions clearly had some issues.

Next time, I’m bringing my middle school map guy.

1977.

My neighbor, a little older, invited me to a movie at the theater. Just us, no grown-ups.

At seven years old, this was a big deal. And after begging my parents, they finally said yes. I didn’t know much about the film — something called Star Wars.

His family drove and dropped us off. And… WOW.

For a kid, it was overwhelming. I still remember being whisked away by Luke, R2, Han, the spaceships, the Stormtroopers, and especially Darth Vader.

So, last night felt full-circle.

Luke, home from Boston, mentioned that Revenge of the Sith — one of the Star Wars prequels — had returned to theaters for its 20th anniversary. Without hesitation, we grabbed tickets.

Sitting in the cinema with my grown son, watching the Jedi fight the Empire, took me back to the ‘70s when I first lost myself in popcorn and light sabers.

Turns out, the Force really does run in the family.

Uh-oh, here comes a dog.

When my daughter was little, she had an extreme fear of dogs. Even the sight of one nearby made her jump into my arms with a death squeeze.

We never understood what caused this anxiety and tried everything to help. But nothing worked.

Then her grandmother got a puppy. A dachshund with brown eyes and floppy ears.

She called her, “Winnie McKenzie Grey,” placing her granddaughter’s name right in the middle. She believed naming the phobia — and giving it a sweet face — might bring a breakthrough.

Gradually, a miracle unfolded. That small weiner pup changed McKenzie.

At first, when Winnie walked close, my daughter sat stiffly. But as time passed, the ice melted. One day she nervously reached out to rub the silky fur, and eventually… there was no more fear. Just love.

Fast forward to the present, and our family has owned a couple of dogs. McKenzie is now one of the biggest pet lovers you’ll ever meet, pouring her affection into our Golden Retriever.

I thought about that experience recently while watching the show, The Last of Us. There’s a line where a character utters, “You can’t heal something unless you’re brave enough to say it out loud.”

For McKenzie, bravery came in the form of a tender brown dog who carried her name.

Three weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to Winnie, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge after a long and loving life. She touched so many people, especially one little girl, who’s now all grown up.

And somewhere, I imagine Winnie McKenzie's tiny tail is still wagging at her handiwork.

Folks love to complain.

My hometown has a famous hot dog joint. They serve yummy food, but several years ago, some customers couldn’t get past how the dawgs were made.

The cook lined up buns on his forearm — sometimes five or more at once — and slathered on the toppings. While efficient, the technique probably broke every health code in existence.

But this was the ‘70s and ‘80s. If you ignored the risk of rogue arm hair, you got rewarded with a top-tier weenie experience.

Over time, the arm routine faded away. And the restaurant — which opened in the 1920s — still goes strong today.

The Swissport Lounge at Chicago O’Hare’s Terminal 5 also has a reputation.

What makes it so bad? Guests gripe about the windowless space and the old furniture. And they really despise the sad trombone snack spread.

The funniest review: “It’s like hanging out in the early '90s at your friend’s basement in the house his divorced dad just rented.”

However, the spot has perks. There's complimentary wine and beer — yes, an open bar — plus unlimited munchies and a quiet break from the chaos.

Yet, people still grumble.

I’m a sucker for the weird spots because they’re not so corporate. They have character and stories. And a little grit. Honestly, I hope the Swissport stays the same.

After surviving forearm hot dogs, an outdated lounge feels like a day spa.

Some places are better when they don’t try too hard.

Four months of waiting came down to last night.

About 9:30 p.m., I hopped in the car and started the hour-long trip to the airport. But halfway there, everything ground to a halt. Traffic completely stopped.

A massive construction project turned the highway into a parking lot, adding another sixty minutes.

But the frustration vanished when I finally pulled into Richmond International around 11:30.

Luke (my oldest son) stood by the curb, fresh from Boston. We hadn’t seen each other since Christmas… and absolutely nothing in the world compares to that first hug after months apart.

We arrived home at 12:30 this morning, tired but content. One of my birds was back in the nest.

There’s something sacred about reunions.

Reminds me of a sign in our vet’s office: “Heaven is a place where all the dogs you ever loved run to greet you.” I believe eternity overflows with these long-awaited embraces, reconnecting us with the people and pets we’ve missed for ages.

Maybe airport pickups offer a preview of what's to come.

I spent hours with pen and paper.

Growing up, I wanted to be a cartoonist. And my heart was set on working for Disney (spoiler: Mickey never called).

I took art classes after school and had a knack for doodling just about anything. Teachers noticed, and I became that go-to kid for decorating classroom bulletin boards. Later, I designed t-shirts for clubs and summer camps.

Drawing also earned me my college nickname: “Bif.” During move-in, I taped a sketch to my closet and signed it with my initials, BF.

My new roommate walked in, glanced at the illustration, then asked, “Bif? Who’s Bif?”

It stuck. By the end of the week, even the RA called me that. Pretty sure half the campus never learned my actual name.

Today, I read how Starbucks encourages employees to write personal messages on their cups. Some go further by scribbling smiley faces, hearts, animals, and crazy characters. The coffee chain had to rein it in with guidelines.

I say let them draw. There’s magic in unexpected artwork.

If Starbucks ever needs a Chief Doodle Officer, Bif’s available.

Doing this changed everything.

For years, I told Jessica I wanted to write a book. Soon. Eventually. Probably next week. But with young kids and the usual swirl of everyday life, I had a go-to excuse: There just isn’t time.

After hearing that on repeat, Jess finally looked at me and said, “If it really matters to you, why don’t you write early in the morning?”

I didn’t love the advice. First, because it made too much sense. Second, because it yanked my excuse away. And third, early morning?

Still, I set my wake-up call for 5:17AM — weirdly specific, I know (that’s another story). Enough time to roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and flop onto the couch with a laptop by 5:30.

Day after day, I got up. Sometimes groggy, sometimes motivated. But often staring at the blinking cursor with a blank mind. Some mornings proved productive, others were duds. But I kept showing up.

Since that first alarm, I’ve written five books and four short stories. Usually before breakfast. Now, whenever a project feels big or impossible, I go back to that habit. The “517 Rule.” There’s just something about a quiet morning and a snuggly Golden Retriever who thinks she’s my co-writer.

This week, I remembered a great thought: “Habits shape your life, not motivation.”

My habit started with a buzzing clock. And yes, I’m still ticked Jess was right.

What are the odds?

On a late summer night during college, my neighbor and I hung out in my living room. The TV played in the background as we chatted about high school buddies.

One friend came up… Mac. We hadn’t heard from him in years. In those days before social media, losing track of someone was a part of life. Without a phone number or address, people just disappeared.

As we talked, the Late Night with David Letterman show started. During the monologue, as Dave interacted with the audience, the camera panned across the crowd.

And there, clear as day, sat Mac. For a few seconds, he bantered back and forth with Letterman.

We froze, mouths open.

Only minutes after mentioning him, Mac appeared on national television. Think about the astronomical odds. Mind-bending.

Fast-forward to this week for another statistical absurdity. For my first 48 years on this planet, it never happened. But now, it’s been four times in the past seven.

Our mailbox, hit by a car again. Flattened to the ground.

There’s nothing unusual about the placement. Same spot as everyone else’s, right by the driveway. And yet, somehow, our box calls out like a beacon to bumpers.

Dave may be off the air, but our mailbox is still putting on a show.

Our great obsession.

Some of my earliest Easter memories take me back to the big park near my home.

Each year, the city scattered thousands of candies across the wooded area. Kids like me showed up clutching empty baskets, ready to scoop up as much sugar as possible.

But nothing rivaled the golden egg.

The legendary prize was hidden somewhere and stuffed with cash. This trophy dominated our imaginations. We strategized and searched, sprinting past jelly beans and plastic eggs in hopes of striking gold. But sadly, none of us ever found it.

These days, Easter looks a little different.

After church, we grabbed lunch with family, smiled for a photo with a costumed bunny, then enjoyed an evening walk. No hunts. No frantic dashes.

But there’s a truth I carry, better than any childhood thrill. A favorite quote puts it perfectly:

“If Christ is risen, nothing else matters. And if Christ is not risen, nothing else matters.”
-Jaroslav Pelikan

Back then, I chased treasure I couldn’t find. Now, I hold one I can’t lose.

They’re either loved or hated.

This time of year, I’m talking about Peeps. Yes, those neon marshmallow chicks and bunnies that dominate Easter shelves.

Growing up, they were a highlight of my holiday basket. Soft, squishy, sweet — and perfect for an 8-year-old with zero concerns about sugar intake or shelf life.

When I got older and moved away, my mom preserved the tradition by mailing me boxes of these candy grenades. All kinds. Every flavor and color.

One time, I mentioned Peeps during a talk at church, and suddenly, packages began arriving from all corners. People just kept sending them. I became an unofficial ambassador and fully embraced the honor.

Over two billion of these pastel puffs are sold each year, and they’re among the most popular non-chocolate candies in the U.S. But not everyone’s on board.

For every fan, there's someone who finds them a little terrifying. Especially when you realize they can probably survive a nuclear fallout.

I was surprised to learn how these bunny bombs are used without eating them:

• Elaborate diorama contests, recreating pop culture and historical scenes

• Classroom projects to test catapult launch distances

• Sticking toothpicks in two Peeps and watching them battle in the microwave as they puff up

• Using stale, hardened ones as doorstops

• Placing them along windows to block cold air

• Putting them in shoes as a deodorizer

These days, I don’t eat many. But when I do, it takes me back to a simpler time when you could sit on the porch with a sticky yellow chick and not question whether it doubled as home insulation.

Long live my Peeps, those beloved sugar rockets. The ultimate survivors.

There were no words.

Growing up, the city pool was the highlight of summer. A blue oasis, always packed with shrieking kids and ka-boomy cannonballs.

The diving boards towered like skyscrapers, and the waterslides were roller coasters. That special spot held years of sun-soaked memories.

The pool had been around for decades, even in my dad's school days. More than just a place to swim, it served as a rite of passage.

After college, I moved away from my hometown. Life went on, and I hadn’t seen it in many summers.

One afternoon, while visiting in town, I took my children for a stroll through the old neighborhood. My goal? Show them the famous swimming hole.

But when we got there… it was gone.

Demolished. Filled in. Covered with grass like it never existed. Just a quiet green space where people now walked their dogs.

I stood there, speechless. My son tugged on my sleeve. “Hey Dad… where’s the pool?”

I didn’t know what to say. It’s a strange feeling when an important piece of your past disappears without a trace.

Those memories resurfaced this week when I read the latest headline about Netflix.

In high school, weekends revolved around Blockbuster video stores. Grabbing a rental, running into friends, hanging out. But the company didn’t keep up as technology changed and eventually declared bankruptcy.

Netflix became the dominant player and is aiming for a $1 trillion valuation. Now, Blockbuster is a trivia question, and Netflix is chasing a fortune.

First the pool, then the video stores…

I’m scared to check on the skating rink.