The Impossible Mission: Trying Not to Get to Work 30 Minutes Early

 

Every workday starts with the same ridiculous routine.

5:00 AM. The alarm goes off.

Not because I'm one of those motivational speakers who says, "Success starts before sunrise!" Nope. It goes off because I have to convince my body that leaving a warm bed to go earn a paycheck is somehow a good life decision.

The first five minutes are spent negotiating.

"Maybe it's Saturday."

"Nope."

"Maybe it's a holiday."

"Nice try."

"Maybe work got canceled."

"Keep dreaming."

Eventually I drag myself out of bed, stumble to the coffee pot like a zombie that runs on caffeine instead of brains, and begin the daily race against the clock.

Here's the funny part...

No matter what I do, I still get to work a half hour early.

I've tried everything.

I've sat on the couch an extra ten minutes.

I've checked the weather three times.

I've looked in the refrigerator hoping food magically appeared overnight.

I've even stood in the driveway wondering if I remembered to lock the front door...twice.

Still early.

I swear if I intentionally left late, I'd somehow hit every green light known to mankind and still pull into the parking lot with enough time to watch the sunrise.

Meanwhile, there's always that one coworker who screeches into the parking lot sideways with one boot on, carrying breakfast, apologizing because traffic, weather, aliens, or a family of squirrels delayed them.

How?

Teach me your ways.

Being early has become a curse.

You can't just sit in your truck either. Someone always walks by.

"Oh good, you're here!"

Well...I was enjoying fifteen peaceful minutes of absolutely nothing.

Now I have to pretend I wasn't contemplating whether I should just go home and call it a vacation.

The funny thing is, after waking up at five in the morning, working all day, and getting home, I'm too tired to accomplish half the things I wanted to do around the house.

Apparently I can arrive at work thirty minutes early every day...

...but getting motivated to mow the lawn after work? That's where my superpower ends.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finally figure out how to time it perfectly.

Who am I kidding?

I'll probably beat the boss there again.

If this sounds like your morning, congratulations—you've officially joined the "Early Bird Construction Crew." We don't catch worms... we just spend an extra 30 minutes wondering why we left the house so early! 😄

Farming: The Job That Never Clocks Out

 

People always ask, "What do farmers do during the day?"

The better question is... what don't they do?

Owning a farm is like having a giant to-do list that keeps making copies of itself. Before you've finished fixing one fence, another one is leaning over having an emotional breakdown. The tractor decides today is the perfect day to need a new hydraulic hose, and somehow every animal knows exactly when you put on a clean shirt.

I've always loved the old saying, "Your corn should be knee-high by the Fourth of July." That's one of those sayings that's been passed down for generations. It's nature's way of giving you a report card. If the corn is reaching your knees by Independence Day, you're feeling pretty good. If it's ankle-high...well...you start looking at the weather forecast like it owes you an apology.

The funny thing about farming is that every season has its own personality.

Spring says, "Let's plant everything at once!"

Summer says, "Now keep everything alive."

Fall says, "Hurry up before the weather changes its mind."

Winter says, "Here's your chance to rest!" Right before a snowstorm drops a tree across your driveway and the barn roof decides it needs attention.

And don't think farmers get weekends off. Crops don't care if it's Saturday. Cows don't check the calendar before they're hungry. Chickens don't sleep in because it's a holiday. The farm wakes up every single day expecting breakfast, repairs, and someone to solve the newest mystery.

You also learn that nothing on a farm is ever truly broken until you've fixed it three different times. Farmers have mastered the art of saying, "That'll get us through today," knowing full well that "today" somehow turns into the next five years.

One thing I admire about farming is the optimism. Every spring, you put tiny seeds into the ground and trust that months of hard work, sunshine, and just enough rain will reward you with a harvest. That's a level of faith most of us could use a little more of.

So the next time you drive past a field of beautiful knee-high corn around the Fourth of July, remember there were countless early mornings, late nights, grease-covered hands, muddy boots, and probably a few colorful words aimed at stubborn equipment that made it happen.

Farming isn't just a job. It's a lifestyle where the work never really ends—but somehow, neither does the satisfaction.

And if you ever think you've finally caught up with everything on the farm...don't worry. The farm has already come up with three more jobs while you were thinking about it.

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The Long Drive to Celebrate 50... Because Apparently Texting "Happy Birthday" Isn't Enough

There comes a point in life when your younger brother turns 50, and suddenly you realize two things.

First... he's old.

Second... wait a minute... if he's 50, that math isn't looking too good for me either.

When the invitation came to celebrate his big birthday, I figured, "No problem." Then I looked at the GPS.

Three... long... hours.

Apparently, my brother couldn't have picked a birthday somewhere around the corner. Nope. He had to live just far enough away that the drive required snacks, gas, another snack, and questioning every life decision that led me to owning a vehicle.

The drive started out great. Music was cranked up, windows down, and I was making good time. About an hour in, I started wondering if I had crossed into another time zone. By hour two, I knew every pothole by its first name. By hour three, I was convinced my truck deserved a participation trophy.

Finally, I pulled into my brother's driveway.

He greeted me with, "Glad you made it!"

Glad I made it? I felt like I had just completed the Oregon Trail.

The best part was staying the weekend at his house. There's something funny about sleeping in your sibling's guest room. No matter how old you get, you're still treated like the younger kid. The only difference is now everyone compares blood pressure medicine instead of baseball cards.

The birthday party itself was a blast.

Turning 50 is a strange milestone. You're officially old enough to complain about the thermostat, make noises every time you stand up, and spend twenty minutes discussing lawn fertilizer like it's breaking news.

Every conversation sounded the same.

"My back hurts."

"My knees are shot."

"I have to get up three times a night."

"Want another piece of cake?"

Absolutely.

Calories no longer count at birthday parties. That's just science.

We laughed about growing up together, remembered the dumb things we did as kids, and somehow every story started with, "Remember when Mom told us NOT to..."

Spoiler alert...

We did it anyway.

Looking around the room, it hit me how lucky we are. Life gets busy. Work gets in the way. Everyone has their own schedules. Sometimes driving three hours feels like a chore.

But after spending the weekend laughing until your stomach hurts, eating way too much food, and making new memories, you realize the drive was the easiest part.

Besides...

If your brother is turning 50, you have to be there to remind him he's officially entered the "making sound effects every time you get out of a recliner" club.

Happy 50th, little brother.

Thanks for giving me an excuse to burn a tank of gas, wear out my backside on a three-hour drive, and spend a weekend full of laughs.

I'd do it all again...

...although next birthday, you might want to consider moving closer.

This kind of birthday only comes around once. The three-hour drive may have been long, but the laughs, stories, and time spent with family made every mile worth it. After all, birthdays fade, but weekends like that become the stories you'll laugh about for years to come.

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Two- Tracking in Northern Michigan: Where GPS Goes to Cry

 

Some people like five-star resorts.

Some people like crowded beaches.

Me? Give me a full tank of gas, a four-wheel-drive truck, and a dirt trail that starts with a sign that basically says, "You probably shouldn't."

Welcome to two-tracking in Northern Michigan.

If you've never been, you're missing one of the greatest adventures money can't really buy. A two-track isn't just a road—it's Mother Nature's version of saying, "Let's see if you packed a spare tire."

The fun starts the moment the pavement disappears. Suddenly, you're weaving through towering pines, crossing tiny streams, climbing sandy hills, and wondering if that bump you just hit was a rock...or someone's old fishing boat.

The best part? Hardly anyone else is around.

No traffic lights.

No rush hour.

No guy riding your bumper because you're only doing 55 in a 55.

Just fresh air, birds singing, and your suspension begging for mercy.

Every turn feels like you're discovering something new. One minute you're driving through a tunnel of trees, the next you're parked beside a crystal-clear lake that looks like it belongs on a postcard.

You start asking questions like:

"Should we go left?"

"Nah...let's see where the sketchy-looking trail goes."

That's the spirit.

Sometimes it leads to an amazing overlook.

Sometimes it leads to a dead end where you perform a fifteen-point turn while pretending you totally meant to stop there.

Either way, it's an adventure.

The beauty of two-tracking is reaching places that most vehicles never will. Your average sports car would take one look at these trails and immediately schedule a therapy appointment.

Meanwhile, you're bouncing along, laughing every time the coffee jumps out of the cup holder.

Of course, there are a few unofficial rules.

Rule #1: Bring snacks.

Rule #2: Bring more snacks.

Rule #3: Never tell someone, "We're almost there." Nobody knows where "there" is.

Cell service? Maybe.

Directions? Optional.

Stories? Guaranteed.

Every trip ends with someone saying, "Remember that giant mud hole?"

Or...

"I still can't believe we found that hidden lake."

Or my favorite...

"I swear that deer laughed at us."

Northern Michigan has a way of slowing life down. Out there, nobody cares what you're wearing, what kind of phone you own, or how many emails are piling up.

The only thing that matters is what's around the next bend.

And honestly...that's a pretty good way to spend a day.

So if you ever get the chance, leave the pavement behind.

Turn onto that dusty little two-track.

Roll the windows down.

Turn the radio up.

Wave at the occasional ATV.

And go make a memory that Google Maps will never understand.

Because sometimes the best destination isn't on a map...

It's wherever that little dirt trail decides to take you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I spotted another trail that says "Seasonal Road."

Those are usually the ones that end with either an incredible view...or a really funny story.

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When Did Movies Forget How to Just Be Movies?

 

I don't know if it's just me getting older, but I swear watching a new movie feels like attending a three-hour meeting where someone forgot there was supposed to be entertainment.

Remember when you'd grab popcorn, sit down, and watch a simple adventure? A hero, a villain, maybe a car chase, and a happy ending. Now I'm twenty minutes in wondering why the squirrel is giving relationship advice, the raccoon has a better vocabulary than my high school English teacher, and the bear is apparently just misunderstood.

Somewhere along the way, Hollywood decided every animal needed a voice actor.

Don't get me wrong—they're funny on the screen. But in real life? That adorable raccoon isn't looking for a hug. He's looking through your garbage while quietly considering whether your fingers are worth investigating.

The same goes for bears, moose, coyotes, geese, and about every other wild animal. They're not evil—they're just wild. Most of the time they'll give you plenty of warning before things go sideways. Growling, hissing, puffing up, stomping the ground, flattening their ears, or giving you that look that says, "You've got about five seconds to rethink your life choices."

Ignoring those warning signs and then acting surprised when things go wrong is like walking onto a construction site wearing flip-flops and wondering why everyone is yelling at you.

Then there's the mystery of modern movie plots.

Every other movie seems to need a serial killer, a world-ending disaster, twelve plot twists, and enough emotional backstories to fill a family tree. Halfway through, I can't even remember who the bad guy is because everyone has switched sides three times already.

And sometimes it feels like filmmakers are working through a checklist instead of asking one simple question: "Is this making the story better?" Great characters come in all kinds of backgrounds and relationships. When they naturally fit the story, nobody notices because they're invested in the characters. But when any element feels like it's was added just to satisfy a checklist, audiences notice—and not in a good way.

Maybe that's why so many of us still rewatch movies from twenty or thirty years ago. They weren't perfect, but they knew what they wanted to be. They entertained first and lectured later... if they lectured at all.

Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather watch a movie where the biggest surprise is the hero saving the day instead of discovering the talking beaver has been secretly running the government.

Until then, I'll keep watching the classics, respecting wild animals from a safe distance, and remembering one important life lesson:

If the goose starts hissing, that's not Disney dialogue.

That's your cue to leave.

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Working All Day and Coming Home Tired: The Over-50 Construction Worker Survival Guide

 

There was a time when I could work ten hours, come home, eat a sandwich the size of a cinder block, and then head back outside to build something just because I felt like it.

Those days have apparently packed their bags and moved somewhere far away.

Now that I've crossed the magical age of 50, things have changed. My body and I are no longer on the same page. In fact, I'm pretty sure we're not even reading the same book anymore.

As a carpenter, I spend my days lifting, climbing, bending, carrying, kneeling, and occasionally inventing new muscles I didn't know existed. The problem is those muscles like to send me angry letters later that night.

I get home with a list of things I want to do.

Mow the lawn.

Clean the garage.

Work on a project.

Organize tools.

Maybe even start that brilliant idea that's going to make me a millionaire.

Instead, I sit down in my recliner "for just a minute."

That minute somehow turns into an hour and a half.

Next thing I know, I'm waking up with the TV asking if I'm still watching.

The answer is no. No, I was not.

My feet hurt.

My back hurts.

My shoulders hurt.

Sometimes I wake up sore from sleeping. Explain that one to me.

When I was younger, pain meant I had accomplished something.

Now pain means I tied my boots too aggressively.

The motivation is still there. That's the frustrating part.

My brain says, "Let's build a shed!"

My body says, "How about we look at pictures of sheds while sitting down?"

My brain says, "Let's organize the garage!"

My body responds, "Let's organize our snacks instead."

It's not that I don't want to do things anymore. It's just that after spending all day working construction, my energy tank is running on fumes.

I've discovered a new hobby called "looking at unfinished projects."

I'm really good at it.

I can stare at a pile of lumber for thirty minutes and convince myself that planning is basically the same thing as building.

The older I get, the more I understand why dads used to sit quietly in their recliners after work. As a kid, I thought they were being lazy.

Turns out they were simply waiting for their knees to negotiate a peace treaty with the rest of their body.

But despite the aches, pains, and mysterious noises my joints make, I wouldn't trade the life I've lived. Working with your hands gives you stories, skills, and a sense of accomplishment that can't be bought.

Sure, I move a little slower.

Sure, I groan every time I stand up.

And yes, sometimes I make noises getting out of a chair that sound like a rusty screen door.

But every sore muscle reminds me I've spent another day building something real.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have about twelve projects waiting for me.

I'll probably start them tomorrow.

Or maybe the day after.

Let's not get carried away.

This one should connect well with anyone who's worked construction or physical labor and suddenly realized their body started charging interest after age 50. 😄

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Why Building Out in the Country Beats Building in the City Every Time

 

There is something magical about getting a construction job out in the country. The second you pull up, your blood pressure drops about ten points.

No fighting for parking spots.

No angry neighbors peeking through the curtains.

No one yelling, "You can't put your trailer there!"

No four-way battle between your truck, a garbage truck, a delivery van, and somebody who somehow thinks they can squeeze a tiny car through a five-foot gap.

Out in the country, life is simple.

You pull in, look around, and say, "Well, I guess I'll park anywhere I want."

Want to turn your truck around? Go ahead.

Need room for materials? No problem.

Need space to stretch out a ladder? You could probably stretch out ten of them.

Meanwhile, in the city, unloading materials feels like competing in an obstacle course while under a time limit.

"Watch the mailbox!"

"Don't hit the neighbor's flowers!"

"Move your truck, you're blocking traffic!"

"Excuse me, sir, can I get by?"

You spend half the day just trying to figure out where to stand.

The only real downside to country jobs is one thing.

You're so far away that if you forget your lunch, you're not simply running down the road.

Nope.

That forgotten sandwich is now a two-hour adventure.

You stare at your empty lunchbox and think, "Well, today's menu is disappointment with a side of regret."

At that point, you're either eating gas station food or surviving on whatever emergency snacks are hiding under the truck seat.

You know… the granola bar from 2024 that's become a permanent resident.

But even that is worth it.

Out in the country, you've got room to breathe.

You hear birds instead of sirens.

You hear tractors instead of horns.

The only traffic jam you'll encounter is waiting for three cows to cross the driveway.

Nobody is in a hurry.

Nobody is upset.

And if somebody waves at you, they usually mean it.

By the end of the day, you realize country construction might secretly be the luxury version of building.

The city has coffee shops every two blocks.

The country has peace and quiet every two miles.

I'll take the peace and quiet.

Just remind me to pack my lunch tomorrow. 🍔🚜🔨

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The Tree House: The Original "Do Not Disturb" Sign

 

Before cell phones, social media, and people announcing every moment of their lives online, there was something much better... a tree house.

Growing up, building a tree house wasn't just hammering a few crooked boards into a tree and hoping nobody got hurt. It was creating your own kingdom. It was your escape from chores, siblings, and that one parent who somehow always knew exactly when you were having too much fun.

The tree house was your headquarters.

You'd gather every scrap piece of wood you could find. It didn't matter if one board was from an old fence, another from a broken shelf, and one looked suspiciously like it disappeared from Dad's workshop. If it could hold a nail, it became part of the masterpiece.

Nobody cared about permits.

Nobody cared if the floor slanted three inches to the left.

Nobody cared if the ladder wobbled enough to qualify as an amusement park ride.

If you could climb up there without falling, it was officially open for business.

The best part wasn't even the tree house itself. It was the group you'd invite over.

You and your friends would spend hours hanging out discussing the important topics of childhood.

Who could jump the farthest.

Who had the fastest bike.

Which neighbor had the coolest dog.

And of course, making secret plans that absolutely nobody would ever remember by the next day.

Every tree house had rules too.

"No little brothers allowed."

"No girls allowed."

"No parents allowed."

Then five minutes later everyone was invited anyway because nobody could remember who made the rules.

The tree house made you feel independent.

You had your own place away from the world, even if that world was only 30 feet from the back door and Mom could still yell, "DINNER IS READY!" loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

Looking back, it's funny how a few pieces of wood nailed to a tree brought so much happiness.

No Wi-Fi.

No charging cords.

No passwords.

Just imagination and laughter.

Nowadays, if someone said they were disappearing for six hours, everyone would assume their phone battery died.

Back then, we simply climbed a tree.

Maybe that's why those memories stick around so long.

The tree house wasn't about luxury. It wasn't about being perfect. It was about having a place that was yours.

A place to laugh.

A place to dream.

A place to gather your crew and pretend you were running the world.

Even if the world only stretched as far as the backyard fence.

And honestly... if someone offered me a tree house today, I'd probably still climb up there.

Although I'd definitely need a sturdier ladder, a comfortable chair, and maybe a sign that says...

"Adults Welcome... but only if you bring snacks." 🌳😂

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Construction Workers vs. Mother Nature: Apparently We're Superheroes

 

There is a strange belief out there that construction workers are somehow superhuman.

You could have rain pouring sideways, wind trying to relocate your ladder into another county, and temperatures changing every fifteen minutes, yet someone will still say:

"You're still working today, right?"

Well... yes.

But that doesn't mean we're enjoying every second of becoming a human weather station.

People sitting comfortably inside their offices sometimes look out the window and say, "Looks a little wet out there."

A little wet?

Sir, my socks are currently negotiating a peace treaty with my boots.

Construction is one of the few jobs where weather completely controls your mood before you've even had coffee.

Sunny day?

Everybody is smiling.

Cloudy day?

Everyone starts suspiciously looking at the sky.

One tiny raindrop hits your forehead.

Twenty grown adults simultaneously become meteorologists.

"Radar says it'll pass."

"No, no. The wind shifted."

"My knee says it's gonna storm all afternoon."

Meanwhile, nobody actually knows anything.

We're just standing there hoping Mother Nature forgets where we are.

Then comes the public expectation.

People somehow believe construction workers can simply ignore weather.

Rain?

Work.

Snow?

Work.

Heat wave?

Work.

Wind advisory?

Work.

Locust invasion?

"Can you still get that done by Friday?"

Sure. Why not? We'll just wrestle Mother Nature and ask her politely to take lunch somewhere else.

The rain itself creates an entirely new set of rules.

Wood gets slippery.

Tools disappear because someone set them down for two seconds.

Tape measures suddenly stop retracting properly.

And somehow every surface becomes a mud puddle.

You can walk ten feet and gain seven pounds of mud on each boot.

By lunchtime, everybody weighs an extra twenty pounds.

Then there's the heat.

Everyone says:

"At least you're getting a tan."

No.

We're getting cooked.

There's a difference.

You start the day looking normal and finish looking like a lobster carrying a drill.

Then winter arrives and everyone asks:

"How do you work in the cold?"

Simple.

We don't feel our fingers anymore.

Problem solved.

Construction workers become masters of adaptation.

You learn to wear twelve layers of clothing while somehow still needing to reach a pencil.

You learn that one pair of gloves is never enough.

You learn that coffee is no longer a beverage.

It's a survival tool.

And perhaps the greatest skill of all?

You become incredibly talented at pretending everything is fine.

Rain running down your face.

Boots soaked.

Hat blown off.

Hands freezing.

You simply shrug and say:

"Could be worse."

Could it?

Probably.

But let's not challenge the universe.

At the end of the day, construction workers aren't superheroes.

We're just ordinary people who happen to build things while being constantly bullied by weather.

We adapt.

We complain.

We laugh about it.

Then we show up the next day and do it all over again.

But if you see a construction worker standing in the rain with a coffee in one hand and a tape measure in the other, don't assume they're superhuman.

Just know they're silently wondering whose brilliant idea it was to build houses on a planet with weather. ☔🔨😂

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Should I Get Another Dog? The Great Fur-Filled Debate

 

Every once in a while, I start thinking... should I get another dog?

Then my brain immediately reminds me of my old husky.

Huskies are beautiful dogs. They're smart, energetic, loyal, and have enough hair to knit an entire winter wardrobe for a small village.

I swear I could vacuum the house and five minutes later it looked like someone exploded a giant fur pillow in every room.

And let's talk about their energy.

You don't own a husky. A husky owns you.

You aren't taking the husky for a walk. The husky has decided you're going for a run whether you wanted to or not.

A husky wakes up every morning with one mission:

"How can I make this human exercise against his will today?"

At this point in my life, I don't know if I have the patience to train another one.

I don't need a dog that can jump fences, escape the yard, and look back at me with a smile that says, "Catch me if you can."

So what kind of dog should I get?

I know a few things.

I don't want a tiny dog that's going to bark at every leaf that falls from a tree.

I don't want a giant dog that thinks it's a horse and takes up the entire back seat.

I want a medium-sized buddy I can take everywhere.

One that says, "Hey, let's go for a ride."

Not one that says, "Let's run 18 miles through the woods before breakfast."

After doing some serious imaginary research while sitting comfortably in my chair, here are my top choices.

1. Pomsky

It's basically a husky that hit the shrink button.

You still get some of the husky looks without needing to prepare for an Olympic training program every day.

Plus, they are small enough to take just about anywhere.

2. Mini Goldendoodle

Friendly.

Smart.

Easygoing.

Everybody likes them.

They're the type of dog that acts like they've known every stranger for twenty years.

3. Cavalier King Charles Spaniel

Great companion dog.

Happy to ride in the truck, sit next to you, and simply enjoy life.

They don't demand a cross-country expedition every afternoon.

4. Cocker Spaniel

Good size.

Friendly personality.

Enjoys being around people without acting like a furry tornado.

5. Mini Australian Shepherd

This one is on thin ice.

They're beautiful and smart, but they still have a lot of energy.

Better than a husky for me, but I'd have to be ready to keep them busy.

Honestly, I think I've reached that age where I appreciate a dog that matches my personality.

I don't need chaos anymore.

I don't need a dog that can outsmart me.

I don't need a dog that can run faster than my truck.

I just want a best friend.

One that's happy to jump in the passenger seat, go to the hardware store, watch me work around the house, and maybe supervise while I pretend I know exactly what I'm doing.

Because let's be honest...

Every dog eventually becomes the supervisor anyway.

And no matter what breed I choose, I already know one thing for certain.

Within a week, I'll be talking to the dog like it's another person.

"Come on, buddy."

"Want to go for a ride?"

"Don't tell your mother I gave you an extra treat."

The dog won't answer.

But somehow, I'll still think we had a complete conversation.

Maybe that's why dogs are so great.

They're the only friends that never interrupt your stories, never judge your mistakes, and somehow make every day a little better.

Now the only problem left is this...

Who's going to stop me from bringing home another husky because they have those blue eyes and know exactly how to trick people?

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Father's Day... So is it Just a Normal Day?

 

Father's Day rolls around every year, and I always find myself asking a funny question.

I'm not a father.

My dad passed away a long time ago.

So... does that make Father's Day just another normal day?

Technically, maybe.

But life has a funny way of making you realize that some days aren't about checking a box on a calendar.

When I was younger, Father's Day meant trying to figure out what to buy. Was it a coffee mug? A tie he'd never wear? Another flashlight he definitely didn't need because he already had twenty-seven of them hidden somewhere in the garage?

Dads had a special talent for collecting things that nobody else understood.

One screwdriver for every possible situation.

A coffee can full of random screws.

Three extension cords tied into a knot that looked impossible to undo.

And somehow, they knew exactly where everything was.

"Hand me that thing over there."

"What thing?"

"You know... the thing."

And somehow, after thirty seconds of looking, they'd find it immediately.

Magic.

Now, with my father gone and me not being a dad myself, Father's Day can feel a little strange.

The stores are full of giant signs reminding everyone to buy steaks, grills, and socks.

And there I am thinking, "Well, I guess I can buy myself a burger."

At first, it feels like a regular Sunday.

But then memories start showing up uninvited.

The lessons.

The stories.

The little sayings.

The things you didn't appreciate when you were younger but somehow repeat as an adult without even realizing it.

One day you wake up and catch yourself saying, "Don't leave the lights on; we're not paying to light up the neighborhood."

Then you stop and laugh.

Because suddenly, your dad is right there in that moment.

Maybe Father's Day isn't only for fathers.

Maybe it's a day to appreciate the people who helped build who we are.

A day to remember the hard workers.

The fixers.

The protectors.

The teachers.

The men who probably never wanted a big celebration anyway.

Most dads would probably say, "Don't spend money on me."

Then they'd secretly smile if you did.

So is Father's Day just a normal day for me?

Not really.

It's a quieter day now.

A day that reminds me that even though someone may be gone, pieces of them still stick around.

Sometimes in your habits.

Sometimes in your work ethic.

Sometimes in the goofy things you say.

And sometimes when you suddenly become extremely interested in organizing a bucket full of old screws.

Funny how that works.

So if you're celebrating with your dad today, enjoy it.

If you're a father, enjoy it.

And if you're like me and neither applies anymore, maybe it's simply a day to smile at the memories and appreciate the people who helped shape your life.

Besides, if our dads could see us now, they'd probably say the same thing they always did.

"Quit overthinking it."

Then they'd laugh and ask where their missing screwdriver went.

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