Life

Grills, Grandkids, and the Smoke Detector Saga

The Great Grill Misstep

Last night started innocently enough: we grilled up a feast of brats, hamburgers, and some andouille sausage. As usual, after taking the meat off the grill, I cranked up the heat to incinerate any lurking germs. It’s my personal version of a germ exorcism. Normally, I remember to turn the grill off afterward. Normally.

Fast-forward 18 hours. I’m feeding my granddaughter a bottle, gazing out the back window like a serene caretaker, when my brain suddenly asks, “What are those heat ripples coming off the grill?”

Cue the realization.

I stepped onto the porch, and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I never turned the grill off. The gas knobs were still wide open, and when I lifted the lid, I was greeted by a mountain of white ash. My grand plan to “clean it later” was quickly followed by a mental debate: Do I tell my wife about this? Spoiler alert: keeping secrets isn’t my strong suit.

Smoke Alarms: The Plot Thickens

Barely an hour later, with my granddaughter swaddled and happily snoozing in her crib (a rare victory in our new “Grandpa’s 30-hour-a-week daycare” schedule), I finally sat down at my computer. That’s when it happened. The smoke detectors went off.

At first, I thought, Oh no, not this again. A few months ago, we had a smoke detector malfunction, and the screeching symphony was unforgettable. Hoping for a quick resolution, I checked the baby—still sound asleep—and sat back down.

Then the alarms screamed again.

The baby stirred, letting out a pre-nap protest, while my heart sank. Time to play Smoke Detector Roulette. Armed with a ladder, I started disconnecting units. Which one of the seven is the ringleader? Who’s the boss of this noise parade?

Two attempts later, I finally silenced the screaming. Relief washed over me. Then paranoia set in: What if this wasn’t a malfunction? I rushed to check on my granddaughter. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. She woke up soon after, demanding bottle number two, blissfully unaware of Grandpa’s mini heart attack.

The Reconnection Gamble

Once the baby was settled, it was time to reconnect the smoke detectors. Hooking them back up wasn’t the hard part—my fear was that one rogue detector would throw a tantrum in the middle of the night. And let’s be honest, my “middle-of-the-night hugs” are more like aggressive shoves.

Theories and Lessons

So, what triggered all this chaos? My best guess is that the unvented grill might’ve released something the detectors didn’t like. Or maybe it was dust. Or humidity. Or, let’s face it, the universe just wanted to spice up my day.

Whatever the cause, I’d like to file a formal request with the smoke detector gods: next time, can you schedule your shenanigans around the baby’s nap?

In the end, I learned two things: always double-check the grill, and never underestimate a smoke detector’s ability to keep life exciting—even if it’s at the worst possible moment.

Please Pass the Andy: A Branson Brew-tale

We were still figuring out the breakfast routine at our Branson hotel—you know, the kind of operation where half the guests are still wearing pajama pants at 9:30 a.m. and the other half are fighting over the last pre-wrapped blueberry muffin.

While my wife held the line like a buffet champion, I took on the critical task of table scouting and coffee procurement. Mission: caffeine.

At the coffee station, I patiently waited for the staff member who was restocking styrofoam cups—a noble cause. Once the cups were unlocked from their plastic prison, I did what any caffeine-conscious adult does: filled two cups halfway. One half with regular. The other half with decaf. Because I like my heart to beat with enthusiasm, not sprint toward cardiac arrest.

Trying to be helpful, the staffer tucked herself out of the way… directly in front of the decaf. Classic move. When she noticed, she smiled and said,
“You know how iced tea and lemonade is called an Arnold Palmer? We need a name for half-caf, half-decaf coffee.”

Without missing a beat, I agreed—because that’s a brilliant idea and my caffeine-deprived brain wasn’t ready to debate anything.

As I moved on to cream-and-sugar land, she came back and asked,
“Sir, what’s your name?”
I told her, “Andy.”

She grinned. “That’s the name! From now on, half-caf/half-decaf is officially an Andy.”

So there you have it. The next time you need just the right balance between hyper and nap time, order yourself an Andy. Born in Branson. Destined for coffee shop chalkboards everywhere.

You heard it here first. #JustAndyThings ☕

Billet Life: Hosting Hockey’s Next Generation

This is the first of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card.

Slapshot Supervisor

Being a billet parent is like being a cross between a dorm supervisor, a hockey team cheerleader, and an all-you-can-eat buffet manager. It’s not a job for the faint of heart, but it’s one filled with laughter, camaraderie, and enough hockey talk to last a lifetime. Here’s what it’s like to open your home—and your fridge—to junior hockey players.

What Is a Billet Parent?

We’re not coaches, and we’re not just landlords. A billet parent provides a home for junior hockey players, typically aged 17–20, during their season. These players are chasing their dreams of making it to college hockey and beyond, and we get a front-row seat to their journey. For a small stipend to cover food, water, and endless snacks, we become a temporary family for these young athletes.

Fast Facts About Junior Hockey Players

Age Range: Most players are 17–20, though some turn 21 during the season.
Goal-Oriented: Their primary aim is to earn a college hockey scholarship, adjusting their plans as the season progresses.
Agents: Many players have “agents” who assist with trades and team placements, though the details often remain a mystery to us.
Parent Connection: While we provide day-to-day support, the boys usually stay closely connected to their families.
Cultural Mix: Players from Minnesota are often grounded, while those from boarding schools can bring quirky habits.

How It All Began

Our billet journey started during the fall of 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. A friend from Minnesota connected us with a young player who needed a billet home. We filled out the paperwork, welcomed him in, and haven’t looked back since. Now, six years later, we’ve hosted players from as far away as Canada and beyond, first with the Lone Star Brahmas in Texas and now with the OKC Warriors in Oklahoma.

The Players We Host

Over the years, we’ve housed a variety of players, including:

Returners: Familiar faces from previous seasons.
Newcomers: Boys trying out for the team or moving up a level.
Short-Term Guests: Players staying for just a week during tryouts.
Mid-Season Additions: Players cut from other teams, looking for a fresh start.

Some stay a week, others the whole season. It’s always a revolving door of hockey bags, sticks, and personalities.

Why We Do It

This isn’t just about hockey—it’s about building relationships and shaping young lives. Here’s why we keep coming back:

Meaningful Connections: While we don’t expect lifelong friendships, we treasure the bonds we form. A quick text on their birthday or after a big game keeps the connection alive.
Faith and Values: As Christians, we aim to model kindness, integrity, and hospitality. We say grace at dinner and welcome the boys to join us at church (though they rarely do).
Food, Glorious Food: Feeding teenage hockey players is no small feat. We often serve big breakfasts on game days and keep the pantry stocked for the team’s bottomless appetites.
Shared Moments: From listening to their hockey banter to watching them grow, these moments make it all worthwhile.

The Unknowns of the Season

Every season brings its own set of surprises:

Will all three of our initial players stay, or will we be making airport runs for mid-season replacements?
Will they be adventurous eaters or stick to pizza and burgers?
How many extra players will show up unannounced for dinner?

One thing’s for sure: by spring, we’ll have a house full of memories and an empty fridge.

Final Thoughts

Being a billet parent is a unique and rewarding experience. It’s not without its challenges—like constantly restocking snacks or navigating the occasional personality clash—but the joy of watching these young men chase their dreams makes it all worthwhile. Whether we’re hosting three players or twelve, we’re proud to play a small part in their journey, one slap shot at a time.

The Seventh Decade Shuffle: New Moves, Old Joints, and Unexpected Beats

Entering my seventh decade feels a bit like joining a new season of “Dancing with the Stars”—except the stars are my grandkids, my doctor, and the ever-present siren call of retirement planning. Here’s how the choreography is going so far:

1. The Weighty Waltz

Walking daily used to keep the “pound demons” at bay.
Now?

The demons apparently have better cardio than I do.
Is it my slower pace, shorter distance, or is my body still in mourning for the Texas trails I left behind?
Oklahoma, you’ve got big walking shoes to fill.

2. The Lab Report Rumba

Yearly physicals now come with a side of mystery:

“Good news: your liver and kidneys are happy campers! But why is your potassium doing the cha-cha?”
Turns out, swapping candy for nuts and raisins comes with its own plot twist—sky-high potassium.
Considering switching to cranberries, but they just don’t have the same snack-appeal.
Even my daily Sonic Iced Tea is under nutritional review. Next up: water, but only if garnished with denial.

3. The Proximity Polka

For the first time in years, I’m within 25 minutes of two of my kids—and a grandchild!

After the nomadic years of college, internships, and “that little COVID reunion,” this is a big change.
New grandparent dance moves required. Baby steps, literally.

4. The Retirement Riff

Testing out the “retirement dance”:

What will it look like when my wife and I both retire?
Will we be waltzing into the sunset, or quickstepping around health insurance premiums?
She might keep consulting to protect our nest egg from an early molt.

5. The Local Loop (or, The Costco Conga)

New city, new adventures! Or, at least, new routes to Sam’s, Costco, Aldi, and Chick-Fil-A.

If exploring means discovering a new traffic light between me and a chicken sandwich, consider me Magellan.

6. The Pickup Truck Two-Step

Still driving the Sienna van to Home Depot.

I throw down the seats and hope no one notices me hauling mulch with minivan swagger.
Someday, I’ll get a truck—and finally earn those approving nods from fellow DIYers.

7. The Flexibility Foxtrot

Kids nearby today, but maybe not tomorrow.

Any comfort I find in this house or city could be temporary—family migration is always a possibility.
Like any good dancer, I need to stay light on my feet (and limber in the mind).

Final Bow

No dread—just anticipation. This decade will reveal its steps with or without my rhythm. While my bones are still flexible (ish), my mind has some catching up to do. Admitting it is my first move toward embracing the dance.

May your seventh-decade shuffle be full of laughs, love, and only the occasional pulled muscle.

Trash Days Prior To A Move

When you are preparing to move with 33 years of marriage and 4 grown kids who have moved out of the house, trash days are like holidays. How? The days leading up to that day are full of preparation and excitement. I cheer on my wife. I set unreachable goals, and I count the number of trash days leading up to the move. All normal behavior, right?

When the move was a “maybe” or “eventually”, the pace was much more casual. As the switch flipped into the “yes” column, the strategy changed. No longer was I content to create a bag or two of trash per week. The pace was accelerated and the goals were not limited. Based on my desire to stay ahead, the goals were immediately raised as soon as they were reached. If we had 6 bags of trash for Tuesday’s trash day, I would start campaigning for one more. (If 7 was reached, I would raise it again.)

With two trash days per week, consistency has been a problem. The weekend efforts allow us to have a handful or more bags on Tuesday. The Friday pick up day is limited to big items or stuff where sorting isn’t necessary. Some of my old work stuff was not patiently explored. It was dumped into trash bags with no regard to specific value. “If it is over 10 years old and in a box that was part of our previous move, then it is dead to me.” Maybe a little over-dramatic, but a pre-moving purge is not for the overly-sentimental.

My wife is charged with the sentimental choices. If the kids might like it, she puts it in a group chat for them to comment on. If none of them like it and it seems too valuable to throw out, it is posted on the local gifting exchange. This has caused a stream of strange individuals creeping towards and front door to acquire their “one level above trash” item. (They are placed outside the front door. Our interaction is typically limited to watching them park in front of our mailbox and rapidly slink up the sidewalk. One incident was especially funny. A china cabinet we had no use for was gifted, but the husband picked up a dresser instead. Dutifully, the husband returned and made the swap.) Granted, Goodwill may be the ultimate home for some of these items. That way, the item might still be sent to the trash but our consciouses will be clear.

As we swing into the final week before the trucks show up, a few key areas of the house designated as “kid” areas have been reserved. After our daughters arrive today and tomorrow for our early Thanksgiving this weekend, they have been given the request to make their keep/throwout decisions by Thursday evening. That way, I can make sure all bags of trash can be ready for pickup by 8:00. And, if any trash is found buried in one of the remote secret passageways of our earthly castle, I can still get it out on moving day, Tuesday, next week.

The Old Man and the Park Bench

(At a recent dinner with my wife’s family, I kept the conversation going at our table with a variety of stories. I stumbled across the word “raconteur”. This posting just helps to capture my affection for the word.)

Eleanor had always loved the bustle of Central Park, but even the familiar clamor felt different today. Pausing on the pebbled path, she surveyed the scene – a symphony of dog walkers, pretzel vendors, and the rhythmic thud of joggers marking their miles. Her gaze settled on a worn, wooden bench and the old man who occupied it. He was slight but spry, a mischievous glint in his watery blue eyes.

“Gorgeous day, wouldn’t you say?” The old man’s voice was surprisingly strong, with a hint of a long-faded Irish lilt.

“It is!” Eleanor responded, a smile warming her lips.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already patting the spot next to him.

“Not at all,” said Eleanor, settling down.

For a moment they both watched the world go by. Then, the old man chuckled, a sound like dried leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.

“You ever stop to think about the stories out here?” he asked. “Each person, a whole book in ’emselves. I bet I could tell you somethin’ ’bout every one of ’em.”

Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”

The man’s eyes sparkled. He pointed to a young couple strolling along. “See them? Sweethearts. But look closer – he’s tense, knuckles white gripping that coffee. She’s forcing a smile. Bet you a fiver there was an argument this morning.”

He shifted, gesturing to a harried woman, phone squawking. “That one? Corporate climber, late, about to get chewed out by her boss. See how her briefcase is clutched tight, like a shield?”

The observations kept flowing, some silly, others surprisingly pointed. Eleanor laughed, then gasped as he accurately predicted the trajectory of a wayward frisbee.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“Ah, lassie, just a knack, and a lifetime of watching people. Makes you a bit of a raconteur, I suppose.” He winked.

The word struck a chord with Eleanor. “A raconteur? A storyteller?”

“That’s the one. It’s more than telling tales, though. See, a good raconteur doesn’t just spin a yarn. They make you see the world a little different. Find the extraordinary in the ordinary.”

The sun dipped below the treeline, casting long shadows.

“I must be off,” Eleanor said regretfully. “It’s been…illuminating.”

“The pleasure was mine.” The old man tipped an invisible hat.

As Eleanor walked away, she thought of the young couple, the stressed woman, and wondered about their hidden dramas. The park, once just a backdrop, now hummed with invisible narratives. Her heart felt lighter, and she smiled. The old raconteur had given her a most unusual gift.

Ants In Our Drains

Obviously, this is a play on “ants in our pants.” If only it were not true!

A few weeks ago, our downstairs toilet was having problems. We were not immediately certain it was the toilet. The biggest clue was the bathroom had an earthy smell to it. To me, it was clear it was not emanating from the sink. So, after trying to clean up the earthy smell with products designed for the tank, we eventually found a plumber who would come to the house when he said he would.

The twosome shows up and provides a quick estimate. Once I saw how easily the toilet moved side to side, I knew the “unless we find something else” would quick in. In this case, the ring that secured the toilet to the floor and to the sewage was rusted through. When the integrity of the pipes was compromised, the ants were granted access. Even with the toilet now fixed, we are still fighting the consequences of this breach. How might you ask? Good question…

To remove ants from your sink, use a half cup of baking soda with an equal chaser of vinegar. Rinse in 10 minutes with hot water. Ideally, this will work. When the resident teenage boys leave licorice in the sink overnight, the success of this treatment is uncertain.
For your garbage disposal, ice cubes with baking soda are supposed to circulate in the pipes once they are chopped up by an “angry to be invaded” disposal. Not sure how well this worked. Because of the kitchen’s proximity to the “breached” bathroom, ant traps were set out previously. At today’s lunch, the hockey boys discovered ants feasting on the hamburger buns. The backup package proved necessary when the “extra roughage” argument was rebuffed.
I bought a squirt bottle for equal parts of water and vinegar. It is mixed but not yet tried. I am uncertain what impact vinegar would have on the hockey boys. Would they melt or lose their appetites or some other unpredictable outcome? I might test the mixture’s effectiveness as they travel for an away game this weekend.

Early in this experience, I poured myself a bowl of honey nut cereal. The ants were not well camouflaged. The milk only proved they didn’t have scuba equipment. I threw in a few dried cranberries before eating and drinking the contents of the bowl. If I am going to win this battle, I will have to do it while staring them down–antenna to eyeball.

Not Living In a Monastery

As I gave a friend a rather complete text of what has happened the past couple of days, he reminded me we don’t live in a monastery. What has happened at our house to make our lives less than tranquil? Hmmm…what could it be?

Could it be the hockey players?

It could. One of them knew he was injured, but didn’t know the extent of it. After getting an x-ray yesterday, he found out his hip is fractured. There is more information to gather, but it certainly does keep it from being boring around her.
The other hockey player is quiet, and we are never sure what he is plotting. The mere mention of “Cheese Cake Factory” will bring a Door Dash delivery immediately following dinner. And, when he is not eating cheesecake, he is indulging in “hockey-ish” activities.

Maybe it is the exchange students?

Between their eating (or not eating), and their social media-ing (they are never NOT doing this). they squeeze in ice skating or other forms of “chilling”.
Now that they are at the halfway point, we will observe whether their clothes purchases decrease and whether they pick up an extra suitcase…or two.

What about for my wife and I?

My wife is working again after her Christmas vacation. I won’t say it was hard, but she needed 2 Coke Zeroes from Sonic to get her through.
I got to talk to the IRS and seethe, as they told me for the second time, the form was completed incorrectly. “We want to help you, but your paperwork is wrong!! And, have you had the booster vaccine? You have not? Then we definitely cannot help you.” So, that is how my day went.

As is often the case when making a blog entry where the subjects have names, it is better to avoid specifics. Assume everything stated above is a sanitized, non-specific version of the truth. If you can’t do that, just picture 6 adults and two teenagers sharing a house where no more than 3 people enjoy the same menu for dinner. And those who don’t like it can’t wait for the meal to be over before grabbing snacks in the pantry and disappearing for the rest of the night.

Gender What?

As I recently looked at the “disclaimer” at the bottom of listing on the Monster job site, I saw this in the footer of the job posting….

As an AA/EEO employer, “INSERT NAME OF INSTITUTE OF HIGHER LEARNING HERE” recruits, hires, and promotes qualified persons in all job classifications without regard to age, race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender, gender identity, gender expression, national origin, ethnic origin, disability, genetic information, covered veteran status, or any other basis protected by law.

I guess my old-fashion-ness is showing, but the words “orientation”, “expression” and “identity” seem a little hard to nail down. It would seem any questioning of a persons claims associated with these words tagged on as a suffix would make virtually anything a person does part of the norm. This is not denying the world is a crazy place and circumstances have caused crazy thoughts and patterns to occur in people’s lives. Regardless, with all of these qualifiers, it still seems like we are bending so far over backwards to be inclusive that we have forgotten how to be clear.

Since our genes give us a our gender and we are allowed to question our genetics, it would seem unfair to not be able to change our race, age or color by a simple declaration. Something like, “I, [state your name] declare myself to be a 30 year old, Chinese-American.” (I have no desire to change my gender, thank you.) If someone denies me the right to make this proclamation, wouldn’t they be questioning my right to alter my orientation, expression or identity? They may argue, “Genetically and chronologically, you can’t alter your age or race or color.” That seems quite discriminatory. Why can certain things “baked into the baby” be changed when other things not be changed?

I realize I am not a biologist, psychologist, or a geneticist. I don’t have the scientific background, (beyond my 5 senses–or 4, I don’t think tasting helps unless it has something to do with spicy food. Maybe this should be another protected class. Spicy food can offend some people. I officially propose adding “diet” to the list above. The poor peanut allergy people don’t seem to be adequately protected by the disclaimer.) to assess such important things. But, it seems science has been redefined from what it was a few years ago. I guess the problem is the science of the past was repressive and wrong, so it was reevaluated. (Maybe evolution and the big bang could be given the same scrutiny.)

If we are going to go all in with “disclaimers”, might I suggest the following…

Diet: (see above) Besides nut allergies, spicy food and a strict vegetarian diet can sometimes have detrimental affects on the office environment, too. I know we are all big enough to hold our noses and not mention it, but it should be explicitly protected.
Heavy sweaters: I have worked with people who fall into this category. They took great strains to not have people made aware of this fact. The person I am referring to worked in retail. He changed his t-shirt multiple times per day. The secondary effect of his sweating was attempting to control the odor. I know this quality might not come out until a person is hired and working. It still seems unfair not to protect them as well.
Religious expression: If they endorse the behaviors of one religion and not another religion merely for practicing their faith, then it does seem inconsistent. As a Christian, I try to be flexible with what others believe. How far do I let other religions go in this expression? If it is codified in a neat little generic clause like listed above, the doubters can point but the ambiguity can continue.
This is not really a specific add on, but maybe it would help clarify. Is it really “law” or is it Presidential decree or proclamation? It seems a little bold referring to all of the issues addressed in the disclaimer as “being protected by law”. (I know some of them have been for many years. Some of them are “hitchhikers” where the law is still unclear.) Would this be natural law? If natural law, some of the issues mentioned above would not seem to qualify. (Gender confusion may allow for short term peace and happiness, but it doesn’t do much for continuing the human race.)

Have I offended or bothered you? It was not my goal, but it was an accepted possibility. I believe we have a right to participate in a work environment that is a positive, encouraging place. If all of the things introduced in the disclaimer above are evident in every work place, I believe there will be to much tip-toeing around trying to be inclusive. If the thought police care more about what you think and don’t say then what is done to fulfill your job description, then maybe staying self-employed is a saner option than being obligated to “endorse” all of the above behaviors. God, please help our country!!

Cashier Karma

While visiting a local supermarket with a reputation for having good produce, I was enjoying having my soon-to-head-back-to-college son with us. I know we swapped some light-hearted banter while my daughter found the items on her list. (She made us promise not to get gummy bears from the bulk bins, but they were on sale. And, she didn’t care if I got a bag of the almonds that were on sale, but when I did the bag tore and made a mess within the blast zone.) I don’t believe any clementine juggling took place. We would not injure innocent fruit unless we were planning on consuming it.

As we chose a lane to check out (we really did not have a choice. There was only one lane open UNTIL I had all of my items on the belt. Once mine made it on the belt, the next lane opened up.), I looked forward to having a possible conversation with the cashier. He was a jolly gentlemen who used to be a respiratory therapist. The stress of that job pushed him into working nights at the above mentioned supermarket. (There may have been a few other stops and hops along his journey to here. If there were, he never mentioned them or I had yet to ask.)

As the groceries started going across his scanner, he asked, “So, did you find everything?”

Being a dutiful customer, I replied, “Yep. I scattered a few almonds for the vermin that lick crumbs off the floor every night. And, I sacrificed a mixture of fruits in a an effort to push back the upcoming winter temperatures.”

Still in character, he added, “I don’t often talk to someone who knows so much about what goes on around here.”

As my kids gave me odd looks, I confessed to all who would listen including the lady right behind me in line, “I know you need to make conversation with whoever comes through the line, so I figured I would help you out. A couple times ago, you told me about your past career….”

I pause for effect. The lady behind me turns her head slightly to hear this possibly interesting fact. My daughter is not facing me, but I anticipate an eye roll. My son being a bit of a clown himself is curious what I will do in my moment. And, the cashier slows up his processing of items on the belt to hear clearly if I knew about his respiratory therapy past.

“….as a male dancer.”, I finished. The lady behind me smiles. My son laughs out loud.

The cashier gives a chuckle and says, “My wife probably wishes that was the case. I have never been much of a dancer.”

As I can tell my daughter is choosing not to give me any eye contact, I embarrass her further by saying, “My daughter can’t believe her dad can’t keep his mouth shut–not even to go to the store.”

The lady behind me smiles a little bigger as embarrassment must be a natural way of trying to smother the slightly inappropriate. The cashier gives me the receipt while giving me a smile that seems to say, “Thanks for your business and for breaking the monotony of an otherwise boring day.”

While not wanting to let my moment die quite yet, I couldn’t help but say, “I know you don’t accept tips, and I don’t want you to dance for it. So, I hope you will settle for, ‘Have a good night.'”

The conversation on the drive home allowed me to relive my moment from their perspective. It is in these moments my kids character comes out. My son encouraged me to continue to be my quirky self. My daughter wanted to go home and hug her mother and tell her what a monster her father is when she is not there to supervise. (Not really….or if she did she was discrete.)

I don’t always involve so many people in my fun. Maybe, I need to make it a goal. If it is not illegal, immoral or unethical, I should go for the smile. I will keep exploring this philosophy during the course of 2016. Maybe I will blog more…..?

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy