Food

The 25-Cent Dividend: A Hockey Billet Dad’s Survival Guide

I wrote this post a few months ago, but as time goes by, it feels almost like yesterday.

With the house filling up with hockey players—all three arrived yesterday—my life has officially relocated to the grocery store. My brain is currently a constant loop of logistical questions:

  • Do I have enough snacks for the kid with the tree nut allergy?
  • Does anyone here survive solely on chocolate milk?
  • Does tortellini count as a “high-performance fuel,” or are we strictly a spaghetti operation?

Between the uncertainty and the sheer volume of food required to fuel teenage athletes, I’ve hit Aldi, Sam’s, Winco, and Costco a combined five times this week. The frequency usually drops once the season gets going and I learn their eating patterns, but for now, I am a professional errand runner.

The Aldi Encounter

My first stop at Aldi this week offered a rare chance to be a decent human being. As I was walking out with my non-bagged groceries (I refuse to pay for bags—it’s the principle of the thing), I saw an older lady parked in a handicapped spot. She was visibly struggling to get out of her car; it was clear she needed something to bear her weight before she could even make it to the cart corral.

As I popped my trunk, I called out, “Just hold on! I’ll bring you my cart as soon as I get it unloaded.”

She looked at me, worried, and replied, “But I don’t have a quarter.”

(Ah, the Aldi quarter—the “annoying” way they force us to return our carts. I get that it saves them from paying someone to chase rogue carts in the parking lot, but I don’t have to like it.)

“Not a problem,” I told her. “Just give me a second to clear this out.”

I backed the cart toward her, handle-first. As she grabbed hold, she sighed, “It is terrible to get old.”

Knowing the truth in that, I just smiled and said, “I’m hoping my kids are there for me when I get there.”

The Payback

Zoom ahead to today.

I walked up to the store, quarter gripped in my hand and ready to claim my cart, only to find one already “checked out.” The previous shopper had left their quarter in the lock.

Now, I could have overanalyzed it, but I chose to take it as a sign. It felt like the carts had orchestrated a small tip for my “General Expenses” fund. I took that shiny coin as a little wink from above—as if God was saying, “I saw what you did the other day. You have your moments!”

If only I could get a few more of those moments… I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot more quarters to get through this hockey season.

The Two‑Tub Manifesto: Ice Cream Logistics & Ethics

In our house, ice cream isn’t dessert — it’s infrastructure, and I’m the one managing it. The kids and the hockey boys treat it like a competitive sport, my wife and I have slowed to a gentleman’s pace, and somehow I’ve ended up as the guy responsible for keeping everyone’s emotional stability frozen at 0°F.

We are a Blue Bell household. People can make their Braum’s arguments, and that’s fine — for road milkshakes. But if it’s living in my freezer, it’s the Little Creamery in Brenham or nothing. Standards matter.

The System

To keep the peace, we run a strict Two‑Active‑Tubs policy. Two flavors in play, two waiting in the wings, and no one gets to freelance. Active tubs must be mainstream — Cookie Dough, Cookies & Cream, the classics that won’t start a family meeting.

Introduce fruit, nuts, or a limited edition with a personality? The whole system collapses. Suddenly, we’re a four‑tub household. The boys are “just sampling.” I’m standing in front of the freezer like an overwhelmed air‑traffic controller.

We also aren’t above strategic bribery. Warm brownies are the standard lure for the “I’m not having dessert” crowd. But even we have lines: you don’t pair a brownie with Banana Pudding ice cream. That’s chaos disguised as whimsy.

The Hardware & The Heat

We’ve retired the traditional rounded scoop. Whether it’s Blue Bell’s density or our freezer’s commitment to cryogenics, the scoop just bends in protest. We are an Ice Cream Spade family now. I didn’t choose this identity; physics assigned it to me.

But even the spade has limits. A brand‑new, deep‑frozen half-gallon is basically a dairy glacier. Is it ethical to give the tub a three‑second microwave warm‑up just to break the surface tension? I’m not taking a position. I’m just saying philosophers have written entire books about less.

The Moral Dilemma

The real test of character happens at the sink. When you’re the only one getting a bowl, you face two paths:

  • The Saboteur – he assumes no one else wants any and drops the spade straight into the bottom of a dirty sink like a barbarian.
  • The Citizen – he rinses the spade with hot water and sets it in the dish rack for the next person, because we all have to live here.

Will I revoke ice cream privileges from the Saboteurs? No. But will I sigh loudly enough for them to hear from the living room? Absolutely. Better them than my wife.

The “Get-To” vs. The “Have-To”

I’m currently coming off a 60-day streak from my other blog, and I’m protective of that momentum. With “Grandpa’s Daycare” eating up about 30 hours of my week, I never truly know which day will be the one where the wheels fall off. My goal for this past weekend was simple: bank a three-day buffer of posts so I could breathe.

I missed that goal by 100%.

It started Saturday at 4:30 AM with an airport run for my wife. Here’s what 4:30 AM looks like: three cars on the road, darkness that makes 7:30 AM look like high noon, and a version of me with zero sarcasm loaded. I’m a sarcastic person by nature — it’s basically my factory setting — but apparently it doesn’t boot up until after sunrise. My wit didn’t come back online until I was halfway home, alone, with no one to appreciate it.

That low-grade exhaustion shadowed me the rest of the day. My son and his fiancée came over for quality baby time, and my job quietly shifted. My future DIL is anxious to start her own family, so when she’s in the room, my grandpa instincts take a back seat. My real role became reading the baby’s cues and redirecting — making sure the DIL banked every possible minute of the Ellie experience she craved. I’m not just watching my grandkid grow. I’m watching my future family grow.

I wasn’t exactly winning “Host of the Year,” but the baby stayed alive, so I’ll call it a win.

Then came Sunday. And the Eggplant Experiment.

My son wanted to make Eggplant Parmesan, which — fine. Noble ambition. The problem was his vision was… limited. One small eggplant will not feed a crowd. Bread it, fry it, done. No sauce. No provolone. No oven time. Now, most of his cooking lives in the Instant Pot or air fryer, clean and contained. Hand him a pan and grease, and you’ve introduced variables: splatter, smoke, and a look on his face that says he’s improvising in real time. Sensing a nutritional void and a quiet anti-eggplant contingency in the house, I scrambled. I resurrected some chicken parm from Thursday night, prayed I could add enough juiciness to make the “recycle” respectable. By then, the endless volley of “Where is the…?” and “How do I…?” questions had made any hope of retreating to my den to bank those blog posts evaporate.

Dinner blurred for me. After the dishes were cleared, my reward for the day was another airport run to pick up my wife. I felt a little guilty about leaving the house mid-activity, told the kids so, and then spent the drive enjoying fifteen minutes without anyone asking me where anything was. Getting her home before 8:30 PM is a world better than an 11:00 PM pickup. Some wins are quiet.

Later, sitting with zero banked posts and approximately zero relaxation, I chewed on that question from my future DIL — something rooted in our faith, about whether certain things we’re called to do feel more like obligation than privilege. “Do you get it?” The contrast she was drawing: some things in the Christian life aren’t always fun, but with the right mindset, you get to participate in something most people don’t even realize is available to them.

As I thought about this question, I reviewed my weekend. Do I get it?

Yes. I get a life so full of stories I don’t have time to write them all. I get to be a dad and a granddad multiple times a day. I get to cook for people I love — and not every time I do, do I feel grateful, I’ll be honest. But if I have to cook anyway, I might as well frame it as a “get to” rather than a “have to.” The food tastes the same either way. The choice is just which version of yourself shows up at the table.

When you’re exhausted, it can all feel like a “have-to.” But it’s a “get-to” that most people would pay a premium for.

The Accidental Friday Tradition

The Hockey Boy Breakfast started innocently.

When we were billets (We billet the hockey boys, and we call them “our billets.” They might call us billet parents. Everyone is flexible with the words.) for the Lone Star Brahmas in North Richland Hills, we had four boys staying with us for the season. Feeding four teenage hockey players breakfast on a Friday morning seemed reasonable. Noble, even.

Somewhere between “Sure, you guys can come over” and “Why are there 11 giants in my kitchen?” the ranks swelled.

By mid-season, 8–12 boys would drift in every Friday after their morning skate before a home game. They didn’t knock so much as appear, all six-foot-three in team-issued hoodies with some smaller guys with equal appetites.

And just like that, it became a tradition.

The Menu (We Don’t Cut Corners)

The core lineup has never changed: bacon, pancakes, eggs, and orange juice.

This is not a minimalist operation.

When egg prices briefly required a small business loan, we did not flinch. We accepted a few donations from parents, yes — but corners were not cut. If anything, we leaned in harder.

Time crunch? French toast casserole goes in the oven.

Waffles? Tried it. The logistical gymnastics required to produce enough waffles for a hockey roster was not worth the microscopic increase in joy. Teenage boys are equal-opportunity syrup consumers. Soft pancake, crispy waffle — their gratitude level remains statistically identical.

Whipped cream in a can? Available. Hot sauce for eggs? Upon request.

We are not amateurs.

Stovetop Combat

In the early days, bacon was war.

Two pans on the stove. Sometimes, three if sausage joined the party. Six pounds of bacon. Occasionally more. Cook time: 1.5+ hours with constant monitoring.

The boys would consume nearly all of it with the detached appreciation of men who have never purchased groceries.

What they did not see was the slow accumulation of bacon grease. When you don’t drain it after every batch — because you’re in a hurry and slightly overconfident — it builds. It speeds cooking. It also splatters like it holds a personal grudge against your forearms.

There were casualties. Mostly mine.

The Upgrade

Now that we’re billeting in OKC, I’ve made two major adjustments.

First: thickness. We have graduated from budget grocery bacon to Sam’s Club extra-thick, this-is-a-commitment bacon. We have standards.

Second: the oven.

Two cookie sheets. Parchment paper. 400 degrees. Allegedly 20 minutes. (This is optimistic with thick bacon. I am just quoting my search results.)

Is the timing perfect? No. Is it more predictable than grease artillery fire? Yes. Do the boys care how I cook the bacon? No. Do the boys care how thick the bacon is? They would eat bacon steaks if I could cook them!

All they care about is the smell and the fatty flavor of the thick bacon.

When they walk in after morning skate and the entire house smells like bacon, their mood shifts instantly. You can see it. Hockey intensity melts into something softer. They sit around the table, start loading up, and become calorie-intake machines.

That smell is the real welcome sign.

Why We Keep Doing It

Does it cost time? Yes. Does it cost money? Also yes.

If efficiency were the goal, this tradition would have died in week three.

We do it because these are our billet boys.

Sure, I like to imagine one of them occasionally thinking, “Wow, we’ve got great billet parents.” That might happen.

But let’s be honest. The more likely recruiting pitch is: “Hey guys, my billet parents make this killer thick bacon on Fridays. You should come over.”

And that’s fine with me.

When you feed 10–12 teenage hockey players carbs and protein in your kitchen, something happens. You learn names, personalities, and which one of them will absolutely forget to load their fork in the dishwasher.

And that night at the rink, it changes how you watch.

“Hey, dear — that guy was at our breakfast this morning.”

Suddenly, it’s not just a roster. It’s our boys.

The Warmups (And the Leftovers)

Sometimes there’s an afternoon encore.

When our granddaughter gets dropped off on Friday, pancakes mysteriously appear on her high chair tray. My son-in-law leaves with a plate of protein and carbs because he knows better than to refuse free bacon.

And if there’s an especially heroic amount left over? It gets chopped up for pizza night. Chicken BBQ and meat lovers, no bacon left behind.

What Sticks

Long after the season ends, I have a feeling the boys won’t remember the exact score of some random Friday night home game.

But they might remember the smell of thick-cut bacon when they walked in the door.

And that’s worth every splatter.

The Fridge Commissioner (Revised Season)

My wife is definitely trying to lose weight, and I’m always “open to the idea” myself. That’s the problem with warm-ups — leftovers, for the uninitiated. They’re the enemy of dieting. They sit there in the fridge, looking innocent, but they know exactly what they’re doing. They whisper. They tempt. They multiply.

And because I hate throwing food away, I’m the one who ends up eating them. I haven’t had a protein shake for lunch in over two weeks. Not because I’m committed to a new lifestyle, but because I’m cleaning up “a little of this and a little of that” like a man who’s been drafted into a war he didn’t sign up for.

This is how I became the Fridge Commissioner — the guy who makes the final call on what gets saved, what gets pitched, and what gets eaten out of sheer guilt. It’s not glamorous work. No one thanks you for it. But if the containers start overflowing, I’m the one who has to step in before the fridge becomes a crime scene.

Meanwhile, the hockey boys are still here. They like home-cooked meals, and we like cooking them. The day of preparation is never the issue. It’s everything after that.

In past seasons, the boys helped with warm-ups. They’d eat anything. They were like friendly garbage disposals with good attitudes. And here’s the thing I didn’t realize at the time: an empty fridge meant something. It meant we’d made something worth eating twice. It meant I was good at this.

This year? Different story.

Unless it’s pizza or a particular favorite, the containers just sit there. The boys seem to have more money for eating out than I ever did at their age. They roll in with bags from places I didn’t even know teenagers frequented (Still plenty of Chipotle, too.) . And they shower constantly — ten times a day, by my estimate. If they get up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s apparently grounds for a shower. If they breathe wrong, shower. If they think about showering, shower.

We’re compensated for feeding them and providing water access, but still — the warm-ups remain untouched. Which means I have no idea if Tuesday’s chicken was actually good or just good enough to eat once.

It wasn’t always like this. When our kids were younger, we had a whole system. If we cleaned out a bunch of warm-ups in one night, there was a reward. Empty containers meant progress. Some of the food combinations that ended up in the same bowl should never have been introduced to each other, but it didn’t matter. Dad was happy, the fridge had breathing room, and the kids got Dairy Queen or homemade blizzards. Warm-up bait worked every time.

These methods do not work on hockey players.

The only strategy that works with them — and with my wife dieting — is simple: only make what will be eaten that night. No leftovers. No warm-ups. No fridge archaeology. It does mean that someone wandering downstairs at 9:30 (usually a hockey boy) won’t have many options, but that’s what chicken nuggets and the air fryer are for. They’ll survive.

I’ve also had to accept that I sometimes care about the meal more than they do. Hockey boys don’t always say “great meal” or “thanks for cooking.” They’re not rude about it, they’re just teenagers. But I used to get the feedback anyway. Empty containers were the review. If the warm-ups disappeared, I’d won.

Now I make one meal and move on. No encores. No second-day votes of confidence.

Still… some of our meals make really good warm-ups. And that’s the tragedy of it all.

The Retirement of a Workhorse: A Eulogy in Carnitas

The spices were piled on the pork butt with the jalapenos on top.

Sunday’s lunch was a milestone. Our youngest grandchild was dedicated at church—and while she is currently our only grandchild, we speak of her in terms that suggest a full basketball team is waiting on the bench for the coach to send them in. My daughter and son-in-law were surrounded by family, and the day felt appropriately momentous.

My wife had volunteered to host the meal, and we eventually settled on our signature carnitas. It’s a “start it the night before” kind of meal, which is much kinder to the nerves than trying to crank out chicken on a grill after church. I even snapped a photo of the full crockpot for the family cookbook I’m assembling, blissfully unaware it would be the machine’s final portrait.

The Last Supper (Lunch really, but “supper” sounds more foreboding)

The meal was a triumph. Eleven of us (counting the guest of honor) kept the conversation lively while a significant portion of the carnitas disappeared.

The Great Escape

As the party wound down and the cleanup began, the grace extended to our seasoned crockpot was forgotten. The front panel sticker—the one that actually tells you what the buttons do—finally gave up the ghost and peeled off.

But the real issue wasn’t aesthetic. My wife discovered a pool of carnitas broth on the floor when we got up in the morning. This pork shoulder had more fat than usual, and as it rendered overnight, the broth level rose. The lid no longer sealed tight against the pot. Once the liquid peaked past the dome, the leak allowed the brothy contents to escape.

To the Picnic in the Sky

This crockpot had served us for at least sixteen years. We brought it from Ohio. It outlasted its predecessor, which met its end when I dropped a frozen pork loin into it and cracked the crock clean in two.

Fate—or perhaps a premonition—had intervened a week earlier when we spotted a deal on a slightly larger model at Sam’s Club. With a successor already waiting in the wings, we sent the old crockpot to that great church picnic in the sky.

No gold watch. Just gratitude for sixteen years of carnitas.

Big Bones and the BMI That Never Stood a Chance

My mother always had an explanation ready for why I never fit the BMI chart. She didn’t need science or statistics — she had something better: maternal confidence. She’d look at me, shrug like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and say, “You just have big bones.”

That was her entire medical opinion. No copay required.

And honestly, she wasn’t wrong about the spirit of it. I’ve never fit the chart. Not as a kid in a small Christian school where the gene pool was basically a puddle. Not in the country high school where the puddle got wider but not deeper. Not even after Basic Training, when I briefly achieved the closest thing to “normal” the BMI would ever allow.

My job growing up was simple: be big, look athletic enough, and protect my brain from whatever forces were trying to keep it from reaching its potential. After Basic Training, the weight came back like it had been waiting in the car the whole time. It’s been remarkably consistent ever since. My clothes from years ago still fit. My doctors have stopped giving me the “you should lose some weight” speech. At this point, my body is about as predictable as my electric bill or my bedtime.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that not fitting the chart doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. Sometimes the chart just wasn’t designed with you in mind. Sometimes the chart is wrong. Sometimes the chart needs to mind its own business.

Everyone has something that knocks them out of the norm. Mine just happens to be visible on a scale. Yours might be hiding in your personality, your habits, or that one hobby you don’t tell people about until you know them well enough.

These days, my attempts to lose weight fall into the “sure, why not” category. Occasionally I even “sympathy diet” with my wife when she decides she likes food more than me — which isn’t true, but chocolate is a close second. Mostly, though, I’ve learned to lean into the areas where I can be judged on merit instead of metrics created to make everyone feel like they’re supposed to fit into the same box.

I’m not my BMI. I’m not my weight. I’m not even my mother’s “big bones,” though I’ll admit the line has aged surprisingly well.

So no, I don’t fit the chart. I probably never will. But the chart never really knew what to do with me anyway.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

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.

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.