The Old Blog in the Desert

Back in 1967, in our living room with green shag carpet and a rabbit-eared RCA the size of a washing machine, we didn’t have a television remote control. We had me, and I was state-of-the-art.

Whenever Dad wanted to watch something different—and mind you, there were only three channels and half the time one was showing a test pattern—he’d holler, “Change it to Channel 6,” and there I went, dutiful as a church usher, click-clack-clicking the mechanical dial like I was decoding a safe.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear that CHUNK CHUNK CHUNK sound as the tuner moved from one station to the next. The dial had authority.

None of the silent, infrared button-mashing nonsense. Nope, you felt it when you changed the channel.

Your fingers had to work for it—turning that big chrome knob that took both dexterity and a bit of elbow grease. You’d hear a little buzz as the vacuum tubes adjusted themselves like they were waking up from a nap.

And God help you if you turned it too fast—you’d get a scolding about “wearin’ the thing out” like you were driving the TV too hard.

It wasn’t just changing channels either. Volume? That was me, too.

“A little louder!” Dad would say, usually once settled with a cup of coffee and the sports section of the Times-Standard. I’d twist the knob just a touch.

“Too much!” he’d snap. “Back it off!” I’d inch it back like I was cracking a safe. I tell you, remote controls didn’t have anything on my finesse.

And don’t get me started on fine-tuning. That was an art form.

Sometimes the picture would get all wiggly, as if trying to do the hula hoop. That’s when I’d have to adjust the horizontal hold, vertical hold, or my favorite percussive adjustment, which is to say, a sharp whack on the side of the set. Not too hard—you didn’t want to anger it, just enough to jog the vacuum tubes back into alignment.

If things got super fuzzy, you’d have to mess with the antenna. Ours had a coat hanger jammed in it, and a wad of tinfoil that made it look like we were trying to pick up signals from Sputnik.

Someone—usually me—would stand on one foot, lean slightly left, hold the antenna in the air, and not move. I’d be frozen there like a living lightning rod until Dad said, “Perfect! Now don’t move!”

I’d hold that pose for the entire Ed Sullivan Show while my left foot went numb.

But you know what? I didn’t mind.

We thought it was normal. Nobody complained about not having a remote—we didn’t know what we were missing.

Years later, when I finally saw one of those early remote controls—a Zenith Space Command from the 60s—I laughed out loud. It looked like a garage door opener and sounded like a dog whistle.

Sure, it could change the channel, but could it understand when Dad said, “Go back, not that far, just one click”? Could it sense the exact volume level Mom liked during As the World Turns?

Nope. It didn’t have the heart, the intuition, or the uncoordinated grace of a seven-year-old boy on Saturday night duty. So yeah, I’ve got a rare photo of a 1967 television remote control.

It’s me, and I was cordless, voice-activated, highly responsive, and only needed the occasional sandwich to recharge.

I met Dave Mencarelli years ago. Back then, we orbited each other like two mismatched moons, each circling our own little radio station planet. I was over on my patch of airwaves, he was on his, and we didn’t cross paths until KUEZ happened.

Now, radio people are like cats—most of us prefer our corners, coffee mugs, and brand of “don’t mess with my equipment.” But when we found ourselves sharing the same workplace, we struck up one of those friendships that made sense without any ceremony.

One of the first things we talked about—before playlists, before deadlines, before even where to find the best tacos in town—was the fact that this radio station was, to put it kindly, “active.” Not just with an occasional raccoon in the dumpster, but active.

Strange bangs from the empty hallway, random thumps from the ceiling, the kind of garbled whispers that make you check to see if your headphones are attached to the board.

And it wasn’t just us. Our dogs—on separate occasions, mind you—reacted to something invisible in the same spot, right there in the doorway outside the control room. Mine bristled and growled. Dave’s pup cowered like somebody just told him Santa wasn’t real.

Now, Dave, besides being a solid radio man, had a side gig that didn’t just pay the bills—it fed his soul. He was a stand-up comic.

And not just “tell a joke at the bar,” amusing. He was funny, and that got him booked at the Laugh Factory—whichever one in the country had a microphone and a spotlight at the time.

And here’s the thing about funny people—they know life’s short. They understand the laugh is worth more than the applause. And they know a good joke can live a lot longer than the teller.

Dave knew his time was running short. Diabetes is a cruel dance partner, and it was stepping on his toes for a while. One day, he told me, plain as you please, “If you don’t joke about my passing when the time comes, then we weren’t the friends we thought we were.”

I laughed. Because that’s the kind of thing Dave’d say—half challenge, half invitation.

Well, today, a couple of hours ago, that time came. Dave slipped away, and the world got a little quieter, or at least the part of it that laughed hardest at his punchlines. I went straight to his social media page and wrote, “Bless you, Dave. I will miss you. Visit when you can.”

And I meant that last part. Because if there’s anybody likely to take a curtain call from the other side, it’s Dave Mencarelli.

I can picture it now—me sitting in the control room some bleary morning, nursing my coffee, running through the morning lineup, and—BANG!—something drops in the hallway. Then a whisper, low and scratchy, in my headphones.

Maybe even the faint smell of the cologne he wore when he thought he might meet somebody important. I’ll spill my coffee, curse his name, and then laugh until my heart hurts.

You see, I believe friends stick around in one way or another. Some stay in your head, some in your heart, and a rare few find a way to mess with your lights and your dog just to let you know they’re still in the room.

Dave was one of those rare few. He lived wide and loud, but never mean. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke—even if you were the punchline. And he carried that same light into dark places, whether it was a dingy comedy club or a haunted radio station hallway.

I figure when the time comes for me to shuffle off this mortal coil, Dave will be waiting. Probably leaning against some cosmic mic stand, saying, “Took you long enough. Hope you brought material.”

Until then, I’m keeping an ear out. The station’s quiet now, but that’s just the thing about ghosts—they don’t punch a clock. Sooner or later, Dave’ll find his way back to give me that scare he promised.

And when he does, I’ll shake my head, smile, and say, “Good to see you, Dave. You still owe me coffee.”

Because life, like friendship doesn’t end, sometimes, it just changes its frequency.

Some things in life make you stop, shake your head, and whisper a thank-you under your breath. For me, it was reading about the man who died out at Burning Man this past Saturday.

Now, I’ve been to that dustbowl gathering a handful of times, mostly out of curiosity and partly because I enjoy volunteering. It’s a peculiar mix of Woodstock, Mad Max, and a county fair with fewer pies and more glitter. You’ve got fire-breathing dragons on wheels, art installations the size of barns, and people wearing nothing but body paint—sometimes the body paint’s optional.

This year, I went the weekend before to put in my volunteer hours. Handed out maps, pointed folks toward the porta-potties, and even helped a fellow who swore his tent got stolen.

Turned out he was standing right next to it. I figure the desert sun fries more brains than tequila ever could.

So when I read the news about someone being found dead—right there as the wooden effigy got set ablaze—I thought, “Well, Lord, I dodged that dust storm.”

Not that I’m scared of much, but a homicide scene ain’t the kind of festival attraction you circle on your program.

Burning Man, for all its slogans about radical inclusion and communal effort, still happens on Earth, where human beings are human beings. And human beings, bless us all, are capable of everything from painting the Mona Lisa to leaving a shopping cart right in the middle of a parking space. That’s why I’ve always kept one eye on the art and the other on my surroundings.

The sheriff’s office said the man’s identity ain’t known yet. That’s the saddest part of all.

Somewhere there might be a mother, a sister, or a friend still waiting on a text that’ll never come. Festivals can make us feel untethered from the world, like we’re in some temporary city floating above the rules of gravity and grief.

But news like this yanks us back down fast.

I’ll admit, I grinned a little when I read the official statement about resources available–WiFi, Rangers, Crisis Support. Imagine that—checking the WiFi at Burning Man.

Once upon a time, the only signal you could count on was a dusty hand wave from across the playa. Now, even in the middle of nowhere, we can still post a selfie before asking for a Band-Aid.

But I don’t make fun too hard. People need connection.

Whether it’s a ranger in a khaki shirt with a walkie-talkie or a stranger handing you an extra bottle of water, the desert runs on kindness. That’s what I keep from my volunteering days–the simple truth that most folks want to help, even if their costumes suggest otherwise.

I think back to the man whose tent “disappeared.” When we finally convinced him it was, in fact, his own tent, he hugged me like I’d returned a lost dog. No crime scene tape, no deputies with notepads—just a man relieved to have his little piece of shade back.

Maybe that’s the contrast life keeps showing us–one person laughs over a tent, another lies down and doesn’t get up again. And we, the rest of us, go on—trying to squeeze sense out of the madness.

So yes, I’m glad I went last weekend. I got to leave with dust in my boots, alkali on my shirt, and a head full of stories. And I didn’t have to see flashing red lights or yellow tape cut across the desert night.

Life’s short enough as it is. If you’re going to volunteer, dance, or wander out where the playa meets the stars, do it with your whole heart. And for heaven’s sake, keep an eye on each other.

That’s the real burn—sticking around long enough to keep the stories going.

I once heard someone say that everybody has one bad month that rolls around each year like clockwork. The idea is, no matter how you try, that month gets you—old hurts, hard memories, or things that keep going wrong.

For me, if I ever believed such a thing, it would be September.

It starts with my sister Deirdre’s birthday on the 3rd—nothing bad there, except it reminds me how fast time slips away. Then there’s September 9th, when my stepdad, Delmar, passed on. The very next day is my mom’s birthday.

If she were still with us, I’d probably hear her voice calling her and me “the aught babies” of the family—born in years ending in “aught” or zero and proud of it.

Then comes September 11th, and that one packs a wallop. Like everyone else, I remember where I was when the towers fell.

But for me, that day also carried three other weights. I worked 12 hours in the newsroom, knowing that when I clocked out, I had nowhere to go—Mary and I had separated the night before.

The images of dust clouds rolling down New York streets yanked me straight back to Beirut, 1983, and the panic attack that followed nearly flattened me. In the early morning hours of the 12th, hollowed out, I made a choice I’m grateful every day didn’t end the way I thought it might.

And then, as if September hadn’t already stacked the deck, the 24th rolls in—my mom and dad’s wedding anniversary. Married in Reno, Nevada, in 1956, before shipping off to France.

Given all of that, it’s clear why I believed in the “bad month” theory. September was the yard sale of my sad memories, all spread out on the lawn at once.

But this year, I’m doing it differently. I’ve decided to unsubscribe.

I don’t mean just mentally saying, Oh, September isn’t that bad. I mean actively refusing to let a month tell me how I feel. It’s a bit like telling the weatherman you’re going to have a sunny day even if he swears there’s rain coming. Sure, the sky might be gray, but you can still make soup, put on a favorite record, and call an old friend.

Here’s the truth: those hard days happened, and nothing I do will erase them. But I’ve realized something—it’s not September’s fault. September’s just a collection of days.

It’s not out to get me. My grief, my memories, my aches—they’re mine, and they’re part of my life no matter what the calendar says.

So I’m reclaiming the month. This year, on Deirdre’s birthday, I’m sending her something that’ll make her laugh—a ridiculous gag gift she’ll probably keep out of pity.

On the 9th, I’ll raise a toast to Delmar with his favorite soda drink, the one that is pure sugar but tasted like heaven to him. The next day, I’ll bake a cake for my mom, sing “Happy Birthday” to her picture, even if Buddy-dog gives me that look that says, “You’ve lost it, old man.”

As for September 11th, I’ll remember the lives lost and the strength found, but I’ll also make sure to sit quietly and breathe. No panic this time. Just steady breathing and a cup of coffee in the morning sun.

And the 24th? I’m thinking a trip to Reno might be in order—not for a quick wedding, mind you, but to tip my hat to the place where my folks began their long and winding adventure. I’ll stand in front of the courthouse, and imagine them racing down the steps and turning north to the Mapes for their one-night honeymoon.

Some people let certain months own them, like a landlord collecting rent on their mood. I’ve decided September’s not getting my rent check anymore. It can sit there with its stack of old memories, but I’m bringing new ones to the table—ones full of laughter, cake, and maybe even a road trip or two.

After all, the calendar may roll around the same way every year, but I don’t have to. I can turn the page any time I want.

And this September, I’m turning it with a smile.

There are some things in life you can prepare for, and some things you just can’t. A high school reunion is one of those you try to prepare for.

You think about what shirt doesn’t show your belly too much, whether your old letterman jacket still fits, mine doesn’t, and which stories you’ll tell without sounding like you’re bragging or embellishing. Then, there are the names. Ah, yes—the list of classmates who won’t be there because they’ve gone on ahead.

Now, I don’t take this list lightly. I sit down, pen in hand, and treat it like I’m writing a sacred roll call.

Every name is a memory. Each one is a piece of my own life.

And each time I jot one down, I pause for a second and think about them—who they were, what we did together, what goofy thing they said or did, that still makes me grin.

So, imagine me today, cross-checking notes, when I find out I’ve been mourning the “death” of Peggy Sanderson for nearly a decade—only to discover Peggy is not dead at all.

Nope. Peggy’s alive, kicking, and, for all I know, probably baking casseroles or teaching her grandkids how to ride a bike.

At first, I thought, Well, ain’t that something? Then I thought, “Wait a second—if Peggy’s alive, then who in the world have I been praying for all these years?”

I had this picture in my head of her passing in 2016. I even remembered telling someone, “Such a shame, Peggy was always the one who could turn detention into a comedy routine.”

Turns out I might’ve been confusing her with another Peggy, or maybe my brain just got sloppy filing memories away. Whatever the case, when the news hit me, I felt this odd cocktail of emotions–relief, confusion, and a pinch of embarrassment.

I mean, what do you do when you find out you’ve been wrong about someone’s death? Send them a card?

“Dear Peggy, congratulations on being alive. You had us worried there for a minute.”

The thing is, death and life have a funny way of making us stop in our tracks. Most of us spend time trying not to think too hard about either one.

But then you get news like this, and suddenly you realize what a gift it is to know someone’s still out there, breathing and laughing. Maybe even making mistakes and trying again tomorrow.

I chuckled while imagining me, walking in, spotting Peggy across the room, and blurting out, “You look great—for a dead woman!”

That’d get me a slap or at least a raised eyebrow, but the truth is, I’d still give her the biggest bear hug she ever had and thank God for second chances—second chances to tell her she mattered, that she made high school a brighter place, that the world’s a little warmer because she’s still here. You see, it’s not really about whether we’ve got the list right.

The list isn’t the thing. It’s about remembering the people we shared a chapter of life with.

Sometimes we goof, but the heart behind it is what counts. And if you’re lucky enough to find out someone you thought was gone is still here, well, that’s about as good as it gets.

So, Peggy, if you’re reading this, forgive me for laying flowers on your memory before your time. I’m not sorry I thought of you, though. In fact, I think I’ll keep on thinking of you—and all of us—as still here, still part of each other’s story, even when we eventually do cross over to the other side.

And when I walk into that reunion, I’ll be glad to know that not only will there be old friends, there’ll also be a few joyful surprises—like Peggy, alive and well, reminding me that sometimes the best news is the news you never saw coming.

Home, at last. The front door clicked behind me, and I paused, listening to the faint hum of a quiet house—so different from the endless whisper of the Black Rock Desert, where dust sneaks into every crevice, every thought.

Some folks stop for a beer at Bruno’s on the way back. Me? I headed east on Pyramid Highway, past Nixon, onto I-80 before veering off onto USA Parkway. My destination–Lahontan Reservoir, and their camp showers, which—let me tell you—feel like a private spa after a weekend of volunteering in a place that has a talent for sticking to you.

The playa has a way of embedding itself into your life. Not in a sentimental, Instagram-ready way, mind you, but literally, physically.

Dust in your boots, dust in your hair, dust in places you didn’t even know could hold dust. You wash your hands, and your fingertips still find little grains sneaking up from your nails. It’s humbling, in a humbling way, the desert teaching you how small and persistent it can be.

I spent an hour and a half under hot water. I’d never thought I’d appreciate a shower that much, but there it was—steam like a soft blanket, water that actually meant “clean,” and me, thinking maybe this is what happiness smells like–hot water and self-respect.

Clean towels and fresh clothes are waiting after I reduce a new bar of soap to a sliver. For the first time in a couple of days, I felt like a person who could sit in a chair without leaving a trail of gray behind me.

I opened a beer when I got home, ignoring the clock that read 8:12 p.m.—past my usual bedtime, but so what? The work I do tomorrow starts at 4 a.m., but I figured a little rebellion before sunrise was acceptable.

My mind wandered, thinking about all the folks out there in the desert–neighbors helping neighbors, strangers sharing sunscreen, and camp chairs that mysteriously end up where they’re unneeded. The playa has a way of knitting people together, even if it’s mostly through shared misery and mutual embarrassment when the wind flips your shade structure upside down.

Sitting here, sipping beer, I realized that no matter how much you try to wash it off, the desert leaves its mark, not in a sticky, inconvenient way, but like a good story left on the shelf for later. You carry it with you, like dust in your shoes or a memory tucked behind your ribs. You remember the heat, the wind, the way the light bounced off the flat just right, and you smile, even if your jeans look like a battlefield casualty.

Sleep will come later, after a quick check of the house for dust hiding in corners, maybe a towel on the bed to catch anything the playa decided to smuggle in.

And yes, tomorrow, I’d wake at 4 a.m., hoping the desert had been courteous enough to let my ears stay dust-free. But tonight, right now, beer in hand, I feel the clean that matters. Not just the clean of water and soap, but the clean of coming home and knowing you’ve done something worth doing, even if it left half the desert stuck in your hair.

Sometimes, the best part of coming home isn’t the bed or the shower—it’s knowing you’ve earned a quiet moment, even if it’s eight minutes past your bedtime, with a cold beer and the simple satisfaction that the playa, in all its stubborn glory, is now just a story in your shoes, and maybe a little dust behind your ears.

Two years ago, the playa threw one of its infamous tantrums. Sheets of rain fell so hard it looked like the sky was trying to wash us clean, and the mud, well, that mud wasn’t just thick—it was the kind that laughs at your feet and sticks to your soul like it had a personal vendetta.

This year has been the same, and I swear, I spent hours scraping it off with my fingernails. And it still had the nerve to laugh at me.

The wind, too, wasn’t just wind. It was a referee, a drill sergeant, and an old uncle all rolled into one, reminding every tent and every freestanding shade structure who was really in charge out here.

Rebar bent. Shade cloths tore in half like cheap paper.

Dust storms rolled in like they had appointments to keep. And there we were, a ragtag bunch of humans thinking we could outsmart nature.

But that’s where the magic comes in, because burners are resilient. And neighbors become lifelines.

One minute you’re wrestling a tent that’s trying to fly off into the sunset, the next, someone’s handing you extra stakes with a grin, muttering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

And they do. Everyone does.

I helped reset a row of rebar for a communal shade. Bent rods, shredded tarps, and a sense of impending doom—you know, the usual Friday night vibe.

But somewhere between tying down one stubborn pole and laughing at another getting tossed by a rogue gust, we all started laughing at ourselves. There’s something about dirt caked into your hair, wind whipping your socks inside-out, and the smell of wet playa that makes humility and humor come easy.

By noon, the tents are up, part shelter, and part miracle. Someone even managed to resurrect a sculpture that had taken a nosedive during the early morning dust storm.

And through it all, laughter threaded through the chaos, like a stubborn little ember that refuses to die. That’s the spirit of Burning Man–when the playa tests you, it isn’t trying to break you—it’s just figuring out how stubborn you really are.

And the beauty of it is, you don’t face it alone. Help comes in the form of a nod, a rope, and a dust-filled cup of lukewarm coffee offered with a wink.

And if all else fails, you roll in the mud and laugh, because what else are you going to do? Complain? You’ll get more mud in your mouth.

And yes, there’s always MOOP patrol, the unsung heroes who sweep up Matter Out of Place with the patience of saints and the diligence of border collies. They don’t take a day off, even in the wind, even in the mud, even when you’re pretty sure a rogue dust devil just rearranged the entire city. Respect them, bow to them, or at least, don’t throw glitter at them.

By the end of the day, the playa is still wild, untamed, and a little bit terrifying. But we were there, standing together, our hands muddy, our laughter echoing across the flats. And I realized that maybe the playa isn’t trying to make us suffer—it’s trying to remind us of what we’re capable of when we don’t go it alone.

So next time the wind whips and the dust storms roll in, remember to tie it down, help your neighbor, laugh at yourself, and maybe buy an extra pair of socks. Because the playa will test you, but it will never beat the heart of a burner.

Oh, silly Burner, you think you’re clever, thinking you can ride onto the playa at night with nothing but a half-packed camelbak, a hat already caked with dust, and a sparkly cape you found at the thrift store. I’ve seen it a hundred times–the same grin, the same overconfidence, the same “rules are for everyone else” look in your eyes.

I’ve been riding out there for years. Not for the pleasure of spinning in a dust storm like a glittery tornado—though I admit, sometimes it’s almost poetic.

I’m there because someone has to be. Someone has to make sure the art cars don’t crush each other, that the porta-potties actually exist where the map said they would, and that no one ends up lost in a swirl of fine alkaline dust that tastes like sand mixed with regret.

The nights start like any other–a pink-orange horizon, the wind just teasing at the edges of the tents. I was following the plan—because without a plan, all you’ve got is chaos and a mouthful of playa dust.

The kid I ran into, the one wearing sequins like they were armor, had other ideas, “I’m going to ride all night,” he said, eyes wide and sparkling, “Who needs planning when you have luck?”

I laughed, a low sound. “Kid,” I said, “luck is just what happens when planning takes a nap. And right now, planning’s wide awake.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t understand, his goofy grin lingering.

I sped away into the shadows, and the playa stretched like a sheet of silver dust under our hooves. Around me, lights winked in all directions, tiny islands of humanity clinging to art installations, music, and the illusion that they were untouchable.

Then the wind picked up. Oh, it picked up like it had been waiting all day to remind everyone exactly who’s in charge.

And suddenly, my little lesson in planning became very practical. The kid’s cape wrapped around his leg, tangled like a vine, and he yelped.

Lucky? No.

He was learning. I slowed, careful not to add my drama to the scene, “See,” I said gently, “rules exist because the dust doesn’t care how brave you feel.”

By 2 a.m., we were deep in the maze of scattered installations, and the horizon had gone black. I could see silhouettes wobbling in the wind.

“Water,” someone shouted. I hand off my spare bottle—because planning sometimes means carrying extra, even for the reckless.

I found my way back as the first pink streak of sunrise began to smear across the sky. The playa was quiet then, the chaos paused for just a moment.

The kid sat on a small dune, exhausted but smiling, “I get it,” he said. “I should’ve planned better.”

I nodded. “Yep. And next time, maybe don’t pretend luck’s a substitute for common sense.”

My quad coughed, probably agreeing more with me than the kid.

By morning light, I was covered in dust, tired to my bones, but satisfied. Because out there, the rules aren’t suggestions.

Survival is careful thought, and yes, even luck has to check in with reality before it comes calling. The kid? He learned that the hard way, but I’ll give him credit—he laughed about it, shiny sequins and all.

So, silly Burner, remember the playa will teach you lessons, but it doesn’t care about your grin. You can go all night chasing freedom, chasing sparkle, chasing the idea that rules are optional, or you can party with a plan, with water, with respect for the wind and the dust.

One makes a story, the other makes a cautionary tale. And me? I’ll be there, muddy, dusty, and all, making sure someone gets home in one piece—and maybe handing out a little wisdom along the way.

I said, “I’m retiring,” and I figured life would slow down into something like a long weekend that never ends. I imagined coffee in the morning, naps in the afternoon, maybe writing a few stories, and watching the sunset in the evenings.

Sounded downright civilized. Then—bam!—before I knew it, I was sitting on my front porch every day, wondering, “When exactly did I turn into Granddad?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. My grandfather was a fine man, steady as a fencepost in a storm.

But I never pictured myself becoming him. I thought I’d stay somewhere between cowboy, reporter, radio announcer, and desert rat. Instead, I’ve somehow taken up the role of neighborhood porch-sitter, armed with coffee and an opinion on the weather that I’m entirely too eager to share.

At least, sitting out front has its advantages. Gives me a chance to wave at folks passing by.

I used to do a lot of visiting back when I reported the news in Virginia City. Four years of running around those streets, notebook in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

Most of my conversations back then happened in saloons. You learn a lot about a town from the barstools, and people will tell a reporter all sorts of truths after their second whiskey.

But you take away the saloons, and a man has to find new avenues for conversation. That’s where Mary, the bus driver, comes in.

Mary and I have been waving at each other for years. Every morning when she drives past, I give her a wave.

In the afternoon, sometimes another wave. That was the extent of it—just neighbors on different schedules acknowledging each other’s existence.

But now that I’ve got time to sit on the porch and notice things, we finally spoke more than “hello.” Turns out she’s got a sense of humor sharper than a barbed-wire fence.

She handed me some Mexican candy one day—something bright and spicy that nearly set my tongue on fire. I, in return, gave her the dot-com to my blog. Between you and me, I definitely got the better end of the bargain.

It’s funny, though. That little exchange made me realize something.

Retirement doesn’t have to mean shrinking into silence. It can mean new friends, new stories, and new laughs. They might not come with the background noise of clinking glasses and ragtime piano, but they show up all the same if you keep your eyes—and your porch—open.

Still, I’m wrestling with this “Granddad” business. My actual grandfather had a tie, a fedora, and a slow shuffle that said he wasn’t in any hurry to get anywhere.

I catch myself doing porch duty in a ballcap, tennies, and a sigh that sounds suspiciously like his. I even have a favorite seat, just like he did, with the permanent butt-shaped groove that proves a man’s been doing his thinking there.

The shocking part is how natural it feels. One day you’re chasing deadlines, the next you’re keeping watch over the neighborhood like it’s your kingdom.

A dog walks by with its humans, and you wave. Someone asks how you’re doing, and you launch into a five-minute weather report as if you’re the local channel.

Maybe becoming Granddad isn’t such a bad thing after all. He had time for people.

He never rushed a story, never missed a chance to share his coffee, and always knew who drove which truck. He was the kind of man who made the world feel smaller, friendlier, like a front porch was enough to build a community.

So maybe the truth is, I didn’t turn into Granddad. I just caught up with him.

And if you happen to drive by and see me waving from the porch, don’t be shy. Pull over, I’ll have some coffee waiting, like Mary’s got more of that Mexican candy tucked away.

Earlier this year, I came across a 100-year-old short story by Somerset Maugham—“Mr. Know-All.” Now, I’ve read a few of his works, but it hit me differently. Not because it was clever, and it is, or tightly written, but because I saw someone in it that looked suspiciously like me.

You see, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life with my nose in books and my mouth at the microphone. It’s a combination that’ll either get you a loyal audience or a very patient circle of friends.

And depending on the day, I’ve had both—and tested both.

I once got invited to speak at a Wednesday night church supper. The flyer said, “Words on Community and Grace.” I took that to mean they wanted something thoughtful—so I brought a 20-minute talk on the migration patterns of Canadian geese.

I figured folks would be fascinated by how those birds fly in formation and take turns leading the flock. I mean, there’s a faith-oriented metaphor in there somewhere, right?

Well, turns out folks just wanted to be reminded that grace matters more than facts. I didn’t know I’d misread the room until Miss Eunice Tiller—Sunday school teacher emeritus and matriarch of decency—took me gently by the elbow after the last spoon scraped the bottom of the banana pudding dish.

“Darlin’,” she said with a smile that felt like a warm slap, “that was… informative. But we were hopin’ for somethin’ a little more heart and a little less encyclopedia.”

I nodded and smiled, but it landed hard on me.

That night I read the story, I lay in bed thinking about Maugham’s Mr. Know-All—the character who was unbearable until the moment he quietly did the right thing without needing credit. And I realized, maybe the world didn’t need one more man explaining things. It needed one more man willing to listen.

So I made a vow the night I failed on the lecture circuit: talk less, listen more, and ask myself whether I was being helpful or just being right. It’s been the hardest vow I have ever tried to keep.

A few weeks later, a friend dropped by to borrow a fence stretcher. I met him on the porch, coffee in hand.

We sat there a while, letting the wind do most of the talking. Then, maybe more to myself than my friend, I said, “You ever notice how quiet the world gets when you stop trying to dominate every conversation?”

He gave me a slow grin. “You finally figure that out?”

I chuckled. “Took me long enough.”

When he got up to leave, I said, “I’m still learning how to be right without having to prove it.”

That’s a lesson you won’t find in most textbooks, but maybe it oughta be taught in grammar school, right along with the history of goose migration across America.