I drove 3½ hours home after Jake’s Eagle Scout ceremony, still running on pride, exhaustion, and whatever gas-station coffee I could get without judgment from the cashier. The plan was simple: get home, see Jamie, and the next day she was going to drive Megan to her doctor’s appointment to find out when they were going to induce. But anyone who’s ever met babies knows—plans are suggestions. Presley Mae had her own timeline. She wasn’t waiting for calendars, schedules, or anyone’s carefully arranged plans. She showed up early, loud, and completely unbothered by the grownups trying to act like they were in charge. Tiny human, full control. Jamie spent the night at the hospital with Megan and Austin—pacing, coaching, stressing, smiling—doing the full “Gramith-in-the-trenches” routine. By morning, there she was: a perfect little human, wrapped in a blanket, already running the show. And somehow, in just 48 hours, I went from watching my son earn Eagle Scout to holding my first g...

Baby Pretzel showed up the day after Jake made Eagle Scout, and it’s wild how life can hit you with joy and ache in the same breath. One day I’m meeting my first grandchild, and the day before I’m watching my son—my boy—reach something he’s been grinding toward since Cub Scouts. I’m so damn proud of him. But under all that pride, there’s a sting I can’t ignore. For a lot of years, I at least had more time with Jake. First every weekend… then every other… and then a judge decided once a month was “more fair,” because someone didn't want to drive halfway. That ruling felt like someone slowly cut away the time I had with my own son. No matter how many seven-hour round-trips I made because someone refused to meet halfway—through rain, traffic, exhaustion—you can’t drive fast enough to outrun that feeling. And I’ve always lived for spring breaks and those little slices of summer vacation. Those were my golden hours. The times I could just be his dad. Wake up slow. Make pancakes. Have...

  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I even write this blog. Not in a dramatic “I’m going dark” way — just in the normal Gen X way where your brain suddenly decides to get reflective between errands. Most of what I post here is light. Funny. Nostalgic. Stuff you can read while eating a sandwich. But life isn’t just made out of the light parts. Sometimes a perfectly good day bumps into an old scar, and suddenly you’re time-traveling emotionally while trying to find a parking space. Case in point: Jacob made Eagle Scout. Huge deal. Pure pride. Have to write more about it in a separate post. A milestone you want to wrap in bubble wrap and save forever. But to get to the ceremony, I had to drive through That Town . Everybody has a place like this — a town that looks normal on Google Maps but turns into psychological dodgeball the minute you’re actually in it. You pass a restaurant where you once had a “we need to talk” conversation. you see restaurant parking lots that h...

  WaterFire hits you before you see it. It hits you in the ears first — loud, sweeping Italian opera strings bouncing off every brick wall, every glass tower, every puddle in downtown Providence like the city had hired the world’s most dramatic soundtrack and then told it to follow you. Your chest hums along whether it wants to or not. I swear I caught myself humming, too, and I can’t even carry a tune. By the canal, the crowd had already claimed their spots. Blankets, folding chairs, couples leaning in close enough that I half expected them to fuse into single entities. People weren’t wandering — they’d hunkered down. The kind of hunkered down that makes you look around and realize, oh, this is serious. Providence does this big. And there I was, trying to wedge myself in without looking like the guy who came alone and doesn’t know where to put his hands. Because I missed Jamie. Not just a little, either. I missed her laugh, her running commentary on how ridiculous it is to scr...

Welcome to Still Rolling Around — the new home for all the things that never quite fit anywhere else but refuse to be forgotten. Like the back cupholder in your car, this series is where the dog treats, busted pens, loose change, and crumpled reminders of real life collect. Not important enough to organize, but way too real to toss. These stories don’t belong in a travelogue or a shop tale. They’re the random moments, small observations, and everyday chaos that make everything else make sense. They may not follow a theme, but they hold the glue — the in-between parts of a life lived wide open. So here they are, finally, where they belong. Still rolling around. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Postcards to Baby Pretzel Back in Rhode Island, I started sending postcards to a baby who hadn’t even decided to arrive yet. I figured, why not? Maybe someday, she’d be old enough to peek into our world before she was born, ...

  I spent ten days in Rhode Island recently, and  the dispatchers kept me close to the hotel. West Warwick, East Warwick, North Warwick, South Warwick—basically every direction except Warwick “Diagonal.” Add in Woonsocket (still fun to say if you have the maturity of a middle-schooler), Narragansett, and Pawtucket—also known to locals as The Bucket —and I was really out there living the dream. If the dream is a series of parking lots, Dunkin’ cups, and people yelling “you from insurance?” Now, I get a little bonus if I close enough claims in a day. It’s called cat pay , which my daughter and stepdaughters find hysterical. They immediately picture me in a hoodie, sliding a Ziploc bag of catnip across a dim parking garage to a Persian with mob ties. Honestly, that’s about the level of dignity I work with most days. Which brings us to how I became a middle-aged Taylor Swift stalker. For the record: none of the kids are official Swifties. Most of them live somewhere between “m...

  The Plan: Full Commitment I started the Cliff Walk at Forty Steps , which — and I can confirm this — is actually forty steps. Not 27 steps that somebody rounded up. Not 60 steps that someone rounded down. Exactly forty stone steps, straight down toward the Atlantic like Newport wanted to wake your quads up with a slap to the face. It’s the kind of stairway you look at and immediately think, “Yup, this was definitely built before liability insurance was invented.” But I came fired up. I wasn’t dabbling. I wasn’t “seeing how far I get.” I was doing the whole thing. It was chilly when I left the car, so like a responsible adult, I put on my jacket. Twenty minutes later the sun came out, the wind died, and suddenly I was slow-roasting inside my own clothing like a human Hot Pocket. It hit about 50 degrees and my jacket turned into a sweaty goopy mess. But I had already made the commitment, and stubbornness is a hell of a motivator  Also I've never been able to tie someth...