At least until next year.

So, the last Friday of 2025 started with the group hike.

Since it was only Scott and me, and Scott had his car, we took a drive to the seldom-visited countryside out Mangan-Vacca way and commenced our hike. Scott reminded me that our last time out here was in April, that we’d gotten lost, and he had nearly collapsed from exhaustion and dehydration. He’s not sure if that incident triggered his stroke a week later, but the memories are intertwined.

After that pleasant start to the day, when beer o’clock rolled around, Swan was hungry, so we headed for Jewel Cafe. Upon arrival, there was a sign on the door saying that, due to unforeseen circumstances, they would be closed until Saturday. I suggested Myleen’s as an alternative, but as we walked past It Doesn’t Matter, we decided we could eat and drink there. Talk about killing two birds with one stone! The food was good, and the beer was cold, so that was a win.

I suggested Cheap Charlies for our nightcap, but we could see from the street that it was crowded upstairs, so we kept walking to Wet Spot. Met an interesting expat who lives in San Antonio, and we had an enjoyable chat. It seems he’s become disillusioned with the Philippines after many years here and is planning his escape, with Vietnam being his first choice. He hadn’t heard about Dave Fisher’s passing, so I had to share that sad news with him. Anyway, it was a nice night out on the town.

Still plowing through the May 2016 LTG archives, and came upon the sad post about my dear friend Bridget Werner’s passing. She was one of the most unique personalities I’ve encountered over the course of my life, and I still miss her wit and wisdom. What the balls, Bridget! You left us way too soon.

I don’t usually read posts from people I don’t know on Facebook, but for some reason I read this long-ass thing today, and it resonated. It ends with these words:

Don’t wait for someone to make room for you where you don’t belong. The map is wide. The road is long. And the best seat in the house is wherever you decide to stop.

I’ll paste the rest at the end of this post. You can read it or not there at your leisure.

I also came across this article, which says that any amount of marijuana use is bad for teenagers. Well, I smoked pot regularly from age fifteen until my twenties. That may explain a lot, like my inability to use proper grammar. Heh, that reminds me of the time in high school when I went to my English class after smoking a joint at lunchtime. We had to write an essay in the classroom that day, so I wrote about having to write an essay while stoned. To her credit, the teacher recognized me for my honesty, and I got a passing grade. Ah, life is full of memories up until the time you forget them.

Today’s YouTube video reveals the disgusting things going on inside your body while you sleep. I found it interesting; you may too. I feel kind of bad for all the interruptions I cause when I get up to pee every hour or so.

On to what I claim is humor:

And now it is onward to whatever adventure the rest of Saturday holds in store for me.

Here’s that Facebook post I mentioned above:

I was erased from my daughter’s life with a phone call that lasted less than thirty seconds.

I stood in my driveway, November wind cutting through my jacket, fingers stiff around a cooler packed with homemade smoked venison jerky. Two days before Thanksgiving. Behind me sat The Beast—my restored 1978 emerald-green pickup, polished for months until the chrome reflected the sky. I’d planned to drive seven hundred miles to Chicago.

Barnaby, my twelve-year-old Blue Tick Coonhound, was already buckled into the passenger seat, his red holiday bandana tied just right. His tail thumped happily. He knew the cooler meant one thing.

We were going to see The Girl.

Then my phone buzzed.

“Dad,” Emily said. Her voice wasn’t warm. It was tight, rushed, layered with the clatter of keyboards behind her. “Plans changed. Mark’s CEO is coming for dinner. It’s… important. A big networking thing.”

My hand froze on the icy door handle.

“That’s okay,” I said gently. “I packed my navy suit—the one from your graduation.”

“No, Dad—listen,” she interrupted quickly, as if speeding through it would dull the impact. “It’s crowded. And the new house has white wool carpets. Very… intentional. With Barnaby, and your stories—you know how loud they get—it might be better if you stayed at a hotel this time. And maybe boarded Barnaby? There’s a kennel off the interstate.”

The silence between us roared louder than the wind.

She wasn’t just asking me to stay elsewhere. She was editing her life for an audience—and I didn’t fit the aesthetic. The grease permanently etched into my hands. The old truck that smelled like pine and fuel. The hound who snored like a freight train.

We were clutter.

“Don’t worry about it, Em,” I said, keeping my voice steady while something caved in behind my ribs. “I actually forgot—I’ve got a tractor transmission to fix here. Probably shouldn’t leave town anyway. You all have a wonderful night.”

“Oh.” She sounded relieved. That hurt the most. “Okay. That works. We’ll FaceTime. Love you, Dad.”

The call ended.

Barnaby let out a low, mournful howl and rested his chin on the dashboard. He didn’t know the words—but he understood.

“Well, buddy,” I said, climbing into the cab and slamming the heavy door shut. “Looks like Chicago’s off the list.”

I sat there, engine idling, staring at the GPS on my phone.

Six hours, forty-two minutes. Blue line. Efficient. Sterile.

I reached into the glove box and pulled out something I hadn’t used in years—a battered paper road atlas. Its edges were soft as cloth. I opened it, breathing in the scent of ink and old paper.

“You know what?” I traced a line west with my thumb. Away from snow. Away from white carpets. Away from shrinking myself. “Let’s go see that big hole in the ground Mom always wanted to see.”

I tossed my phone face-down and shifted into gear.

We avoided interstates where everyone drives like they’re being chased. We took back roads—two-lane highways curling through towns with named water towers and people who still wave at strangers.

We ate at roadside diners where the menus were sticky and the waitresses called you “Sugar” without irony. I shared my hash browns with Barnaby. Nobody minded. In Missouri, a tattooed kid admired the truck and asked about carburetors. We talked for an hour. No screens. Just people.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel outdated.

I felt alive.

Late on the second day, near the edge of New Mexico, the weather turned. Rain and sleet slicked the road. The sky bruised purple and black.

That’s when I saw them—a modern sedan on the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly. Miles from anywhere.

I pulled over.

A young woman stood shivering beside the car. A little girl pressed her tear-streaked face to the window.

“No service,” the woman said, panicked. “The GPS sent us this way. The car just died. We’re trying to get to Phoenix.”

I nodded. “Pop the hood.”

Plastic everywhere. Computers and covers. But an engine is still an engine. I spotted it fast—a snapped belt.

“I can fix it,” I said.

I didn’t have the right part—but I had ingenuity, duct tape, and time.

“Barnaby,” I said. “Light.”

The old dog trotted over and held the flashlight in his mouth, perfectly still, tail thumping softly.

When the engine came back to life, the woman cried. Tried to hand me money.

“Buy her hot chocolate,” I said. “Stick to the main road.”

She took a photo—me, grease-stained, Barnaby proud beside me—against the endless desert.

Thanksgiving night found us parked at the edge of Grand Canyon.

No fancy dinner. Something better.

A small fire. Beans warming. Jerky for Barnaby. Sage-scented air and ancient silence.

My phone buzzed. Emily.

I answered.

Behind her were suits, wine glasses, white carpets. Too bright. Too stiff.

I turned the camera.

The fire.

The truck.

Barnaby sleeping on a blanket.

Then the sky—stars spilling across the heavens like diamonds.

“I’m at the table,” I said quietly.

She stared. Then softened. “It’s beautiful, Dad. I… I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I said. “But we’re okay. We found our place.”

After the call, I leaned against the truck and watched the fire die down.

I realized I’d spent years waiting for permission to belong—trying to fit into a life that no longer fit me.

But you spend the first half of your life building a home for others.

The second half is learning that you are the home.

I didn’t need a chair in a room where I was afraid to spill something. I had the open road. I had the stars. I had the keys.

Don’t wait for someone to make room for you where you don’t belong.

The map is wide.

The road is long.

And the best seat in the house is wherever you decide to stop.