Category Archives: son

The Final kNight

This was the last big show of the year. It’s my opinion, and it’s incredibly personal to me, so it’s most definitely skewed is that this show would have won one of those medals up for grabs at state.

I haven’t had the opportunity to see the entire show. I was sick for a bit and missed a couple of Saturday’s. Then the wide was sick.

Then the band had several kids down and sick with covid, and others were quarantined due to close contact so they had to miss state competitions.

The only regret I feel is for the seniors. They lost two years out of this with the tornado and covid.

But they all came across as supportive of the younger kids and told them how impressed they were and happy that they all came together. They’re family.

All in all, not a bad year.

Sometimes you can’t count wins in trophies and medals.

These kids are the North Central Silver Knights Marching Band. Two of them are mine by blood, and my wife has pretty much adopted the rest of them. By no fault of my own, I have a lot of kids I watch over in a way. And I could not be prouder.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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Friday Knight Lights

I’m writing something right now that has nothing to do with what my wife just sent me.

My daughter is in her junior year in high school.

She has been in the marching band for almost five years. She plays trumpet and mellophone.

My son is in the sixth grade. This year he was invited to try out for the high school marching band. He went for percussion. He made it.

There are some definite benefits to the discipline that marching band gives both of them.

There is a pride that I have watching both of them develop over the past couple of years and this year.

My two Silver Knights.

I wrote the other night that marching band season and competition are over for the band this year. And it is.

Plans are in the works, though. People have some big aspirations for next year, and I wish them all they hope for.

Win or lose, it’s all about the journey.

It’s dusty in here.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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Character

I’m finished writing about the workweek for now. I did more than my share. I won’t say fair share because I signed on to complete a task, and that’s what I do. Not once this week did I let thoughts of β€œthis is too much” or β€œthis isn’t my job” come into my head.

The workweek is done. It is behind me.


My son received a Character Award. Below is what was said about him. I was unable to be there because of work, but his mother and grandmother attended the event.

Understandably I’ve left his name out. There were a few other lines that might identify him, but this is something a parent wants to hear about their child.

He ended up on the A/B honor roll, and I told him when we received his report card that he needed to apply himself a bit more.

Today as I rethink that he could have gotten straight C’s and I could not be more proud of him.

He reminds me in his actions that life isn’t about grades and money. It’s all about who you are and how you treat people. That you make life better and the world around you better.

We aren’t done raising him, but perhaps we’re doing something right.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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First Day And Accomplishments

It’s only August 5th, and the kids are already going back to school. It is way too early for school. Summer isn’t over. We used to get out in May and go back after Labor Day.

I wouldn’t say I like this.

I now have a sixth-grader and a junior in High School.

I am getting old.

I wouldn’t say I like this.


Both of the kids are in the High School marching band and I am extremely proud of both of them.

Logan shines in the band. It’s her thing. I have never seen such a change come over a person when they take the field. She goes to battleβ€”a completely different kid from her usual laid-back self.

Sam was invited to try out for the high school band this year (he’s a sixth-grader), and he made it. He’s in the percussion section. Today was the first day of middle school.

He’s in middle school band class with a couple of kids from his elementary. One of them is Mallory, with who he has been in a rivalry since kindergarten. Grades, sports, etc.

She is a pretty thorn in his side.

He was talking about band class and mentioned that Mallory was in that class with him.

I look over and say, β€œSam, you did it. You beat Mallory. You’re in the high school band!”

He’s been walking around the house grinning like an idiot for the last thirty minutes. β€œI did it! I’ma have a celebratory donut!”

Celebratory Donut

You take the losses with a good attitude. But everyone should celebrate themselves every once in a while.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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Band Stuff

πš†πšŽ 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 πš—πšŽπš πšœ πšŠπš—πš 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 πš‹πšŠπš πš—πšŽπš πšœ.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 πš—πšŽπš πšœ πš’πšœ πšπš‘πšŽπš’ πš‹πš˜πšπš‘ πš–πšŠπšπšŽ πšπš‘πšŽ πš•πš’πšœπš. πšƒπš‘πšŽπš’β€™πš›πšŽ πš‹πš˜πšπš‘ πš’πš— πšπš‘πšŽ πš‘πš’πšπš‘ πšœπšŒπš‘πš˜πš˜πš• πš–πšŠπš›πšŒπš‘πš’πš—πš πš‹πšŠπš—πš.

πšƒπš‘πš’πšœ πš πš’πš•πš• πš‹πšŽ πš‘πšŽπš› πšπš˜πšžπš›πšπš‘ πš’πšŽπšŠπš›, πšπš‘πš’πšœ πš’πšŽπšŠπš› 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 πš“πšžπš—πš’πš˜πš›. π™°πš—πš πšœπš‘πšŽ πš‘πšŠπšœ πšπš˜πš—πšŽ πš—πš˜πšπš‘πš’πš—πš πš‹πšžπš πšŽπš‘πšŒπšŽπš• πš’πš— πšπš‘πš’πšœ. π™»πš˜πšπšœ 𝚘𝚏 πš‘πšŠπš›πš πš πš˜πš›πš”, πš•πš˜πšπšœ 𝚘𝚏 πš›πšŽπš πšŠπš›πš. π™Έπšβ€™πšœ πš‘πšŽπš› πšπš‘πš’πš—πš.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ π™΄πš•πšπšŽπšœπš

πšƒπš‘πš’πšœ πš πš’πš•πš• πš‹πšŽ πš‘πš’πšœ πšπš’πš›πšœπš πš’πšŽπšŠπš›, πšŽπš—πšπšŽπš›πš’πš—πš πšπš‘πšŽ πšœπš’πš‘πšπš‘ πšπš›πšŠπšπšŽ.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ π™»πš’πšπšπš•πšŽπšœπš

π™Έπš πš–πšŠπš”πšŽπšœ πš‘πš’πš– πšπš‘πšŽ π™»πš’πšπšπš•πšŽπšœπš π™Ίπš—πš’πšπš‘πš. π™°πš—πš πš–πšŠπš’πš‹πšŽ πšπš‘πšŽ πš’πš˜πšžπš—πšπšŽπšœπš πšŽπšŸπšŽπš› πš’πš—πšŸπš’πšπšŽπš πš’πš—. π™ΌπšŠπš’πš‹πšŽ.

π™Έβ€™πš– πšŸπšŽπš›πš’ πš™πš›πš˜πšžπš 𝚘𝚏 πšπš‘πšŽπš– πš‹πš˜πšπš‘.


π™°πš—πš πš—πš˜πš  πšπš‘πšŽ πš‹πšŠπš πš—πšŽπš πšœ. πšƒπš‘πšŽπš’β€™πš›πšŽ πšπš˜πš’πš—πš 𝚝𝚘 πšπš›πšŠπš πš–πšŽ, πš”πš’πšŒπš”πš’πš—πš πšŠπš—πš πšœπšŒπš›πšŽπšŠπš–πš’πš—πš, πš πš’πšπš‘ πšπš‘πšŽπš–.

π™Έβ€™πšŸπšŽ πš‹πšŽπšŽπš— πšπš‘πšŽ πšžπš—πš˜πšπšπš’πšŒπš’πšŠπš• πš™πš‘πš˜πšπš˜πšπš›πšŠπš™πš‘πšŽπš› πšπš˜πš› 𝚊 πš‹πš’πš. 𝙸 πšŸπš’πšπšŽπš˜ πšŒπš˜πš–πš™πšŽπšπš’πšπš’πš˜πš—πšœ. π™Έπšβ€™πšœ πš–πš’ πš‘πš˜πš‹πš‹πš’, πšπš‘πšŽ πšŸπš’πšπšŽπš˜ πšŠπš—πš πš™πš‘πš˜πšπš˜πšπš›πšŠπš™πš‘πš’ πš™πšŠπš›πš. π™·πšŽπš›πšŽ πš’ πš‘πšŠπšŸπšŽ πšŒπšŠπš™πšπš’πšŸπšŽ πšœπšžπš‹πš“πšŽπšŒπšπšœ. πšƒπš‘πš’πšœ πš’πšŽπšŠπš› π™Έβ€™πš– πšπš˜πš’πš—πš 𝚝𝚘 πšŸπš˜πš•πšžπš—πšπšŽπšŽπš› πšπš˜πš› πš™πš’πš πšŒπš›πšŽπš  πšŠπš—πš πšπšŠπš”πšŽ 𝚊 πš–πš˜πš›πšŽ πšŠπšŒπšπš’πšŸπšŽ πš™πšŠπš›πš πš’πš— πšπš‘πšŽ πš‹πšŠπš—πš. π™°πš•πš• πš’πš—.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš πš’πšπšŽ πš’πšœ 𝚊 πš‹πšŠπš—πš πšπšŽπšŽπš” πšŠπš—πš’πš πšŠπš’. π™΄πš—πš˜πšžπšπš‘ πšœπšŠπš’πš.

H͟e͟r͟e͟ w͟e͟ β€ŠΝŸgo͟.

πšƒπš‘πšŠπšβ€™πšœ πš’πš. πšƒπš‘πšŠπšβ€™πšœ πšπš‘πšŽ πš™πš˜πšœπš.

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Age and Play

Sam was in the garage tonight bouncing a ball. He had been doing this inside the house and it was driving everyone crazy so he was banished to the garage.

I felt bad so I went out to play with and he came up with some quick rules on how we were getting points. This lasted about ten minutes to where I got too into it and twisted wrong.

My back is on fire. Lol.

There’s a forty one year age difference between us. But what am I to do? I’m his dad. He doesn’t think I’m old. I hate to tell him, I am indeed.

But I do what I can when I can.

So I’m going to sit here and hurt awhile. He’s already asleep.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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Stepping Up

This isn’t going to be much of a post. Just showing a little progress in our podcasting setup.

Our mic stand/scissor arms came in today. Starting to look like we’re actually trying to do something.

I get to balance some sound and figure out my mixing board this week in the evenings. It may not be perfect, but it’s what we got.

And that’s what we work with.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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Gonna Be A Rough Day/Night/Morning

I’m lying here, drugged, trying to fall asleep.

#DADMode

Keeping up with my priorities which today were:

1. Church βœ…

2. Recording The Podcast With Sam βœ…

3. Editing The Podcast (In Progress)

4. Sleep (I’m Trying)

5. Off To Work At Midnight (Reset)

6. Taking Delivery Of A New Range Some Time Tomorrow

It’s gonna be hard but nothing that’s worth it is ever easy.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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The Perils of Podcasting (or trying to)

We are experiencing technical difficulties.

Rather than spending so much time in editing we are trying to use the equipment we’ve had a few years, a mixer and real mics.

I’ve been working that most of the afternoon and I have to be up at 3AM for a project for work at 5AM. There’s an hour an twenty minute drive between here and there. You can see my lack of time this weekend.

So during this week we are going to pull a decent show together (on paper) and give this a real go next weekend.

But Sam said we can’t disappoint both of our fans so here you go:

No Show This Week

We’ll call that episode 3.75.

Thanks for reading and listening.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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This Is Different

Any other time I walk in my sons room and he has a set of headphones on his head talking to his friends (you have friends?!) plugging away at Fortnite.

Tonight I walked in to this…

Yes. We’ve pulled out the Legos.

I am pleased. On his own he has decided on something at least creative.

So Mario in Lego. Interesting.

Paused for the evening. Artists are temperamental.

In search of blocks and running low on colors and shapes the artiste has taken a break for the evening.

I like this.

That’s it. That’s the post.

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