Jump up, Bub!

Watching the World Change Shape

darin

I grew up watching college football with my dad, back when you knew the teams, the conferences, the coaches, and the players—and bowl season felt like something you waited for, not something you scrolled past.

I rooted for Florida teams by geography. Michigan had the coolest fight song. Notre Dame was pretty cool too—they had shiny gold helmets… and Joe Montana.

It was an era.

A good one.

Then everything shifted.

College football turned into free agency with helmets. Media became clickbait. Writing became visibility instead of voice. Music got shorter. Attention spans got thinner. And somehow people started making real money playing video games and dancing online while the rest of us were still trying to figure out what the hell the gig economy even was.

By day, I make my living as a writer. I’ve lived through the slow migration from print to digital, from storytelling to algorithms, from craft to clicks and conversions. Somewhere along the way, I’ve become a reluctant curmudgeon—not angry at change, just trying to understand it without becoming bitter… or pretending I love everything simply because it’s new.

I live on Merritt Island, on Florida’s Space Coast, where rocket launches interrupt beach walks and The Jetsons feel less like a cartoon and more like a user manual. I write with island-casual ease, gentle humor, and just enough wonder to notice the patterns, ironies, and truths that tend to sneak past us when we’re rushing.

I’m also a Jesus Freak—not the loud kind, not the judgmental kind, and definitely not the kind with an ax to grind. I believe in the sweetness of Jesus. In a Christ who listens more than lectures, loves without shaming, and leaves room for questions. Faith shows up in my writing the same way it shows up in my life: honestly, humbly, and without any pressure for others to agree or follow the same path.

So every now and then, I’ll post a few random observations from the perspective of a reluctant island curmudgeon.

Reluctant Island Curmudgeon (n.) A middle-aged writer, lifelong sports fan, and beach-dwelling observer of a world that seems to have changed faster than he did—and didn’t bother to explain itself along the way.

These essays will wander wherever curiosity leads: sports, work, money, music, media, technology, aging, creativity, faith, and what it feels like to live long enough to watch the world reinvent itself more than once.

I’ll poke fun at the new stuff. I’ll poke even more fun at myself. And I’ll keep trying to choose curiosity over contempt every damn time.

I’m not yelling at the clouds.

I’m sitting beneath them, watching them change shape, wondering what they’re trying to teach me about time, grace, and us.

If that sounds like your kind of conversation, pull up a beach chair… or a barstool at the tiki bar.

The next round’s on perspective.

I'm so happy to be here!

The Ties That Bind: Stories of Love, Family, & the Legacy We Leave

darin

The Roughneck’s Son

The first time I laid eyes on Shari was in the spring of ’83, more than two years before our first date. I was 16 then. Shari was just 14. Although it is four decades ago, I can close my eyes and replay my love-at-first-sight moment like it was yesterday. 

I saw her up there in the choir loft at Faith Church, just to the left of the preacher in my view; stunning blonde hair—blondest I’d ever seen—feathered back to reveal an angelic face, captivating blue eyes, the cutest dimples … and a beautiful closed-mouth smile; lips pinched tightly to hide her braces. Hot damn! I knew immediately. She’s the one.

Unfortunately, life as I knew it came crashing down just a few weeks later, on Friday, August 19, 1983, with Dad’s sudden death at 54. 

My siblings all raced to South Florida when they heard. The day after Dad died, all five of us were together at Mom’s side. I can’t tell you what an amazing blessing it is to have a close-knit, loving family when, as George would say, “the shit hits the fan.”

Pastor Bruce was out of town. My brothers and I decided we would compose and officiate Dad’s funeral. Doug shared about Dad’s life. I read the lyrics to his favorite hymn, Just As I Am. My soon-to-be-brother-in-law, Mike, read Dad’s favorite passage, Psalm 23, and shared some thoughts, and then Dave did what he does best—he put everyone at ease with a few amusing George-isms and then wound together a message of hope out of all that had been shared.  

We all gathered again a month later when Mike and Diann were married. Dave walked our sister down the isle in Dad’s stead. 

Everyone having traveled to gather when Dad passed at summer’s end and then again a month later for Diann’s wedding meant we wouldn’t all be gathering for Thanksgiving. That disappointment came with a bit of a silver-lining for me. Pastor Bruce, learning Mom and I would be alone for the holiday, asked us to join his family for Thanksgiving dinner. 

We had a wonderful time. Much more importantly though, I came away with the name of the girl of my dreams. The pastor’s wife, Judy, was telling us about all the young people at church. “Oh, and there’s Shari, perhaps you’ve seen her in the choir on Sundays?” I played it cool. Shrugged like I had no idea. Mom grinned. You should have heard her tell this story. She especially loved this next part—

Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any better, Mom asked if there was a CPA in the congregation, first time she’d be filing taxes as a widow and all. “Jane Clare,” Judy says, handing Mom a church photo-directory. “Just take this copy. Every family in the church is in there.” Mom grinned again. “Every family? You don’t say!”

Franklin. Charles, Karen—SHARI!!!!— and Glenn, 2837 Bahama Drive. 

I called my buddy Todd the moment I got home and we were driving by that address within the hour.

Now, I have to tell you, I admire my old man. He had his love-at-first-sight moment and went and got his girl straightaway. No time to waste. Me? I was … a little more cautious? Cowardly?

I spent the better part of the next two years stalking the girl of my dreams. 

Now, in my defense, figuring out this girl’s life and schedule took a lot of work. Todd and I had to do some super-sleuthing to figure out her routines. Her parents had separated since that church directory was printed; two homes; two different towns. All the places she frequented and the schedules she kept, she was coming and going in different directions. Every chance I had, I put myself in her path—football games, marching competitions, parades … something called Friendship Train? … I was there. 

Of course, the best place to see Shari was at church on Sunday. Stare at her the whole hour. I never missed a service. But I was afraid to talk to her, and it only became worse, the more Todd and I learned about her. This girl was out of my league! 

She was a church girl, the organist and choir director’s daughter. I was a fatherless delinquent who would never fit in with the youth group at church. (I did go once. That’s a story!) 

She was on the Dean’s List. I’d spent the bulk of my brief high school career in the Dean’s office. 

She was on the Honor Roll. I was expelled from high school—dishonorably rolled right out the door! 

She was an accomplished musician. The only thing I’d ever accomplished? My Dad and I built one helluva car. 

I planted myself in Shari’s path at church each week, praying for chances to cross paths in a hallway, offer a smile, maybe even brave a nod and soft-spoken “Hey.” 

When I’d sense she was heading for an exit, I’d sprint outside to be leaning on my accomplishment when she left. I wish you could have heard Mom tell these stories. She laughed her ass off watching me, and teased me mercilessly. 

Mom had a mischievous side. Always one to bring people together for a party, she volunteered to plan a fellowship dinner at church—a Hoe Down. A square dance. She said something to me about table configuration calling for a seating chart, “… so I’ve got us sharing a table with Shari’s family.”

I could have strangled her! Not only would I be face-to-face with the girl of my dreams—whom I was terrified to talk to—but also her mother and her little brother. Jesus help me! Sure, it would give me a chance to talk to her … if I didn’t have a stroke!  

I survived the Hoe Down. Only managed pleasantries at the table with Shari and her family. But it did help. I felt a step closer. We’d talked. Now, I just needed the right moment. 

To be continued . . .