Buckeye Mike

I am a car guy. Kind of. Can I take a motor apart and put it back together? No.  Can I restore an old clunker back to hot rod form? Not if you put a gun to my head.  Can I look at almost any car on the road and identify it by year, make, and model? You bet your rear end I can. I have rarely been stumped, even when I was a kid. From Chevettes to Corvettes to Coronets, Mustangs to Murcielagos to Maserati's, Pinto's to Porsches to Puegots,  I could be on the Jeopardy of car makes. Being that into cars, of course, I have had my share of "Dream Cars". I am a Corvette lover, have always been a fan of any Italian automaker, and of course would love to find a great deal on a slightly used Bentley convertible. The definition of elegance for nearly 100 years, there aren't many of them rolling around Columbus, Ohio. Definitely a bucket list item just to get behind the wheel of one of one someday before I die.  But I digress. This post isn't a

I was all prepared for it. I thought for sure Christmas morning my son John-Michael would lose his mind when he saw it. Sure, it's not brand new. And its not something that would turn heads on the street. But still, doesn't every 16 year old kid want a car? I mean I would have flipped out, even if it was a hand me down station wagon. The reaction, though, hurt my feelings a little. Instead of "WOO-HOO cannot wait to drive my car" we got "I do not want to get my license, and don't understand why I need to find a job. After all, I am only 16." A blow to the ego and bank account, since we had gone in debt for a new minivan for Little red to make this happen for my son. It stung.  And that's the way it has been for him for the last 6 months. Don't get me wrong, he is a great kid. Intelligent, polite, and growing up way too fast, there are a ton of typical teenage parent worries that he has spared us. But the last few months have been head scr

I am embarrassed. Embarrassed that, at 41 years old,  you will not see a Holy Bible anywhere in my home. Well, you might in my son's room, but that is for later in this post. But in my things, from my dresser to my office to my suitcase of memories that contain photos and what nots from my past, there is no copy of the word. Ironic, since I claim that one of the biggest reasons I am here despite that past is my faith.  I am ashamed. Ashamed that I have not taught my three sons the same core values and beliefs that I was taught as I was raised in a strong Pentecostal home. I teach my sons to be respectful, integral men of honor with strong values and morals, yet I have never made a conscious effort to take them to church or tell them about Jesus Christ. I am angry. Angry at myself for blasting my son the first time he attached himself to a religion. Whether out of his own thirst to know more about God, or just to impress a girl, he has done more to to develop his