Val the Writer

Letting Go

Valentine J Brkich — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 15:39:49 GMT

One week ago today, I did something I’d been dreading pretty much for the past eighteen years: I dropped off my daughter, Nella, aka Boogs, at college.

It was the bittersweet ending to a whirlwind summer that began back in May with her graduation from high school. The rest of the summer, my wife and I planned and prepared for Boogs’ upcoming move. Honestly, my wife did most of the detailed work; I was mainly a ‘gofer,’ making trip after trip out to MAC.BID in Beaver Falls or Robinson Twp. to pick up all of the dorm room necessities.

All summer, I tried not to get emotional by convincing myself that this was a good thing. My daughter needed this. She needed to be on her own and become a more independent young woman. Framing it this way, I was able to forget, if only momentarily, that our home of four would soon just be three. That every time I walked past her bedroom, she wouldn’t be there. That after driving two jam-packed cars to Kent State, I’d be driving an empty one all the way back home, alone.

The morning we left, emotions were high as my daughter bid farewell to our dog, TyTy, who slept in her bed every night. The image of him, heading off later that night to sleep alone in her empty bed, nearly sent me over the edge.

We had to drive two cars to Kent, since Boogs was apparently bringing everything she’d need, not just for her freshman year, but for the following three years as well. As I navigated our Hyundai down Interstate 76 into Ohio, my daughter played music from her iPhone. I almost sobbed several times along the way as she played songs like Indigo Girls’ “Closer to Fine,” which I’d first heard during my own freshman year, and 10,000 Maniacs’ “These Are Days,” which only further emphasized the weight of this particular moment. She also played Orleans’ “Still the One,” which wasn’t really relevant to our current situation. But as she and I sang it together in harmony, it was just another reminder of what I’d be losing.

We arrived at Kent around 12:30 p.m. It took us just under six hours to set up Boogs’ and her roommate Nora’s room. When my parents took me to college, way back in the 1900s, it was way different. We maybe spent half an hour cleaning up and moving some furniture around; I did all the decorating myself (i.e., wallpapering my walls with cut-out pictures of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models) after they’d left campus.

My main job during my daughter’s move-in was rearranging heavy furniture with the help of my son and going back and forth to the cars in the blazing heat to retrieve her mountain of dorm supplies. Meanwhile, the moms helped the girls manifest the cozy aesthetic they’d worked so hard to curate over the past few months.

Around 4:30 p.m., famished and certain we’d never get finished moving her in, I headed off to the cafeteria (getting permission from my wife first, of course) to indulge in some pepperoni pizza, a cheeseburger, a plate of French fries, two large glasses of Pepsi, and some kind of chocolate-chip cookie topped with whipped cream and mini M&M’s (after all, I’d earned it). When I got back to the dorm, my son was visibly despondent and lying on the floor underneath my daughter’s desk. So I sent him off to go peruse the local record store. I’ve never seen him move so fast.

We finally finished setting up her dorm around 6:30 p.m. Boogs and her roommate had a couple of first-year events to attend that evening, so that was our signal to leave. As I embraced my daughter for the last time in I didn’t know how long, she whispered, “Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad.” She knew that if Dad broke down, she would too.

As I walked to my car, I turned back to see Boogs and Nora walking away down the sidewalk and into the next chapter of their lives. I wanted so bad to run after her and give her one more big, long hug. But I knew I had to let her go.

It was her time now.

I never drive without listening to music or a podcast. But as I pulled away that day in my empty vehicle, I turned off the radio and rode in silence, tears streaming down my face. I needed to feel the full weight of the moment. I needed to accept it and to grieve; otherwise, I’d never be able to move on.

Like I said, it’s now been a full week since we left our first-born child at college. I can’t say it’s been easy not having her here. The house is much quieter, and we miss having her friends drop by every day and adding a youthful energy to the house. But I guess we’re managing. One good thing is the house is a heck of a lot less messy. (Boogs was never that into cleanliness.)

College is easier for modern-day parents too. When my parents dropped me off at campus, I don’t think I spoke to either of them for a month (boys are different). When I finally did communicate with them, it was over a brief landline conversation (it was long-distance) or sometimes even a handwritten letter. And, of course, they had no way of knowing where I was at 2 o’clock in the morning. (Usually in bed. I’ve always been pretty boring.)

Today, with things like FaceTime and Life360, we can video-chat with Boogs whenever we want and always see where she is. I bet we’ve had at least three video calls with her a day since she’s left. So that’s been nice. It’s eased the pain, if only a little bit.

Hopefully, it will all get easier in the coming weeks, as Boogs gets more acquainted with college life, and my wife and I get more comfortable with her being so far away. Two years from now, we get to do it all again when our son graduates.

Then again, we barely see or talk to him now. So I’m thinking the transition will be a lot easier. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Car vs. House

Valentine J Brkich — Tue, 25 Aug 2026 14:44:12 GMT

People are always saying that my son, aka The Animal, aka Bub, is a replica of me. I can’t say I disagree. For good or bad, the male DNA is strong in my family.

Early on, my wife and I recognized that my son was highly intelligent. And, early on, we recognized that the confidence this gave him could easily turn into arrogance, as it did with me at times during my youth. It’s okay to feel good about being smart, I told him, but it’s also important to be humble.

“I’m the humblest person in the world!” he told us around age 5. “No one’s as humble as me.”

Obviously, that’s something my wife and I would have to work on.

So, a couple of weeks ago, after a year of driving with a learner’s permit, my son finally got his license. I wasn’t worried. While learning how to drive a car, he had demonstrated that he was careful, competent, and understood the weight of the responsibility it carried.

Recently, we left to run some errands, and I told Bub to pull up to the garage when we got home to fill up the tires. When we arrived back at home, my son drove right up to the garage so that he could access the compressor. After a short lesson on how to operate the machine, he filled the tires as needed. I then went back into the house to work on a freelance project.

Just before I did, my son told me he was going to the gym to work out. Fine by me. He had proven he was trustworthy.

Minutes later, I’m at my computer, which sits near a window that’s in a bump-out right by the driveway. Suddenly, I hear my son start the car and start to back down the driveway. The next thing I hear (and feel) is a loud “BOOM!” I turn to look out the window and see the Subaru right up against the house.

“Shit!” I yell, as I run out of the den to the back door.

“What’s wrong?!” replies my wife from the dining room.

“Isaac ran into the house with the car!”

When I get outside, I just briefly glance at the car. It’s old and already paid off. I am way more concerned that my son hit the HVAC vents that come out of our house right below the bump-out. Luckily, I see that the vents are fine and that he has only taken a small chunk out of our 1889 sandstone. As for the car, there is only a small dent on the side, and the plastic wheel arch trim needs to be reattached—a repair that I easily take care of with a small clamp and some duct tape.

Pretty impressive for a former English major, if I say so myself.

So, I guess I should be relieved that my kids’ first car accident was a minor one. Then again, that first accident was The Animal driving right into my house, which, you would think, would be a little hard to miss.

I’m beginning to think that the local DMV needs to up its evaluation criteria when it comes to licensing new drivers. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Wait...Where's My Happy Juice?

Valentine J Brkich — Sat, 15 Aug 2026 17:53:55 GMT

I was dreading this past week.

A little over five years ago, I had my first colonoscopy. The procedure itself was no big deal. In fact, one of my favorite moments ever was when they were wheeling me into the room and asked if I was ready. As soon as I said yes, they started the drip, and I enjoyed five of the most blissful seconds of my life, as they began the drip of ‘Happy Juice’ (whatever it was) into my veins. A blink of an eye later, I was awakening back in the recovery room, groggy, mumbling, and wishing I could have just a little more Happy Juice.

No deal. (I asked.)

What I was dreading this time, however, was the prep. If you’ve never had to do a colonoscopy prep, lucky you. I remember having to drink two large bottles of some of the nastiest liquid ever, and then my stomach blowing up like an about-to-burst balloon, before spending most of the night on the toilet, pretty sure I was dying of dysentery.

This time, I promised myself, would be different. As soon as I heard about the “pill option,” I was all in. Just swallow a couple of pills instead of almost drowning myself on that vile fluid? The choice was simple.

Then I opened my prescription and read the directions.

Now, I had scheduled my procedure for 1 p.m. the following day, so I could get all the nasty stuff done with early, and then actually get some sleep that night. The directions said to take the first bottle of pills—the FIRST BOTTLE!?!—at 5 p.m. and the next at 9 p.m. Well, I’m no doctor, but my normal bedtime is around 9 p.m. (yes, I’m boring), so, with my advanced degree in English Literature, I made the decision that it would be fine to start at 4 p.m. instead.

Opening the first bottle, I found 12—yes, 12—pills as big as kidney beans, which I had to ingest within a 15-minute period. I then had another fifteen minutes to drink a 16-oz. glass of water. Then, after an hour wait, I had to drink another 16-oz. glass of water, followed by another thirty minutes later. I figured that’s when the floodgates would open.

I figured wrong.

So, my stomach bloated with water and horse pills, I began my second bottle, despite having no thirst and having not peed at all. Certainly the dam would break any minute.

Or not.

It wasn’t until around 9:30 p.m. that I felt compelled to head to the bathroom. I didn’t emerge from it until 12:30 a.m. I’m surprised I could even get off of the toilet, since by then my legs and feet had gone completely numb. Well, I thought, as I climbed into bed with my wife, at least now I can rest.

Ten minutes later, my gut registered a 7.2 on the Richter scale, and I made a beeline to the bathroom. This pattern repeated itself until around 3:30 a.m. when, I believe due to utter exhaustion and dehydration, I finally passed out.

Thankfully, my internal clock woke me at 6 a.m., as is the norm. (Who needs sleep?) So I went downstairs and had my usual cup of black coffee, which thankfully was permitted. What I really wanted, though, having not eaten anything since 1 p.m. the previous day (other than a couple oh-so-filling mugs of warm chicken broth), was a ten-egg omelet, a stack of flapjacks, and a pound of bacon.

By the time my wife drove me to my colonoscopy appointment, I was nearly comatose with exhaustion and hunger. But despite my brain trying to get me to pass out on the gurney in my waiting room, I fought hard to stay awake.

Don’t fall asleep! I told my brain. We’re only minutes away from the Happy Juice! Don’t you remember the Happy Juice?! We’ve come this far—just hold on a few more minutes!

Finally, the nurse came in and began to roll me into the room where they’d be shoving a camera where the sun don’t shine. Of course, I wasn’t nervous at all. I was too tired and too excited about the Happy Juice that was about to be coursing through my veins.

Then the anesthesiologist inserted what I thought was the oxygen tubes into my nose and told me to take three deep breaths. Sure, I thought, no problem. Take a few deep breaths and then enjoy the ultimate bliss of Happy Juice running through my...

Then, I woke up.

“Well,” said some blurry figure at the foot of my bed claiming to be the doctor, “we didn’t find any polyps, and everything looks good.”

“Great,” I replied. Actually, it was something more like, “Flimpof neroflum,” according to my wife, who was sitting nearby and filming everything for posterity. What I wished I asked him was, “What the heck happened to my Happy Juice?!?!”

Oh, well. It’s probably for the best. The most important thing is that the procedure went well, and my colon is healthy. And if that Happy Juice (whatever it was) was really that good, maybe it’s for the best that I never have it again.

Remind me never to try heroin, btw. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Nice Time in The 'Nati

Valentine J Brkich — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 22:35:37 GMT

This past weekend, I accompanied my good friend George on a road trip to Cincinnati to visit his lovely parents—Gail and Forest. The following are my reflections on the trip and the various highlights:

The drive down went as expected: George tailgated tractor-trailers going 80 mph, while I looked out my side window, trying not to envision our fiery, violent demise, which I was sure was imminent.
At one point, a song came on the radio, which George informed me was in the 1982 comedy, “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.” He then mentioned how the film had launched the careers of actors such as Judge Reinhold, Phoebe Cates, and Sean Penn, and that other guy (neither of us could recall his name) who was originally chosen to play “Marty” in “Back to the Future.” For the next 45 minutes, I wracked my brain to try to remember. Then, it finally came to me: “Eric Stolz!” I exclaimed. Just then, an old Dodge Caravan pulled alongside of us with a decal of the flux capacitor on the back window. Apparently, the universe was giving us a sign that we were on the right path (albeit at 80+ mph).
When we arrived at George’s folks’ place, his 92-year-old father was down in the garage painting the four-foot-tall wings for a massive butterfly yard sculpture he’s creating. More proof that remaining creative is key to longevity. After a delicious meal of steak, Mexican street corn, and roasted potatoes, we headed down to Cincinnati’s Pleasant Ridge neighborhood to flip through vinyl at Everybody’s Records. We then headed back to spin our new purchases (I bought a copy of Billy Joel’s “Turnstiles” album) during a vinyl night on the back patio.
Saturday morning, we played nine at a local disc golf course, where George, who’s somehow resisted the disc-golf contagion, actually admitted he enjoyed himself. (We may pull him over to the dark side just yet.)
That afternoon, we headed to the quaint town of Oakley to peruse the racks of Sessions Vinyl Room. It was a wonderful store with a great selection of records. Unfortunately, I spent most of my time in the bathroom dealing with explosive diarrhea, which (since we didn’t eat at Skyline Chili) I can only attribute to either cyclosporiasis or a vinyl version of the Mariko Aoki Phenomenon.
Later on, George, his dad, his brother Chuck, and I headed down to Little Miami Brewing Company for a pint. (Luckily, I didn’t have to make any runs to the bathroom, no pun intended.) We then stopped at the local seafood store to pick up some Australian barramundi to grill for dinner, as one does when one is in Ohio.
That evening, we headed up to Loveland (home of the legendary Frogman) to look through more records at Plaid Room, before stopping by Narrow Path Brewing Co. for—you guessed it!—another pint. Chad, the owner of the brewery, is a friend of George’s, and he treated us to a couple of free shots of Old Fitzgerald bourbon and New Riff Rye. We also met a nice couple at the bar—the Petersons— with whom, thanks to the bourbon and a ten-percent Belgian quad, we may or may not have shared our Social Security numbers.
Sunday morning, George and I hit another disc golf course (looks like we may have created another “disc-head” after all) before bidding his folks adieu and heading for home. And so ended our trip to the Queen City. A little over four hours later, we pulled safely into good ol’ Beaver, Pa., despite George once again tempting fate the entire way, tailgating truckers at 80 mph.

Next time we visit his folks, I think I’ll offer to drive. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Who Let the Dog Out? Me.

Valentine J Brkich — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 23:16:30 GMT

A couple of weeks ago, my friends George and Joline asked me to walk their dog Sookie (Suki? Sewkey? Sookee?) once a day around lunchtime. Since I was driving a summer-school van at the time, I had an open window around noon, so I agreed to do it. Plus, Joline said she’d pay me, which, as a writer during these AI times, is always a good thing.

I admit, I was a little nervous the first day I typed their code into the door. Sure, I’d met Sookie a time or two before. But if she was anything like my dog, who wants to disembowel our mailman every single day, who knows what would happen? Luckily, Sookie was very friendly as I, a complete stranger, suddenly broke into their home in the middle of the day (You guys might want to get a security system). And when I took her leash off of the hook, she was immediately so joyous.

That’s what’s great about dogs. They couldn’t care less about politics. All they want is someone—anyone—to take them for a walk so they can smell the piss and feces of other dogs in the neighborhood. That’s something we can all understand.

Early in that first walk, Sookie did a #2, which was no big deal. I’ve picked up my own dog’s poop hundreds of times. Still, there’s something weird about picking up another dog’s do-do. It’s like when you’re used to changing your kid’s diaper, and then, while babysitting, you have to change your niece or nephew’s diaper. It’s the same smelly, disgusting task, but there’s just something different about it that doesn’t sit right.

Luckily, Sookie left me a slimy, chocolate soft-serve type of doodie in the highest part of their neighbor’s yard. Wonderful.

So, for two days, I stopped by the house and took Sookie on a leisurely walk around the block. I would’ve walked her longer, but due to the 90+ temperatures and the smoke from the Canadian wildfires, I could tell she was just fine with going home, breathing some air-conditioned oxygen, and getting a treat for emptying her bladder.

As a 50-something man, if I could get rewarded every time I emptied my bladder, I’d be richer than Jeff Bezos.

Sookie’s treat, by the way, was a little cup of doggie ice cream. Who even knew there was such a thing? Please, don’t tell my dog. He’s perfectly fine with his “treat,” which to me looks exactly like his kibble that he eats throughout the day.

That’s another thing that’s great about dogs—they’re dumb. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

It's All Greek to Me

Valentine J Brkich — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 00:34:16 GMT

Recently, I served as a chaperone for a student tour of Greece, as part of the Beaver Travel Club through EF Tours. Led by my lovely wife, Cassie, the tour, which included ten students (and one lucky mom), took us to various scenic and legendary locales throughout the Land of the Gods. The following is my recap of our epic Grecian odyssey.

DAY FIVE — AN IMPERFECTLY PERFECT ENDING TO OUR GRECIAN ADVENTURE!

Years ago, I went to Vegas with some friends and family to celebrate my 30th birthday. We spent seven days in “Sin City,” eating and drinking way too much while trying to experience as much as we could.

By the fifth day, I knew we’d bitten off more than we could chew, and I ended up spending the last two days walking around in a dyspeptic haze and longing for home. It was then that I decided that five days was more than enough for any vacation (three, if you’re in Vegas).

By our fifth day in Greece, I wasn’t suffering from overindulgence, but I was ready to go home. It’s funny how even 3,000-year-old ruins can become somewhat ho-hum after a while. With that in mind, after another ‘unique’ breakfast, we hit the road at 8 a.m. sharp. Our destination: the Fortress of Palamidi. Oh, joy. More ruins.

Actually, it was pretty amazing.

This literal “castle on the hill” (no relation to the song by Ed Sheeran) has stood guard over the coastal city of Nafplio for over three hundred years. Built between 1711 and 1714, the fortress, which was named after the Homeric hero Palamedes, is considered the largest and best-preserved Venetian castle in Greece.

It was truly an awe-inducing sight, seeing the fortress from miles away as we approached on our bus. The view at the top of the town far below was even better. Surprisingly, there’s even a small café located near a small prison that was once at the top of the castle. Because, you know, even prisoners needed their Starbucks.

After that, we headed down into Nafplio to explore the town. This was one of my favorite parts of the entire trip. Nafplio’s narrow, cobblestone alleyways are charming, amazingly clean, and lined with so many cute shops and cafés. I even spotted an indie record shop at one point, but unfortunately, it was closed until 6 p.m., hours after our departure. Then again, it probably would’ve been annoying to have to carry vinyl albums on my lap the entire flight home across The Pond.

After a short but enjoyable boat ride around Bourtzi Castle, a 15th-century Venetian-style fortress situated on a tiny islet in the center of the bay (sorta like Alcatraz, only way prettier), we had an hour or so of free time before lunch at Taverna Elatos. Well, some of us did. Thirteen of the students—including my own kids—instead went off to get tattoos! I tried to dissuade my 16-year-old son at first, but then he said he wanted a tattoo of The Cross. And since I hope to get into Heaven one day, I relented.

Once everyone was finished with lunch (and some getting their bodies irrevocably scarred with ink), we had a little more free time before we were to depart at 2:30 p.m. I was really bummed we couldn’t spend a little more time in this charming, seaside town. Luckily, Adonis, our bus driver, accidentally locked his keys in the bus, and they had to have another bus bring an extra key. So we had another couple of hours to explore lovely Nafplio!

As the others went off to do some shopping or explore more ruins (ugh), Cassie and I made a beeline to a seaside restaurant I’d spotted during our boat ride. There, we enjoyed a drink while enjoying the view and chatting with Chris and her daughter, Reagan. It was just the kind of relaxation we needed after a long week of running. It even rained for the first time during our vacation, which was just fine with me. After all, when it rains, you don’t have any guilt about doing absolutely nothing.

Eventually, Adonis got back into his bus, and we were headed back to Athens. Once back at the Evia Asty Hotel, I took the one-person elevator up to my room, unpacked all of my belongings, and got ready to step into a much-needed shower. Then my wife called me from down in the lobby to tell me we had to switch rooms. Wonderful. At least I had a nice four hours of sleep to look forward to.

The next day, we awoke at 3:30 a.m. to head to the airport for our flight to London, followed by a seven-hour layover, before our final eight-hour flight home. I’ll spare you the painful details. You’re welcome.

And so ended our epic Grecian odyssey! Will I ever go back? It’s too soon to say. That’s what twenty-two hours of travel will do to you. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

It's All Greek to Me

Valentine J Brkich — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 01:07:40 GMT

DAY FOUR — MYCENAE! (AND THE BEGINNING OF EXHAUSTION)

As dawn broke on the fourth day of our Grecian odyssey, I was really looking forward to our two-hour bus ride to the ancient ruins of Mycenae. After three jam-packed days of touring, a nice little ride throughout the Greek countryside sounded right up my alley. Unfortunately, most of the drive was spent sitting in bumper-to-bumper Monday morning Athens traffic.

It turns out sitting in traffic in Greece is just as boring as sitting in traffic in the U.S.

Along the way, we made a pit stop at the Corinth Canal to grab a snack and take a pee (in the gift shop, not the canal itself). Built between 1882 and 1893, the 3.9-mile-long, 82-foot-wide canal joins the Gulf of Corinth in the northwest with the Saronic Gulf in the southeast, shortening the journey from the Adriatic Sea to Athens’ port, Piraeus, by more than 200 miles. Being terrified of heights, I only briefly glanced at the canal before heading back to the shop to use the facilities.

After leaving Corinth, somewhere along the road, our bus driver, Adonis, signaled for a pickup truck to pull over. He then left the bus and came back with an enormous bag of fresh peaches that he’d purchased from the farmer. Based on the size of the bag he handed our guide Stella, they really must eat a lot of peaches in Greece.

A little while later, we pulled into the parking lot of Mycenae. Our first stop was the Treasury of Atreus, also known as the Tomb of Agamemnon, a stunning tholos or beehive tomb constructed between 1300 and 1250 BCE in Mycenae, Greece.

According to Ancient World Magazine, the ruin “is not a treasury nor is there any evidence to show it belonged to the fictional Atreus; in the latter case, it almost certainly didn’t belong to the equally fictional Agamemnon.” Being that they’re both “fictional,” I assume it didn’t take much research to come to this conclusion. Either way, it’s an amazing subterranean structure, and it made me feel like I was in an Indiana Jones movie.

Next, we followed our guide up the steep, slippery path to the ancient ruins of Mycenae. Believed to have been constructed in the second millennium BC, Mycenae served as a military stronghold that dominated much of southern Greece. Little remains of the original structures that once stood upon the hill, but the view from the top was breathtaking. Luckily, due to our jam-packed schedule, we had a whole ten minutes to take it all in!

Back on the bus, we headed for a pottery class at Mycenaean Experience. Not a fan of getting my hands dirty (I have issues), I spent the hour or so taking photos of the shop’s amazing pottery, while the kiddos did their best to recreate a winged figurine. My son shared his own unique perspective on his attempt.

Next, we enjoyed a wonderful late lunch at Kolizera’s, where I sampled a traditional Greek delicacy: a burger and fries (finally!). After that, Stella took the students to a back room in the restaurant and taught them a traditional Greek dance. To my surprise, they actually seemed like they enjoyed themselves. With teenagers, you never know.

After one final stop at a roadside olive oil tasting place, we arrived at our destination for the night, the Hotel Esperia in the sleepy, beachside town of Tolo. I really wish we could’ve spent more time in this quaint little village, which offered a number of distinctive shops and eateries. Alas, these student tours try to pack as much in as possible. It’s up to you to come back and spend more time in the places you really like.

Personally, I don’t see myself going back to Greece anytime soon. There are just so many other places I want to visit. But who knows? (I won’t be going back anytime soon.)

(Our hotel had a lovely pool. Unfortunately, it closed at 7 p.m. Luckily, the poolside bar stayed open til midnight.)

And so ended Day 4 of our Greek adventure. Stay tuned for our fifth and final day, as we visit the Palamidi Fortress! ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

It's All Greek to Me

Valentine J Brkich — Tue, 07 Jul 2026 20:22:54 GMT

DAY THREE — CRUISING THE SARONIC ISLANDS!

After a long day of travel, followed by another long, hot day of touring Athens, I was really looking forward to our third day, when we’d be enjoying a leisurely cruise to explore the Saronic Islands.

In order to beat the crowds, we left the hotel early at 6:30 a.m., breakfast boxes in hand. Unfortunately, instead of a McDonald's Sausage McMuffin with Egg and a greasy hash brown, the boxes included a dry ham-and-cheese sandwich, an apple, and some sort of hard biscuit with marmalade. But, hey, we were in Greece. So, I couldn’t complain too much.

Arriving at the dock, we stood in line and waited to board the ship. At one point, a group of four, whom I assumed to be U.S. citizens—two were wearing Boston and Cleveland sports attire (go figure)—tried to insinuate themselves into our group to bypass the line. Thankfully, one of the crew spotted them and escorted them to the back of the line. Ha! That almost made up for my dry breakfast sandwich. Almost.

When we finally got on board, Cassie and I made our way to the upper deck and found two nice seats with a fine view off the starboard side. We then enjoyed some coffee as we took in the breathtaking vista of the Grecian coastline. The two-and-a-half-hour ride was so relaxing and a welcome change from touring on foot. That is, until some “Karen,” who had arrived at the dock late, stood blocking my view as she complained to one of the crew about how all the good seats had been taken. Ever hear the one about the early bird, Karen?

(Even a “Karen” couldn’t ruin this view.)

Early on, we met a waiter named Spyros who, along with being an excellent server, also gave us a tip on where to go to beat the mad rush off the ship. He also recommended his favorite bakery at our first stop—Hydra.

(Me and Spyros—the best server in Greece.)

The original plan was to visit the islands of Hydra, Poros, and Aegina. However, high winds delayed our docking at Hydra by thirty minutes. So, Poros was cut from the itinerary.

That was just fine with me, however, because it meant we would get a little more time to explore Hydra, with its red-tiled houses and narrow, cobbled alleys. Hydra, nestled into the surrounding cliffs, was one of the most beautiful little seaside towns I’ve ever seen. A carless island, the main mode of transportation is donkeys, which we immediately spotted all throughout town.

Taking Spyros’ advice, we made a beeline for Hydra Tsangaris and asked for a sample of the “traditional,” which turned out to be a thin almond bread topped with powdered sugar. We then grabbed four more samples of their delectable sweets for a grand total of just 2.50€.

My daughter and her friends were in awe of Hydra’s beauty as they explored the quaint alleyways, taking fashionable photos to share on their various socials. The boys went off and rented donkeys. Hopefully, they didn’t act like jackasses.

After enjoying a drink at a cafe near the marina, my wife and I climbed the steps to a stone platform looking over the port, so we could take in the view before departing. At the top, we found two girls singing Abba’s “Mamma Mia” into a mic, with large speakers pointing out over the bay and into town. Of course, as a known karaoke nut, I had to follow suit. So I sang an accapela verse of one of my standards—Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.”

We then departed lovely Hydra, hoping one day to return and spend more time exploring (and singing more songs into the bay).

Our next stop was the island of Aegina, which, thanks to its unique microclimate, produces some of the most prized pistachios in the world. The kids, who couldn’t care less about pistachios, headed straight for the beach. Meanwhile, my wife and I followed our tour guide Stella to her favorite pistachio stand (which I cannot pronounce).

Have you ever seen a video of piranha in a frenzy as they tear the flesh off of some unfortunate prey? Well, that’s what it was like at the pistachio stand as grown adults frantically rushed the stand to devour samples of pistachio butter, pistachio-infused honey, and even pistachios themselves. I managed to get one sample of butter before deciding to back off to a safe spot in order to avoid injury (and to find an ice-cold beer).

On the boat ride home, two talented musicians, along with two traditional Greek dancers, put on a show on the upper deck. At one point, I spotted my daughter in a sort of Greek conga line as it snaked its way around the boat. She seemed to be enjoying herself. But then again, who can tell?

Meanwhile, I enjoyed the drama unfolding next to me, where two lovebirds were confronted by three ladies after the couple disregarded the scarves the women had tied onto the seats to save them (the Greek version of putting a lawn chair in your parking space). Even though they were speaking in Greek, it was easy to tell that some choice words were shared. It was all very entertaining to me as I enjoyed a large glass of ouzo brought by the incomparable Spyros.

And so ended the third day of our Grecian adventure. Stay tuned for Day Four, when we tour the legendary ruins of Mycenae! ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

It's All Greek to Me

Valentine J Brkich — Mon, 06 Jul 2026 12:11:39 GMT

DAY TWO — BLOWN AWAY (NEARLY) BY THE ACROPOLIS!

(No. That’s not Medusa. It’s my wife, desperately in need of a hair tie.)

The second day of our Greek adventure began early with breakfast in the hotel. If you’re a pancakes, eggs, and bacon type of person, breakfast in Europe might leave you a little disappointed. Then again, if you’re a mini-hot dogs, sliced baloney, and “baked bacon” type of person, you’re in luck! I settled instead for a couple of chocolate croissants and four cups of coffee.

After that, we loaded back onto the bus for a driving tour of Athens’ City Centre (aka, the Historic Centre). This is my favorite part of any tour—the sitting—especially when it’s 95° outside.

For an hour or so, we drove around the centre, viewing important government buildings like Parliament, the Prime Minister’s palace, and the Neoclassical Trilogy: the Athens Academy, the University, and the Library.

We also got to see Greece’s own Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which is set into the wall at the base of the Parliament’s ceremonial marble steps. Here, the Presidential Guard, or evzones, stands next to the tomb twenty-four hours a day, changing out every hour on the hour. The guards’ distinctive uniform is based on the costume worn by the revolutionary fighters of 1821 and features a red cap, black pompoms on the clog-like shoes, and a kilt with 400 pleats, one for each year Greece was under Ottoman rule. It’s not the most intimidating uniform in the world, but the M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle they carry makes up for that.

Next, it was on to the main attraction: the Acropolis. The famous and ancient citadel is located on a rocky outcrop above the city and can be seen for miles. After getting off the bus, we began the long ascent up the marble path leading to the ruins. Once at the top, we enjoyed a stunning view of the city stretching out into the distance. And there before us was the Parthenon in all its glory! I have to admit, it was just a bit more impressive than the Nashville Parthenon, which I stumbled upon a few years back during a family vacation. Just a bit.

(This is the closest I could get to a smile from these two.)

Fortunately, the iconic marble temple, built between 447 and 432 BCE, was no longer covered in scaffolding. They had just recently taken it down after a twenty-year restoration effort. Speaking of effort, it was a real effort not to get blown off the outcrop as we were buffeted by relentless forty to fifty mph winds. The whole experience—the wind and the view—kind of reminded me of San Francisco, actually. Except for the 1,500-year-old ruins, that is.

During my precarious descent back down the slippery marble path to the city, I couldn’t help but think that, if this were in the United States, I would’ve had to sign about a hundred waiver forms. In Greece, they just trust that you’re a cautious adult. How refreshing. Safely at the bottom, I celebrated with an ice-cold Mythos—my new favorite light beer.

Next, we headed for a cooking class at Tavern Kalokerinos, a well-known traditional Greek restaurant located in the historic Plaka district of Athens, famous for its Mediterranean cuisine and lively folk dance shows. After splitting into small groups, our instructor, George, guided us through three recipes: tzatziki, spanakopita, and Greek yogurt with honey and olive oil. I thought all three of our creations were delicious, which is surprising, since my team included myself and five teenage boys. Normally, I wouldn’t dare consume anything made by a group of teenage boys.

After class, our tour guide, Stella, gave us some free time to explore and shop. I went off by myself to find souvenirs as gifts. As I was standing in front of one shop, a woman walked right into me and then just kept on going. When I turned to say something to her, I realized that two other women were suddenly right up on me. Instinctively, I spun around, clutching my sling bag. As the women disappeared into the crowd, I checked my bag and noticed that the clasp had been undone. I was nearly pickpocketed—AGAIN! What is it about me that says “easy target”?

Once again, we regrouped and headed over to tour the Acropolis Museum, which sits just below the ruins. The museum was fine and all, but honestly, I could’ve done without it. I can’t focus in a museum. There’s just too much stimulation for my ADHD brain. So, I spent the hour just sitting and people-watching—two of my favorite hobbies. After that, we had more free time, so Cassie and I went off to a cafe for a glass of chardonnay and some pistachio ice cream. (Note to self: Plan a vacation where I do nothing but sit and enjoy wine and ice cream.)

(A LEGO model of the Acropolis inside the museum, sans the wind.)

That evening, we ate dinner outside at Byzantino Taverna. The main course was Moussaka, a classic Greek dish that features layered, roasted eggplant, potatoes, and a spiced beef or lamb mince, topped with a creamy sauce. Basically, it’s a meat pie. But then again, “meat pie” doesn’t sound as nice as “Moussaka.” I found it delicious, although I could’ve used some Frank’s RedHot®. (This Substack is open to sponsorships, btw.)

When dinner was over, we boarded the bus and headed back to the hotel for an awkward ice-breaker in the lounge. Just the way a bunch of exhausted teenagers (and their chaperones) want to finish a long, sweaty day of touring.

And so ended the second day of our Grecian adventure. Stay tuned for Day Three, when we set sail on a Saronic Islands cruise! ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

It's All Greek to Me

Valentine J Brkich — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 01:34:46 GMT

DAY ONE — ARE WE THERE YET?

Although I was certainly looking forward to visiting Greece for the first time, I have to admit that I was dealing with some pre-travel anxiety.

First off, before leaving on Wednesday morning, I had to take my dog up to my folks’ house. This is something I always dread. My dog is my shadow. He gets separation anxiety when I go outside to get the mail, so I knew he wouldn’t like me leaving for an entire week. He looked so depressed when I left him, and my mom told me that it took a day or two before he’d even eat.

What can I say? I’m a likable guy.

After that, we headed to the beautiful, brand-new Pittsburgh International Airport for the first of our two flights, an easy one-and-a-half-hour jaunt to Toronto. We then had a five-hour layover, which I spent watching the World Cup over a couple of beers and a Cuban sandwich.

Just before boarding our flight to Athens, my stomach started bothering me. I don’t know if it was the Cuban, the beers, anxiety (or a combination of all three), but I became extremely bloated, and it felt like I had broken glass in my gut. For a moment, I considered using the little boys’ room before our flight, but once I saw the condition of the toilets, I decided against it. If you’ve never had to use an airport toilet, lucky you.

Unfortunately, my discomfort only intensified during the grueling, nine-and-a-half-hour flight. First, I tried to distract myself from the pain by watching two movies I’ve never seen before—Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey” (1968) and Craig Brewer’s “Song Sung Blue” (2025). When that didn’t work, I tried to sleep, but surprisingly, I just couldn’t get comfortable in my spacious and oh-so-comfortable economy-class seat.

My poor 16-year-old son was dealing with similar gastrointestinal distress and actually came close to vomiting on approach, which would’ve been terrible but also quite memorable. We’re not good flyers, my son and I.

After disembarking, we were herded like so many cattle over to the customs line, which was so long and winding that I felt like I was in line for Space Mountain at Disney. As we slowly snaked our way towards the front, my stomach issues took a turn for the worse, if you catch my drift. Throughout our one-and-a-half-hour wait, I was terrified that I might have an accident right there in the midst of all that humanity, which, like my son’s near vomiting, would have certainly been memorable, but much more embarrassing. Fortunately, I was able to stave off disaster and get through the process.

At one point, while standing in line, we heard some commotion coming from the express line, at which point we saw an enormous human being and his family making their way to the front. I don’t watch the NBA, but I immediately recognized the giant man as Giannis Antetokounmpo, formerly of the Milwaukee Bucks, who was recently traded to the Miami Heat. Seeing his size, I no longer felt like complaining about being uncomfortable on the plane. Although I’m sure Giannis’ seat was a little roomier than mine.

After getting through customs, we headed out into the stifling Athens heat, where we located our spacious motor coach, which we would be sharing with three other tour groups, one from Washington state and the others from North Carolina. We also met our lovely tour guide for the week, Stella, and our bus driver, Adonis. All we wanted was to head straight for our hotel and just crash for a while, but that wasn’t in the cards. These EF Tours hit the ground running, and after loading our luggage onto the bus, we headed straight for downtown Athens.

Our first stop was the city’s Plaka district. After making our way to the Holy Metropolitan Church of the Annunciation to the Virgin Mary (locally known as the Metropolis or Mitropoli), Stella gave us a couple of hours to explore the area freely and traverse its lovely, narrow alleyways, which were lined with quaint little shops, restaurants, and cafes.

First, though, we all made a brief stop at Stella’s friend’s souvenir shop for a demonstration of the Pythagorean Cup. (The adults in the group also got to enjoy a small sample of some delicious ouzo, a traditional Greek anise-flavored spirit, as well as some Mastika, which has a distinct herbal and piney flavor. We deserved it. After all, we were spending the week managing a bunch of teenagers.) Also known as the Greedy Cup, Tantalus Cup, or Cup of Justice, the Pythagorean Cup is a novelty vessel invented by the ancient philosopher Pythagoras to discourage overindulgence. If one is “greedy” and overfills the cup past the brim of the inner column, gravity and air trigger a siphon, which causes the entire contents of the cup to instantly drain out through a hole in the bottom.

My wife would tell you I could definitely use such a cup for my bourbon on vinyl night.

Although the temperature was pushing 35°C (that’s 95°F, for us metric-system-impaired Americans), the merciful Meltemi (Etesian winds), which, during the summer, blow from the north during the afternoon, kept us from melting as we spent the afternoon exploring Plaka’s ancient avenues.

Two things in particular grabbed my attention:

First was the Doctor Fish Day Spa and Nail Bar, where, for just 13€, you could get a fifteen-minute “fish spa.” Also known as ichthyotherapy or a fish pedicure, a fish spa is a cosmetic treatment where customers submerge their feet in water filled with Garra rufa fish (commonly called “doctor fish”). Basically, you’re stepping into a fish tank to let small freshwater fish nibble away at your dead skin cells, supposedly leaving the skin feeling smoother. I can neither confirm nor deny this claim, since I wasn’t about to try it. Call me crazy, but letting a bunch of fish attack your foot fungus like a bunch of crazed piranhas doesn’t sound very relaxing. Not that I have foot fungus or anything.
The second thing that caught my eye was…well, let’s just say it seems like the Athenian souvenir merchants have a bizarre infatuation with the male reproductive organ. Everywhere we went, we kept seeing racks and racks of penis-shaped bottle openers, keychains, soap, and even plush toys (you know, for the kids). Upon further research, apparently, the phallus, as it were, in ancient Greco-Roman culture was not considered taboo and served several key cultural purposes. Seen as a symbol of fertility, it represented Dionysus (the Greek god of wine, theater, and festivity) and Priapus (the Greek god of fertility), celebrating life and agricultural abundance. It was also used as a good-luck charm to ward off evil. One thing’s for sure, such a bottle opener would definitely serve as a conversation starter at your next social gathering.

Next, we enjoyed a delicious outdoor meal at ΜΠΑΪΡΑΚΤΑΡΗΣ (pronounced By-rak-tar-is) Taverna, located right in the heart of Monastiraki Square. Established in 1879, the restaurant is famous for its Asia Minor-style kebabs, which feature seasoned ground lamb or beef pressed onto flat skewers cooked over open charcoal, served in a pita with charred tomatoes, sweet onions, and a spiced yogurt-tomato sauce. We were served not one but two of these filling handhelds, as well as Greek salad, or horiatiki, featuring tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, Kalamata olives, and a block of some of the best feta cheese I’ve ever tasted, all topped with olive oil, red wine vinegar, and oregano.

Although I only managed to eat one of my kebabs, I took the other back to the hotel and ate it for breakfast the next morning. Who needs cereal and milk when you can have a pita filled with skewered ground lamb?

Around 7:30 p.m., we arrived at the Boss Boutique Hotel, where we would be staying for two nights. Although the hotel itself was nice, it wasn’t exactly in the best location. Unless, that is, you prefer your hotel to be located right across the street from a derelict corner occupied by various “ladies of the evening.”

Inside the lobby, I set my suitcase and sling bag carry-on on an ottoman near the window and then took a seat to await my room key, along with all our other travelers. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a strange man come out of nowhere and head straight for my stuff. Without hesitation, he grabbed my sling bag, turned, and headed straight for the hotel’s rotating front door. I immediately jumped up and weaved my way through the crowd, stopping the thief just before he made his escape. As I ripped my bag away from him, he darted out the door and ran off into the night. This was the second time I’d thwarted an attempted pick-pocketer on my travels, the first being two years ago in Florence. Something about my appearance must say I’m an easy mark.

Which is strange, considering my wife is always pointing out my “resting bitch face.”

And so ended the first day of our Grecian adventure. Stay tuned for Day Two, when we visit the Acropolis! ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

I Knew This Day Would Come - Part Two

Valentine J Brkich — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 21:54:20 GMT

This past week, my wife and I took our daughter (i.e., Boogieface) to her two-day college orientation at Kent State University. I used to work at a university, and on college visit days, I always felt bad for the pathetic, helpless dads following their daughters around their new home for the next four years. Now, here I was, one of those pathetic, helpless dads. Fortunately, we’d be taking our daughter home after just two short days. Unfortunately, when we return in August, I won’t have that same assurance.

DAY TWO

Fortunately, that night, I only had to make one trip to the bathroom to pee. And even more fortunate, there were no other parents out in the hall when I made the mad dash from my dorm room to the bathroom wearing only my boxer briefs. Nobody needs to see that.

I awoke at 6 a.m. Checkout was at 7. And I needed coffee. Unfortunately, we were in a dormant dorm, not a Best Western, so there was no free coffee down in the lobby. So, with my wife still blissfully asleep, I quickly packed my things and headed out to find my much-needed morning brew. She finally woke just as I was headed out the door and took this flattering photo:

(Coffee is very important to me.)

After loading my stuff in the car, I headed over to the dining hall for breakfast. My wife had texted our daughter to try to get her to bring her stuff to the car, too, but she was difficult as usual (love you, Boogs!) and, therefore, left her belongings in her dorm to be picked up later.

Breakfast at the dining hall was again, like dinner, heavenly. After inhaling a sausage, egg, and cheese croissant, I enjoyed a slice of breakfast pizza (eggs, sausage, and bacon), and washed it all down with three glasses of O.J. and cranberry juice. And, of course, three cups of black coffee. I’m thinking about going there for my master’s just for the food alone.

After that, we all walked across campus to the ballroom for a series of department presentations. Still, I saw no signs of this so-called disc-golf course. I was starting to get nervous.

Next, we went to a discussion about my daughter’s major and related majors. As soon as we walked into the auditorium, I recognized him. A year before, during our first campus visit, we were greeted by a gentleman who, after hearing our last name, became visibly excited. Apparently, he was a huge fan of Survivor (if you know, you know). And here he was again. Both Boogs and I were hoping he wouldn’t out us during this informational setting. Of course, at one point, he managed to mention that he was a huge fan of the reality show, during which he made direct eye contact with my daughter. Thankfully, that’s as far as it went.

After that, we headed off to lunch, where I indulged in a delectable Indian dish of chicken and rice, and then a cheeseburger and fries for dessert. (If I went to this school, the “freshman 15” would be the “freshman 50.”) While we were eating, a campus police officer came over and knelt beside me. Considering my run-ins with the 5-0 during my own college experience, I immediately felt nervous. As it turned out, the officer, Vance Voyles, had overheard us talking about study abroad opportunities, and he, being a teacher as well, just wanted to give us some advice on the various opportunities Kent State offered. Whew! I also found out that he too was a writer, which was pretty cool.

That afternoon, my daughter had a meeting with her advisor, so I finally got permission from my wife (seriously) to go locate the disc golf course and play a round. My luck, the winds were a sustained 25 mph, with gusts up to 40. Not very conducive when you’re trying to throw a 1/3-pound plastic disc with any accuracy. So, I ended up going to the afternoon parents’ informational session after all.

Finally, it was time to go home. An hour and twenty minutes later, we arrived back at our house. My daughter had a graduation party to go to, so she immediately went to the trunk to retrieve her stuff. But when she opened the trunk, all I heard was, “Oh, no!” That’s how I learned that she had left all her stuff—her bag, her toiletries, the dress she was going to wear—back at Kent State. Wonderful. So, the next morning, I woke at 4:30 a.m., had a cup of coffee, and then headed back to the university.

It wasn’t all bad, though. I got there early enough to find the disc golf course and finally play a round before picking up my daughter’s things. At one point, alone out in the woods, I spotted something large moving through the underbrush. I also couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Bigfoot? I was in Ohio, after all. Alas, it was only a doe and her fawn.

As it turned out, it’s a really hard course, and I ended up 19 over par. Luckily, I have four years to improve. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

I Knew This Day Would Come - Part One

Valentine J Brkich — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 23:04:14 GMT

DAY ONE

After arriving mid-morning, Cassie and I walked straight to our dorm room, where we’d be staying for the night. Thankfully, instead of a bunkbed—which, at my age, could lead to a middle-of-the-night accident whilst going off to pee—they gave us two twin beds safely on the floor.

Next, we headed over to the student center ballroom for the welcome session. Along the way, I kept a lookout for disc golf baskets, since I knew there was a course somewhere on campus. I was hoping to sneak away at some point for a quick round. However, all I saw were a bunch of black squirrels, both alive and in statue form. I guess the creature is the university’s unofficial mascot. My dog would lose his mind on this campus.

At one point during the session, the leader announced that we were about to participate in a group activity with the other parents. So, I immediately got up and made a beeline for the “restroom.” At least that’s what I told my wife, who gave me a look of disappointment as I made my hasty escape.

Safely outside in the spacious upstairs of the student center, I noticed a strange, futuristic-looking contraption along a line of chairs facing the windows. Approaching it, I saw the word “MetroNaps” on the side. I soon discovered it was an EnergyPod, i.e., a high-tech napping chair. I immediately climbed in and tested it out, just for a minute or two, of course, lest I risk the ire of my wife and daughter. We definitely didn’t have such luxuries when I was back in college. Heck, every chair at my school was a napping chair.

Following the welcome session, Cassie and I headed across campus to the Honors Program introduction meeting. Again, I kept an eye out for any disc golf baskets but came up empty. Meanwhile, Boogs was whisked away to do an ice-breaker—coloring while enjoying juice boxes—with her fellow honors students. She was thrilled, as I’m sure you can imagine.

During the session, my 16-year-old son, whom we’d left home alone, texted to ask if he could have “a few friends stay overnight.” Not really being able to do anything about it, me being an hour and a half away, I gave my consent. After all, what could go wrong?

Next up, we headed back across campus for dinner at the dining hall. Ravenous, I was thrilled to discover a cheeseburger-and-fries station, a pizza station, an Indian-food station, and an expansive salad bar, all of which were ALL YOU CAN EAT! And that’s just what I did. Well, maybe not everything. But I definitely gave it the old college try (pun intended).

Sufficiently gorged, we then walked over to the mock dorm rooms, so my daughter and her roommate could take some measurements. My wife had given me the important job of Official Carrier of the Tape Measure. Since my wussy 12-foot tape was deemed too short for the job, we borrowed my father-in-law’s more robust 25-footer, which I had been wearing on my belt like a true construction worker. I had to cinch my belt another hole tighter, just to keep my pants from falling down. In the end, the only thing we ended up measuring was the refrigerator (56.5 inches high x 18 wide x 18.5 deep, in case you were wondering).

That evening, Boogs went off to hang with her roommate, so my wife and I headed into town to get a drink at Beware of the Leopard, a quaint, cozy little bar/restaurant that defies description. My wife then convinced me to join her for a free Tarot card reading, which, in my opinion, turned out exactly how I thought it would (i.e., I learned absolutely nothing). I was hoping the reader would’ve at least shown me how exactly we were going to pay for this college thing.

(According to my reading, in addition to encountering a cute redhead with an unfortunate forehead tattoo, apparently my future will also include creepy Michael Jackson, the Dallas Cowboys, and a cup of slimy, green water. So I got that going for me.)

We then headed back to our dorm, which was mostly empty except for a few other parents who stayed mysteriously out of sight. It was pretty eerie, actually. I almost felt like we were staying in the Overlook Hotel from The Shining.

And with that pleasant thought, I ended day one of my Kent State experience.

Stay tuned for Day Two, coming soon…

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Terms of Dis(c)paragement

Valentine J Brkich — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 01:29:30 GMT

If you’re a subscriber of mine and you actually read my posts, you know that I have an affinity for disc golf. Actually, it’s more like an obsession. I used to love traditional “ball” golf, but since I rarely have an extra $50 bucks to blow, I had to give it up. After all, when I started golfing at age 12, my local course charged five bucks.

Now I sound like my dad talking about how he used to go to the movies for a nickel. I’m old.

Luckily, a couple years ago, my good friend Bob introduced me to disc golf, which is very similar to the traditional sport, except for one major difference: it’s free—two of my favorite words.

Speaking of words…

There are very few things I don’t love about disc golf. However, as a writer and a lover of words, I have to say that I have a bone to pick with whoever came up with the various terms associated with the sport. Not only are they difficult to understand (at least they are for me), but some of them are just plain weird.

For example, when you throw a disc, there are different flight angles you can throw it, depending on what you want it to do. The normal, flat throw doesn’t really have a name. It’s just a normal throw.

Then there’s a flight angle known as a “Hyzer,” which, according to the Innova Discs glossary of disc golf terms, is: “An angle of release where the outside edge or left edge of the disc is tilted downward for a RHBH [right-handed backhand] thrower.” Throwing a disc at this angle causes it to curve to the left.

So, okay. Hyzer is a weird term. But I guess you have to call it something.

But then there’s the “Anhyzer” angle: “A throwing angle where the outside edge of the disc is tilted upward. For an RHBH throw, this makes the disc curve to the right.”

I know what you’re thinking: Budweiser. Busch. As in, Anheuser-Busch. Right? When Bob first told me about “hyzer,” I was like, okay, I guess I can deal with that. But anhyzer? Is Anheuser-Busch somehow secretly tied to the sport and created these terms as some type of subliminal marketing? I mean, I know I always have a hankerin’ for a cold Bud right after my round. Coincidence? I think not.

Then there’s something known as the “Hyzer-Flip,” which, according to Innova, is “Throwing a disc on a hyzer angle that ‘flips up’ to flat for a long, straight flight.”

Why can’t they just create a disc that you throw regular and it goes really far? Oh, yeah. Then we wouldn’t constantly be buying new discs.

Honestly, I can deal with the hizer/anhyzer stuff. But it’s the disc stability lingo that really gets me riled. I just can’t seem to get my brain to accept it.

First, you have discs that are considered “Stable.” These are the ones that are supposed to fly relatively straight on a neutral line. Unfortunately, they don’t go that far, unless you’re really good at disc golf, like Bob, then they go really, really far.

Then you have the “Overstable” discs. These strongly fade or curve away from the body in flight. What? That doesn’t sound very stable to me. If something is overstable, doesn’t that mean that it’s overly or extra stable, and that it should, according to the definition of stable, really fly straight?

If a disc is considered “Understable,” it has a “tendency of a disc to ‘turn over’ or curve towards the body during flight.” In my experience, understable discs fly relatively straight. For my ADHD brain, that doesn’t make any sense at all.

For example, just about every time I go out discing with Bob (who, by the way, is amazing and has been playing for like thirty years or something), he will stop me before I throw an approach shot and say something like this: “Okay. What’s the most overstable disc you have in your bag?” Immediately, I think of my putter disc, which is really stable. But what Bob wants me to throw is the disc in my bag that has a mind of its own and goes nowhere near where I intend it to go.

So, after finding that disc, he says,” Now, I want you to throw that on a super hyzer, like, crazy hyzer, like you’re skipping a stone. But don’t use your arm at all. Just focus on the snap. It’s all about the snap.”

Then, after thinking I’m following his advice to a T, I throw the disc directly into the woods, where it is never to be seen again. Thus is disc golf.

Here are some other questionable and slightly annoying disc golf terms:

Mando (Mandatory): “A specific obstacle (usually a tree) your disc must pass on the correct side. Missing it adds a penalty stroke.” Maybe I’m just a child of the ‘80s, but I immediately think “Mando Calrissian.”
Flex Shot: “Throwing an overstable disc with an anhyzer angle of release down the left side of the fairway (for RHBH thrower). The disc travels from left to right, then the overstability of the disc turns the disc back to the left.” Say what??
Hyzer Flip: “A Hyzer Flip is very similar to an S-Shot [whatever that is] but follows a straighter line. An understable disc is thrown very fast with a hyzer angle of release. The disc turns or ‘flips” up and brings its nose down in the process. This allows for a long straight glide.” Um…again, what?

Then, of course, there are the terms and phrases that each individual disc golf group has. I actually like these ones. For example, in our group:

Yam/yam on it: To “yam” on a disc, according to Bob, is to throw it really hard, which, for me, ends up with me throwing it way off target and into the woods.
Flippy (i.e., That disc is super flippy.): A flippy disc is one that, no matter how you throw it, does whatever it wants to. It has a mind of its own. Unless, that is, you’re Bob, and it does exactly what you intended it to do.
When someone “nice shot’s” your throw: Your buddy throws what looks like a nice shot. So, you say, “Nice shot!” And then, immediately afterward, their disc strikes a tree and falls back twenty yards. Happens every time.
Total garbage: This is what my friend Tom says when you throw your drive directly at a tree, and it lands ten feet away: “That shot was total garbage.” That’s why I like disc golf. It’s common practice to make fun of your friends’ terrible shots. Again, we’re playing for free. So it doesn’t really matter.

All that said, I love this sport. And, yes, it is a sport. Just type in “disc golf” on YouTube, and you’ll see just how professional and popular it is. I just wish the terminology wasn’t so annoying and made a little more sense.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have an ice-cold Budweiser. I have no idea why; I just feel compelled to do so. ~

Source: Innova Discs Glossary of Terms

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Pomp, Circumstance, and Sweat

Valentine J Brkich — Sat, 13 Jun 2026 12:16:33 GMT

Hello? Can anyone hear me?

If you’re receiving this message, I survived. Barely.

After months of preparation, it’s finally, mercifully, over.

Last Friday, my daughter graduated from high school. The following Wednesday, we hosted her graduation party at our home, with over two hundred people in attendance. In the weeks before, my wife and I spent countless hours prepping for both the ceremony and the party—a party, by the way, that lasted all of FOUR HOURS.

The following is my recap of these harrowing weeks. Buckle up.

PART I: THE CEREMONY

On graduation day, I decided to take my son and his girlfriend to the year-round Rogers Flea Market in Ohio, because I wanted something fun to do before all the work I knew that lay ahead of me. Plus, both he and I wanted to go searching for records. (I got an Eric Carmen record, the Thompson Twins, and, best of all, “Introducing the Beatles” for only two bucks!) I also purchased some grad party necessities: zip ties (100 for $2), screw-in hooks (8 for $2), and clamps (6 for $5). If I’d wanted to, I could’ve also purchased a samurai sword, brass knuckles, a flail (i.e., a mace on a chain), or any number of racist and vulgar hats and/or T-shirts. Thus is Rogers.

Graduation was at 6:30 p.m. We arrived at the high school at 5:30 p.m., hoping to get a good seat for the ceremony. To our surprise, the line to get into the stadium was already 150 yards long. It was also 90 degrees and humid. Thankfully, the architects of the high school had built the home bleachers facing west, so the blazing sun, which reflected off the aluminum bleachers, was directly in our faces.

I held an umbrella over my wife and me prior to the ceremony in a failed attempt to keep us cool. At one point, a rare, solitary cloud momentarily blocked the sun, and there was an audible gasp of relief from the crowd. I always imagined I’d be sad at my daughter’s graduation, but because she was getting older, not because I was drenched in sweat for three hours after just taking a shower.

The valedictory and class president speeches were actually good. So was the performance by the high school chorus. They would’ve been better, though, if the mic hadn’t been screeching with feedback the entire time. Anyone ever heard of a sound check?

Eventually, we watched with pride as our beloved daughter was handed her diploma and officially graduated from high school. We then all gathered on the stadium field for a bunch of sweaty family photos before heading to our favorite local ice cream shop for a much-needed cool treat. When we got there, however, a sign on the door read “Cash Only.” This being 2026, none of us had any cash on us. So, I walked a block down the street to get some from our bank. When I returned a few minutes later, my wife informed me that the ice cream shop had just closed a minute earlier, and the teenagers in charge, obviously desperate to go home, had no sympathy for our tale of sweaty woe. And so, still damp and weary, we headed home. Graduation day was officially over.

PART II: THE GRAD PARTY

I’m a planner. I have to be, thanks to my ADHD. Here was my plan: Monday would be my outside day, making sure the yard was mowed, the gardens were weeded, and all the miscellaneous crap was hidden away somewhere. Tuesday, it was supposed to rain most of the day. Perfect. That would be the day to clean the inside of the house—at least the parts of the house that people would actually see on their way to the bathroom. The other parts could remain a filthy mess for now.

I awoke at 6 a.m. Monday, and after two cups of coffee, I was outside by 7. I figured it would take four or five hours to get the yard in acceptable condition. Twelve bags of mulch and fourteen hours later (seriously, I didn’t come back inside until 9 p.m.), the outside was done. And so was I.

Upon awaking on Tuesday, I skipped my normal perusal of the news and social media and had my coffee in the kitchen, where I spent the next two hours cleaning, since it’s the first room our guests would see as they entered our home. Then I moved on to the bathroom, after which I straightened up the living room, and then vacuumed all the carpets, which I first sprinkled with baking soda in an effort to eliminate the dog-pee smell. I planned on cleaning the dining room as well, but it was pointless, considering it was jam-packed with stuff we still had to set up in the garage.

Finally, Wednesday arrived. Knowing I had a long day ahead of me, after waking at 5:30 a.m., I headed out for eighteen holes of disc golf at 7 a.m., just to clear my mind. Surprisingly, I had my best round ever. And I didn’t even cheat. Seriously.

Afterwards, I decided to make a “quick” Walmart run for a couple of things for the party. Once inside, I was trapped by a freak storm and ended up wandering around for way too long. A hundred and twenty bucks later, I headed to my car with some party supplies and several other items I didn’t even know I needed.

When I finally got home around noon, chaos ensued as my wife and I frantically made the finishing touches on the party. At one point, I took a short break to catch my breath and have a beer, and that’s when I saw my daughter glare at me from the garage and mouth, “Why is he sitting down!”

Seriously?

When everything was finally set up, I squeezed in a much-needed shower (it was 90 degrees and humid outside, again) and then rushed back outside to greet the first guests, who arrived fifteen minutes early (thanks, Vinnie and Uncle Bob).

The party itself was a blur. There were so many close friends and family members and neighbors, each of whom I spoke with for an average of three seconds. What I remember most about the party is perspiring profusely as I ran around like a lunatic, making sure the food and drinks were replenished and that everyone was having a good time. I also made sure to sneak in a beer or a shot of bourbon whenever I could. After all, I deserved it.

As soon as the party ended at 8 p.m., my daughter and all her friends immediately left to go swimming up at my folks’ house (how convenient). Meanwhile, my wife and I, along with some generous friends and family members, worked to put away the perishables.

About an hour later, my daughter and her friends returned and wanted to have s’mores around the campfire. So, barely conscious, I stumbled out into the darkness and loaded some wood into the backyard firepit. It’s amazing how little you care about spiders and other creepy crawlies when you’re exhausted and slightly inebriated.

Shortly after the campfire began, a thunderstorm rolled in, so the kids all came inside to watch my daughter open her gifts. I promptly went to bed and, within seconds, fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

The next morning, I spent a sweaty few hours cleaning up the yard and the garage before another crazy storm chased us indoors. Then I spent even more hours doing the dishes and laundry, and trying to find a way to store all the leftover food.

It’s now Saturday, three days after the party, and we still have hours to go before everything is cleaned up. Hours to go before everything is cleaned up (Robert Frost pun intended). All of this—mind you—for a FOUR-HOUR, Wednesday-evening party.

PART THREE: THE FUTURE

And it doesn’t get any easier from here on:

This week, we have orientation at my daughter’s college…
Next week, we’re heading to Greece…
Then, I get to look forward to my five-year colonoscopy (TMI)…
After that…eh, who cares?

But first, disc golfing! After all, I’ve earned it. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

School's Out for the Summer!

Valentine J Brkich — Fri, 29 May 2026 16:51:36 GMT

(The calm before the storm.)

Today I experienced something I haven’t felt in around thirty years: the joy that comes with the last day of school! Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out for the Summer!” has been running on repeat in my head since I awoke at 4:30 a.m.

After three long months, my first stint as a school bus driver has come to an end. And I have to be honest, not a minute too soon. Seriously, I’m beat. And beaten down. Who knew driving a bus full of screaming, yelling, rambunctious K-8th graders could be so taxing?

On second thought, I guess I should’ve seen that one coming.

I am truly grateful, however, that I have this important job and that I was able to deliver my students safely to and from their schools. My only casualty was a mailbox on my first day solo. Later that day, I experienced another first: installing a brand-new mailbox in the middle of a white-out blizzard.

As I look back on this latest chapter of my life, there are a number of things I learned while sitting high above the road behind that oversized steering wheel:

School bus drivers don’t get enough credit. Seriously, we should be held in high regard, right up there with people like Fred Rogers, Albert Schweitzer, and Mother Teresa.
Navigating a 15-ton steel beast along a winding country road while 50+ kids are screaming and carrying on behind you is Dante’s Tenth Circle of Hell.
It takes about two weeks of driving with students on board before those initial thoughts of “I’m gonna be the friendly bus driver” fly straight out the window.
Yes, your child would act like that on the bus.
Driving a school bus is fun! CORRECTION: Driving an EMPTY school bus is fun!
Apparently, when kids hear “Don’t touch the windows!” they hear “Please, touch the windows!!”
Morning bus run: good (kids still groggy). Afternoon bus run: bad (kids shot out of a cannon).
There’s nothing elementary school kids enjoy more than tattling on one another.
Kids, no matter what age, are completely unable to comprehend the words “Sit down!”
It’s strangely satisfying coming to stop after stop with a long line of cars behind you.
I really need to install a school bus airhorn in my personal vehicle. My wussy car horn just isn’t cutting it.
Few feelings are as good as when your last student steps off the bus on the last day of school.
I owe all my old bus drivers an apology.

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Attack of The Ogre!

Valentine J Brkich — Sun, 17 May 2026 01:18:44 GMT

(Obviously, Seth doesn’t take disc golfing too seriously. Thank goodness.)

He came out of nowhere. The Ogre! A hideous, hirsute creature wearing camo shorts and an unflattering, ill-fitting, oversized white T-shirt.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and three of my good friends and I were taking part in a local disc-golf tournament. Two of us—Bob and Seth—were skilled players with ambitions of winning the Advanced Division. The other two—Todd and I—had no such delusions and were simply there to enjoy a couple rounds of our favorite outdoor activity.

As we neared the finish of the first round, I tossed a ho-hum approach shot and then made a dash for the snack table to grab a few bottles of water and packs of crackers for our group. Then I returned to the game and, amazingly, made my par putt. You know what they say about a blind squirrel and a nut...

Anyways, as we gathered our discs and headed to the next tee, our conversation was interrupted by a large member of the group in front of us, aka, The Ogre.

“Wait, did you already beat my throw?” he growled, aggressively approaching us. He was referring to the hole we had just played, which featured a closest-to-the-pin (i.e., CTP) challenge.

I turned to look at Bob, who, like me, was somewhat confused and taken aback by this dude’s aggressiveness. After all, disc golfers on the whole are a laidback group. It probably has something to do with all the weed.

Bob, who’s one of the most non-confrontational people I know, immediately tried to ease The Ogre’s mind. “Oh, no man,” he said with a smile. “That CTP is for the Rec Division. I’m playing in the Advanced.”

I thought his response was pretty gracious, considering that he actually did get his disc closer to the pin. Right next to it, as a matter of fact. Bob just didn’t make a point to mention it.

“Well,” barked The Ogre, “did you put the flag back where it was?”

“We didn’t even touch the flag,” Seth replied, obviously irritated, which wasn’t a good thing. Seth’s one of the nicest guys I know, but I get the feeling he’s the type of guy who, if you wronged one of his friends, would sneak up to your house in the middle of the night and cut your brake lines.

The Ogre persisted. “Oh. Well, I saw a guy running around with a flag and I thought he was moving it.” He then turned and rejoined his group.

I turned and looked behind us, and there was no one in sight. Apparently, he had seen me running to the snack table and, inconceivably, came to the conclusion that I was running around with his beloved CTP flag. For which, by the way, he would’ve won a $17 disc if his throw had stood. Big whoop.

So, we continued our round, trying to enjoy ourselves and forget about The Ogre, who was obviously taking this Saturday morning disc-golf outing way too seriously.

In the end, Bob and Seth finished second and fourth, respectively, in the Advanced Division, which was no surprise to me. Todd and I finished second and third from the last, which again was no surprise to us.

That said, any day on the disc-golf course is a good day. Even when you encounter the occasional ogre. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

The Prom - I Just Don't Get it.

Valentine J Brkich — Sat, 09 May 2026 19:50:55 GMT

(No, this isn’t an old daguerreotype of a vampire. That’s me just before my prom.)

Yesterday was my daughter’s senior prom. As a father, and a guy just in general, I gotta say… I don’t get it.

First of all, my wife texted me when I was out running errands early that morning, and she asked me to pick up some snacks for my daughter and her friend to enjoy while they were getting ready. And not good snacks, either, like potato chips. No, they wanted berries and apples.

I don’t get it.

When I got home a little after 9 a.m., they were already wearing makeup while eating pancakes. The prom festivities wouldn’t be starting for another eight hours or so. I may be wrong, but I don’t think my wife started getting ready for our wedding that early.

I don’t get it.

I can pretty much guarantee that my daughter’s date—or any of the other guys, for that matter—wasn’t over at a friend’s house “getting ready” at that time. Heck, there was no school that day, so he probably slept in til around noon.

And another thing… back when I went to The Prom (because that’s the proper name for it), you just walked up to a girl in school or called her on the phone (stretching the cord from the kitchen all the way into your bedroom so your parents couldn’t eavesdrop on your conversation) and said, “Hey. Wanna go to The Prom with me?”

These poor guys today. Now, thanks to social media, you have to create a poster and come up with some clever way to ask the girl. They call it a “promposal.” (Ugh.) What if you do all that and the girl turns you down? I don’t think I would’ve even had the courage to ask someone, knowing the potential humiliation at stake.

I don’t get it.

An hour or so before The Prom begins, parents and relatives gather in the high school auditorium for the Grand March, where each couple is brought out onto the stage for a photo op. Then, after briefly pausing, the couples do some elaborate cutesy or “funny” routine. This year’s most popular routine, for some reason, was putting your hands in a gun shape and then posing back-to-back like “Charlie’s Angels” (which, by the way, was a TV show that debuted fifty years ago).

I don’t get it.

We had a Grand March, too, of course, way back in the 1900s. But I don’t remember anyone doing The Worm on stage or leapfrogging over their date (two things that actually happened at this year’s event). And I’m absolutely sure no one struck a pose in the style of “The Lone Ranger” (which was a popular TV show fifty years earlier).

The one thing I do get is that, being a fifty-one-year-old man, I’m not supposed to get it. It’s why I don’t get Taylor Swift or “six-seven” or any other popular term that might help with this post’s SEO. Getting it, after all, is for the young.

The only thing I’m supposed to do at this age is make stupid dad jokes to embarrass my kids in front of their friends and complain about all the things I don’t get.

That I get. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Weird Fishes

Valentine J Brkich — Wed, 29 Apr 2026 01:30:54 GMT

I’ve been to some strange conferences and gatherings in my life. Like, for example, I’ve been to a Bigfoot conference. Two, actually. And, let me tell you, there’s nothing like sitting and listening to a Ph.D. talk about how Bigfoot is really a quantum creature who can appear and disappear at will.

So, when my friend George asked if I’d like to go with him to the Greater Pittsburgh Aquarium Society’s Spring Auction, I said sure, I’d love to. Unfortunately, it was Vinyl Night when he asked me, and I’d already had one too many glasses of bourbon.

I gotta stop making decisions on Vinyl Night.

Anyhow, this past Saturday, George and I headed up to the Monroeville Convention Center so he could bid on some fish and I could observe and write about it. I just knew there’d be some juicy writing material.

George is an avid fish enthusiast and has multiple aquariums in his home. I can relate to this because my father had two large aquariums in our dining room when I was growing up—one freshwater and one saltwater.

The saltwater tank was always my favorite. It’s the one that had all the dangerous sea creatures, like my dad’s poisonous lion fish and his piranha-like trigger fish. He used to drop live goldfish into this tank, and in a flash, the Clown Trigger and the Humuhumunukunukuāpuaʻa—who, coincidentally, we named ‘George’—would strike and tear the goldfish to bits and devour, which appealed to my 10-year-old-boy sensibilities.

When we arrived at the auction, at first George and I were confused, since the fish auction looked more like a girls’ dance competition. Well, that’s because it was a girls’ dance competition. Apparently, we’d gone through the wrong entrance.

Eventually, we found the auction, which we recognized immediately, due to the number of middle-aged men wandering around staring at bags of live fish laid out on tables throughout the room.

There were also vendors selling things like bags of rubber bands (gum bands, if you’re from Pittsburgh) for a buck (what a steal!) and coconut half-shells, which I learned were good for a certain kind of fish that likes to build a cozy home inside of them. Who knew? (Everyone in the room besides me.)

When the auction finally started, there were technical difficulties, as the battery-powered mic kept shutting off. (Remember: it was a room mostly full of middle-aged men like me. Of course there were technical difficulties.) But eventually, they figured it out, and the auction began.

I have to say, I was a little disappointed with the vanilla delivery of the auctioneer. I mean, he did a good enough job and all. But I was expecting your traditional tobacco auctioneer. You know what I mean…those people who talk really fast and sprinkle in a bunch of numbers and words so fast you can’t understand what they’re saying. Then again, this was a Pittsburgh fish auction on a Sunday morning, not a hog auction in North Carolina.

As the auctioneer announced the various fish up for grabs, I was fascinated by the names of the different varieties. A “Thick-lipped gourami” went for $8. A frighteningly named “Black saum vampire pleco” sold for close to $100. There was even a type of snail known as “assassins.” Although, I find it hard to believe a slow-moving snail could assassinate anything.

George ended up winning one auction for $20, becoming the proud owner of six “melanotaenia ammeri,” which I learned was a good deal, since the fish were from the bloodline of someone named Gary Lange.

I assume they actually weren’t from Gary’s bloodline. But who knows?

The highlight (at least for me) of the auction came early on. As the volunteers formed a line and brought bags of fish up to the auctioneer, behind the podium, a fight broke out between a diminutive older man and a much larger and younger woman. I have no idea what the fracas was about, but it was definitely the most exciting part of the fish auction.

So, do I think I’ll ever attend a fish auction again? In short, no. But that’s not because I didn’t enjoy myself or the time spent with my good friend. It’s just because, well, once you’ve experienced your first fish auction, you’ve pretty much seen it all.

Also (Sorry, George), but Sunday mornings are for disc golfing. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

Next Time, I'll Bring a Friend

Valentine J Brkich — Mon, 20 Apr 2026 23:25:48 GMT

As I stood outside of my father-in-law’s pickup, in the cool, eerie, Saturday morning silence of the West Virginia holler, my initial thought was, Maybe I shouldn’t have come alone.

It all began a month or so ago, when I got into our 2012 Subaru Outback and went to pick up my son from his friend’s house. As I turned a corner, there was a loud bang, and it immediately felt like something was wrong with the front driver’s side wheel.

Driving very slowly and carefully back home, I called up my mechanically inclined nephew and asked if he’d come down and take a look. Just as I’d expected, something under the car indeed had broken. The Johnson rod or something like that. Don’t ask me. I’m just a writer/school bus driver.

Anyhow, my nephew said the rust was pretty bad under the car, and the best solution would be to find a new front subframe (whatever the heck that is). Luckily, he was able to find me one online at a great price. Unfortunately, it was at a junk yard down in Morgantown, West Virginia.

No biggie, I thought. I’ll just get up early on Saturday, make the easy drive south, pick up the part, maybe play a round of disc golf somewhere, and then come home.

After exiting Interstate 79 into downtown Morgantown, I saw on the GPS that I still had four or five miles to the auto salvage yard. Soon, I was leaving the university town and heading down a winding back road to who knows where. Eventually, Google Maps had me turn right down some lonely, narrow lane that led into what I can only describe as what the locals might call a “holler.” Suddenly, I felt a hundred miles from civilization. This is when I began questioning my decision to make the trip alone. But, hey, I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself. Right?

Right??

As I drove along slowly, Google Maps said I’d reached my destination. Yeah, there were partial cars and trucks strewn about the landscape, but at first, I didn’t see a business, or for that matter, any signs of life. Eventually, I identified what I believed might be the salvage yard’s office, but only after I’d passed it.

The road was barely wide enough to fit one car, so I had to find a place to turn around. First, I thought about turning around in a gravel driveway to my right. But then I saw a “Private Property” sign along the fence and a large, burly man staring at me from just over in a field. So instead, I just kept going down the road and ended up turning around in the tiny parking lot of a nondescript, white clapboard church.

Arriving back at what I hoped was the office, I parked the truck and got out. Just then, I saw a thin older man standing to my left, looking at me suspiciously. I asked him how he was doing, then if he knew where the office was. He didn’t respond, but just raised his long, thin arm and pointed.

Did I mention this place seemed a little creepy?

Against my better judgment—I’d already come this far, after all—I went inside the small, house-like structure, and immediately found myself in a small room with two men staring back at me from behind a counter. After greeting them, I turned to shut the door and noticed a… well… let’s just say the type of calendar that really celebrates the female form.

After telling them who I was and what I was there for, the man behind the cash register handed me a receipt for the part and told me his partner would show me where I could pick it up. Going back outside, the man pointed to a narrow, steep lane just down to the right.

“You turn rat there,” he said with a slight Southern drawl, “and then head all the way up to the top of the heel where that front loader is. You see it?”

Not 100-percent sure what a front loader was, I did see some piece of large machinery poking out from behind the foliage. But I just really wanted to get back inside my truck (and lock the doors), so I thanked him and headed over to my truck.

I pulled out of the gravel lot and drove over to the narrow road I was told would lead me to my car part. It was an extremely sharp turn, and on either side there was a two-foot drop-off into an oil-soaked crick. After barely making the turn, I began the steep climb up the deeply rutted gravel “road,” as feral cats darted to and fro in front of me.

Eventually, white-knuckled and sweating, I successfully reached the summit, where I found another man waiting for me. I was happy to see that the subframe looked in great condition.

“Yer lucky,” he said. “This’ns pretty much brand new.” Then, he began to explain in detail what I’d need to do to install it.

“Yeah,” I replied, having no idea what he was talking about. Actually, I was barely listening. “That’s what I figured. Welp, have a good one!”

Unfortunately, after figuring out how to turn around without hitting the front loader, I had to go back down the same way. That said, I had my part and was safely on my way, so it was all good. In the end, everything worked out just fine, and the auto-salvage guys were very kind and helpful.

After arriving back in Morgantown, I calmed my nerves with a quick round of disc golf on WVU’s campus course before heading home.

Heck, after that experience, I figured I deserved it. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of:

I Drive the Kids to School. They Drive Me Crazy.

Valentine J Brkich — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:14:12 GMT

When someone hands the keys to a 40-foot-long, 15-ton school bus to someone like me (i.e., an English Lit major with absolutely no mechanical aptitude), you know they’re confident in their training. (They better be.) And that’s just what I got from my company.

Of course, I was intimidated to drive the bus at first, since it’s roughly the size of a brachiosaurus. But I knew I could do this. I had gone through the comprehensive training, and, as my excellent head trainer and good friend, Steve, likes to say, I trusted the process.

The level of training I received from Steve and his team was unmatched. Except, that is, for one thing. Three things, actually: first graders, second graders, and kindergarteners.

Oh, we watched videos of other school bus drivers (i.e., paid actors), appropriately dealing with unruly children and adolescents. But nothing—NOTHING—could’ve prepared me for what I now deal with on a daily basis.

I have two daily bus runs. One beginning at 6:28, in which I pick up and drive drowsy, pretty much lifeless middle-schoolers to their school. Then, after a short break, I begin my second run, in which I drive a bunch of drowsy, albeit a little more energetic, five-to-seven-year-olds, to their primary school. Both routes are usually without incident, and I’m home around 9 a.m. Easy-peasy.

Then I have my afternoon runs.

Again, the middle-school run is relatively simple, other than having to navigate a 40-foot-long bus on the back farm roads of Beaver County while overhearing adolescent conversations about early-teen drama. Then, after I drop off the last kid, I head straight for the primary school, and the countdown to chaos ensues.

As the cute little kids board my bus, I smile and welcome them, one, because they really are cute, and two, because I’m praying that my kindness will convince them to take mercy on me and behave for the next 20 minutes or so. (Spoiler Alert: They will not.)

Before even half of the kids are on the bus, those who are aboard are already yelling out to me.

“BUS DRIVER! BUS DRIVER! Can I have a pencil?”

“BUS DRIVER! BUS DRIVER! [So and so] won’t let me sit with them!”

“BUS DRIVER! BUS DRIVER! It’s so hot in here!” (Says the kid wearing his winter coat and hat.) (Actually, they’re all wearing their winter coats and hats.)

Once we’re all loaded and ready to pull out, I attempt one final plea. “Please, kids—PLEASE—try to keep it down when we start moving. I need to concentrate on driving. And stay in your seats while we are moving! (They hate staying in their seats, but they love standing ON their seats.) And, again, my name is Mr. Val, not ‘bus driver.’ And speaking of that, don’t call out for me unless it’s an emergency! Understand?”

They all nod their heads and then immediately start yelling and screaming (that’s the only way they communicate) and standing on their seats and calling out to me (“BUS DRIVER! BUS DRIVER!”) even before we’ve made it out of the parking lot.

One thing I learned quickly is that if you say yes to one of them, ALL the others will want it too, whatever it is. This one kid asked me if he could open his window, and even though it wasn’t that warm on the bus, I relented. Instantly, the other 50-plus kids started yelling out to me, asking if they could open their windows too. Most of them can’t even reach the window latches, let alone muster the strength to operate them.

So, guess who had to go and open all the windows?

Tattling is an epidemic, as well. Within seconds, they’re all yelling out to me (“BUS DRIVER!”) and telling me that so-and-so called them a name, or so-and-so is eating a snack (not allowed), or so-and-so said a bad word, etc.

It’s around this time that I’m thinking solitary confinement doesn’t sound that bad after all.

So, yeah, it might’ve been nice to have some training on how to handle all this chaos while piloting a 15-ton vehicle along winding roads that were built for horse carriages and slow-moving farm equipment. But I’m a quick learner, and I have my experiences of dealing with my own unruly children to fall back on.

Basically, I just yell a lot and make angry faces in the student mirror, which seems to work.

At least for a few seconds. ~

_____

Valentine J. Brkich is the author of: