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All of the stories are true.

I began keeping a journal when I was 17 as a freshman at UNC and wrote almost daily.  I kept this going, filling a number of UNC notebooks with most entries written late in the night as the last thing to do before falling asleep.  Many notes were scrawled in the dim glow of a flashlight while lying in a sleeping bag snug within a off-trail shelter or underneath the boom tent on the old sailboat with the salt water gently slapping the raised transom.

Years of entries are about crap suffered from growing pains that, as I go past 60, I now know are typical for so many young adults.  Worrying about my future and “what is going to happen to me”, to heartbreaking relationships with people that–as years fade away my memory–I now barely remember.

Then, I just got older and life got more complicated–wife, three kids, tons of activities and lots of work.  Lots of work.  Journaling got shoved way down into the priority stack–along with other actually important things that shouldn’t have been shoved aside– and there are now long gaps between entries.  I know laziness and commitment are also factors.

So now, I write these stories as a living memory and sincere appreciation to my family and friends–many now are gone and I wish they could read a passage or two of how they shaped my life and now share with my children.

There are stories about “when I was a little boy” and then just “random stories” about various places, people and activities that somehow became memories to me.  I hope anyone reading these snippets will find some enjoyment and value.