Thursday, January 22, 2026 – Day 527

Thursday, January 22, 2026

Good morning, everyone.

In keeping with the mantra “Happy wife, happy life!” I’m breaking from my self-imposed 7:00 a.m. CST publishing deadline and pushing this back by an hour or so. It helps keep the sleep cycles in the house somewhat normal—and that’s a win for everyone.

Let’s rewind to 1978–79.

I was a freshman at Western Illinois University. After graduating high school, I stayed home and attended the College of Lake County to get my grades up. My goal was WIU—largely because my triplet brother Tim was already there. Being separated from Tim for the first time in my life was harder than I expected. I felt like I was missing out on something important.

I did what I needed to do academically and got accepted. I was assigned a sophomore roommate, Phil Foltz, who Tim had become friends with during his freshman year. We lived the 5th-floor male wing of Thompson Hall—about as far from the classrooms as you could get. Coincidentally, Thompson had also been Tim’s dorm the year before. We didn’t room together (probably a good thing), but our rooms were right next to each other—so I didn’t have to go far to find trouble.

I came into college motivated. I wanted good grades and a great experience. Turns out, that’s a tricky balance—like mixing oil and water. I started strong. Most of my classes were in the morning, and I was a morning riser even back then.

But the new playground—new friends, freedom, and easy access to drugs—didn’t help my academic ambitions. As the semester went on, I went to class less. The less I went to class, the later I slept in. My world slowly flipped upside down. By week sixteen, it was time to own the results.

Heading into the second semester, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Once again, I started strong. And once again, I got pulled back into the fun side of college life and couldn’t find the discipline to buckle down. As the wheels really started to come off, I made a choice: instead of pretending to go to class, I just stopped going altogether—except for one.

Scuba Diving.

That class? I loved it. I never missed a session. When the semester ended, there it was—a big fat A—sitting among a sea of losing grades. I could start my resume building from here.

The confrontation at home after that year wasn’t pleasant. And honestly, how could my parents not be upset? I had wasted a year of school and a lot of money. Then came the bigger question: 
“What are you going to do with your life?” I didn’t have an immediate answer. But as the summer of 1979 unfolded, I found my next step.

I look back on that year at WIU with both fondness and regret. Had I taken academics seriously, my life likely would have taken a very different path. Still, when I think about it now, I smile. I met some wonderful people and collected memories that have stuck with me for decades.

Of all the people I met during my failed college attempt, I stay in touch with just one—and she has been incredibly supportive during my ALS journey. I spent nearly twenty years trying to find my old roommate Phil and finally located him last year, but he had no interest in reconnecting. I was very disappointed by his response back to me, which amounted to a single sentence. I’ll save that story for a future blog.

Have a great Thursday. Love you guys! ❤️

Photos