First of all, how are our kids old enough to be interested in college? And when did campuses start looking like this, all lakes and palm trees and resort-style dorms and perfect weather in the dead of February? “This isn’t like the places we went to school, is it?” asked another tired dad as we strolled a scenic path surrounded by kayakers and sunbathers.

Florida Gulf Coast University may or may not be where our son ends up going. But our college visit this weekend gave him some needed perspective, and his younger sister seemed to take the most interest, drawn to the dance team and chamber choir opportunities. With an enrollment of about 15,000, the school is well sized, and the students who hosted us for the Eagle Expo were smart, smiley and super impressive.
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“My mom’s really proud of me, and that’s all that matters in the end,” confided one of our tour guides, Tara.

FGCU got our attention with its notable program in engineering, a field that intrigues our left-brained boy, and naturally with its excellent basketball team. A half-hour presentation by an engineering PhD was inspiring if a touch fear-inducing for setting an expectation of long hours of study. “Engineering is not an easy career choice but it’s a beneficial career choice,” she explained. A quick trip upstairs to the virtual reality lab brightened things up. “I could do this all day,” said our goggled son, getting lost in a roomful of wiry gear and gadgetry.
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In the end he seemed engaged, though noncommittal. More school visits lie ahead, including trips to the big ones, University of Florida and Florida State University. But this place by the sea does have a good software engineering program, he pointed out, “and the scenery’s cool.”

Even though I’ve been writing for a living the past 30 years, apparently I can't get enough of it. I’m constantly jotting down notes and ideas and the funny things people say.

Some of you may have noticed I can be text-heavy on this site and other social media, posting longish pieces about my family, travel, music, basketball, bikes, beer, etc. I've been sharing these stories for years and now, gathered in one place, they fill a 216-page collection I’m calling Hold On, Let Me Write That Down.

I self-published this book mostly as a gift for my 85-year-old mom, who knows darn well there's an internet but chooses to consume information only via print and TV. That means she's missed pretty much everything I've written since I gave her my last book, a decade's worth of newspaper stories, some 15 years ago. Today my gift is on its way to her house. I figure if anyone will care for this, it’s my mom.

For anyone else who’s interested, below is the intro to the book.

                                             *****

Maybe it’s a carryover from my days as a newspaper reporter, but I constantly find myself reaching for a notebook. Many of my jottings are mundane details that simply connect the dots in my life: lists, reminders, things I did, things I need to do.

Other times my notes are more inspired, more a reflection of what I find important and remarkable. Someone will say something clever or poetic and I'll scribble it down. A perfect sentence, phrase or quote will jump off the page of a book or magazine, and I'll capture it for some future use. I'll hear a cool song and make note of its title, with plans to figure out how to play it on guitar. Or an idea for a story will pop into my head and I'll sketch out a beginning, middle and end – and soon, after transferring the notes to my computer or phone and wrestling them into shape, I have a new slice of life, a new reason to be excited.

Travel writer Bruce Chatwin viewed taking notes as a means to better understanding one's world and ultimately oneself. He considered his notebooks invaluable extensions of his experience, his spirit. "Losing my passport was the least of my worries; losing a notebook was a catastrophe," he said. Not sure I'm that serious about it. But I do often find myself wondering why other people aren't writing stuff down.

In your hands is a collection of my stories, notes and musings drawn almost entirely from my posts on Facebook, Instagram and my website, Guitar Dad. Many of the pieces were inspired by everyday experiences I had with my family, especially when my kids did or said something totally wacky. All of them started, of course, with the words I jotted in my notebooks and the ideas that rattled around in my head. The pieces date from 2008 and, as of this publication, bump up against the end of 2018. They are arranged by category and mixed up chronologically. They are a decade’s worth of moments I carry in my heart and that define the absolutely amazing life I’ve been given.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Hampton Inns of the world. Big-brand hotels are comfortable and consistent, and I’m happy to rack up more Hilton Honors points.
 
But I'm also a big fan of oddball places to stay, the ones you simply stumble onto and which make you forever grateful you did. The Driftwood Resort in Vero Beach, Florida, is just such a place. It’s really more a collection of found objects than a hotel.
 
“It’s kind of weird but other than that, it’s OK,” says my teenage daughter. That’s actually a resounding endorsement.
 
The Driftwood emerged piece by piece from the imagination of Waldo Sexton, a quirky, wild-eyed agriculture student from Indiana who traveled to Florida’s Treasure Coast in 1914 and never turned back. Today he gets credit for singlehandedly creating the citrus, cattle and tourism industries in Indian River County. He also gallivanted the globe gathering ironwork, wooden artifacts, tiles, bells and other peculiar finds for the Driftwood.
 
“He was quite industrious should we say,” explains Lynn at the front desk. “He brought back interesting things from all over the world, whatever made him happy.”
 
Waldo, who died in 1967 three days after Christmas, is still very much present at the Driftwood and everywhere else in Vero. I saw no fewer than four historical plaques bearing his name. “My only regret,” he once said, “is that I had not come to Vero Beach sooner.”

I am always a little wistful for North Carolina, especially when it snows back home. As I tuned in to the wintry images on the Weather Channel and followed accumulation reports from Winston-Salem, some subconscious part of me was transported there, to my memories as a kid playing in the snow, to the thrill and strange freedom of being shut in by such an opulent act of God. There were moments when I had to remind myself where I actually was, palms rustling in the backyard and temps in the low 70s. “Oh Paul, it’s the prettiest snow we’ve ever had,” my mom told me over the phone. “I just wish you could see it.”

The first one we saw was tall and dark and, well, handsome. "His name is Thunder," we were told.

Over the course of an hour we met a dozen more dogs, with names like Angel, Mazie, Lulu, Oliver, Lady, Odie. Each of them was a greyhound, by the way, capable of taking off like a bullet and hitting 40 miles an hour or faster.

Funny thing is, they simply don't do that, even though they are bred to race. They prefer doing nothing at all. Some sleep 18 hours a day. "You see how friendly he is now?" one owner said. "Well, he'll be asleep in the car on the way home, and we don't live very far from here."

Like other folks gathered today at Ivanhoe Park Brewing Company in support of Greyhounds in Motion ($1 from every pour went to the cause), my family has been thinking about adopting one of these amazing animals, especially now that greyhound racing in Florida is coming to an end and thousands of these dogs will need homes. "They're so cool, and they're so sweet," my wife said. And that's exactly right. They're gentle, loving creatures, striking and statuesque, with regal snouts and legs for days and not an ounce of fat anywhere.

Once the initial hubbub of today's event wore off, you could see the hounds relaxing, tuning out, some lying down, closing their eyes and drifting off. "Greyhounds are total couch potatoes," I heard someone say.

Good thing we learned the place was haunted after we returned home. “I knew something was creepy about that hotel,” my son says.

True, the kids had expressed mild concern over a closet door opening by itself in our room on the afternoon of our arrival at the Colony Hotel. “And I heard a sound in the middle of the night like somebody stepping really hard in the hallway,” my daughter remembers.

“Come on, that was just somebody walking back to their room,” her brother says, looking slightly less than convinced.

Built in 1926, the historic Colony Hotel in downtown Delray Beach, Florida, is a wonderful place to spend a long Labor Day weekend. Creaky hardwood floors and antique light fixtures and old photographs of the property and of long-gone guests lining the walls. Never once did it cross my mind that it might be haunted, nor have I ever believed in things being haunted in the first place. That’s ridiculous.

But now that we’ve read some online chatter about apparitions and unexplained sounds and sightings at the Colony, I’m not so sure. Maybe I just want to believe. Pondering the possibility quickens the pulse and seems to heighten the senses. It’s a strangely appealing buzz.

Not so for my daughter. “That’s the last time you make me stay in some scary old hotel,” she says.