Halloween

On Halloween, I took a half day and drove to the west side of town to see Max and spend Trick-or-Treat with Tinkerbell. When I arrived, Max and his girlfriend were dressed as vampires. I didn’t realize they were going to wear costumes for lunch, so my Willy Wonka outfit stayed in the car.

Max starts a new job Monday selling gutter systems. I’m not sure how that will go—he’s not especially outgoing and doesn’t have a salesman’s personality. His girlfriend is between jobs, working part-time at a red-light therapy business. It all feels foreign to me. By their age, I was well into a career. They still seem to be chasing dead ends.

Tinkerbell’s Halloween display was over the top—elaborate, expensive, and meticulously crafted. Each of the two hundred kids who came by walked away with eight different items: a Wonka-themed sticker pack, a light-up ring, a sucker, a disk shooter, a foam wand, a juice box, a piece of chocolate, and a pair of glowing glasses. She must have spent hundreds on those three hours.

The wind took down part of the front display before the kids arrived, but it calmed later. We stood outside from four to eight. The night was clear but chilly. Dressed as an Oompa Loompa, Tinkerbell greeted every kid with enthusiasm. Watching her reminded me of my mother—not because my mother ever did anything like that, but because of the exaggerated tone that didn’t quite feel like her. It’s hard to explain, but it triggered something.

Still, it was fun watching the kids parade through the neighborhood, their wands and rings glowing. They needed them—no parents carried flashlights. Most kids wore costumes, but the older ones from the nearby trailer park didn’t bother. One group of three teenage girls dressed like streetwalkers caught me off guard.

I’m not sure what drives Tinkerbell to go to such extremes for Halloween. I think her talents would be better suited to set design, but she doesn’t see that. She’s already planning next year’s theme: Beetlejuice or pirates. She suggested I go as Jack Sparrow. I told her maybe I’d pick one of the older characters instead.

Gaining Traction

Beyond Words picked up my essay, Shimmer for their March 2026, literary magazine. I am gaining traction just when I needed it. I have been struggling with the rewrites to the memoir.

Lately, I’ve been deep in the weeds with rewrites on the memoir, trying to apply all the feedback I’ve received. Every note has been positive, which makes it both better and harder. It’s not about whether I can write — it’s about shaping the story in the best way.

My friend Ariel, the wife of a coworker and a fellow memoirist, has been a big help. Still, I’m wrestling with the same questions every writer faces: What stays? What goes? What’s missing? And where does it all belong?

Gia seems to have left Detroit. She hasn’t shown up anywhere lately. My guess? She went back to Rhode Island to see her family before heading down to Tampa for the winter.

A couple of weeks ago, Max asked me to help him change his oil. Said his car was blowing a cloud of white smoke every time he started it. I told him an oil change wasn’t going to fix that. White smoke means a head gasket problem. He decided to trade it in for a new Ford Maverick instead.k.

Max's mom helped him get the new truck. Honestly, I would not have. It is not teaching him any responsibility; it probably strapped him with a five or six-year car payment. 

For those wondering, I will be making an appearance as Willy Wonka for Tinkerbell's Halloween display. My custom is a cross between Gene Wilder and Johnny Depp.

More Wonka

 Sunday, I drove across town to help Tinkerbell set out her Halloween display. She doesn't do a scary theme. She feels they get too many kids and doesn't want to scare them. She is really enthusiastic about Halloween.  She has been working on her creations for ten months. 

This year's theme is Willy Wonka. When I arrived, Tink was trimming back plants around the front of her condo. There is something very nostalgic about hanging out with Tink. Listening to her exaggerated groans as she pulls plants from the ground is uniquely her--like walking past a bakery and smelling cinnamon. 

"Help me get the cookie," Tinkerbell says.

She leads me to a narrow hall closet where a giant, round object wrapped in plastic is wedged. I struggle to remove it, wondering how she managed to put it in there in the first place. She reveals the cookie. It is a glossy recreation of a chocolate chunk cookie with M &M's, three feet in diameter.

We place the cookie next to the air conditioner. Then I am assigned to cover the bushes in lights and purple gauze. 

Next come giant lollipops and candy confections — a Pop-Tart, cupcake, and ice cream cone. Each with intricate details. 

Tinks boyfriend comes out to help, but he mostly stays out of the way. He knows better then to incure her sharp tongue when she is working. I don't hold back. Tinkerbell bicker good-naturedly over details.

They want me to dress up as Willy Wonka for Halloween and join them. I haven't decided yet. It is a long drive.

Dog Days of Summer

 Wild Sound turned one of my short pieces into an audio read.  You can hear it from any of the links below.

https://youtu.be/4L5kP-35FcA

https://www.wildsound.ca/videos/dog-days-of-summer

https://festivalforfamily.com/2025/09/29/family-short-story-dog-days-of-summer-by-david-pizzurro/

And That's Okay

I wished Billy a happy birthday today. She told me she’s thriving and sent a couple of pictures of her daughter—she’s adorable. I told Billie that motherhood was always where she belonged. She agreed, saying it’s given her a whole new perspective.

She also said she thinks of me often. I can say the same. We bonded through trauma, but these days our connection feels less about what we endured and more about acknowledging that we survived.

Since my divorce, I haven’t had many meaningful relationships. That’s why it matters when someone like Billy remembers me as a positive part of her story. Even with Tinkerbell, for all the chaos, there’s still a mutual respect and acknowledgment.

Gia was different. With her, I did everything right—or as right as I knew how—and still didn’t get the ending I wanted. She walked away and erased the relationship completely.

The irony is that Gia probably would have stayed longer in a messy, chaotic relationship. But I’m not built that way anymore.

And that's okay.

Running On

Gia and I sit in the Buick, waiting in line for gas at BJ’s. A cool summer morning filters sunlight through the windshield, warming us in the stillness.

I turn up the radio. A lull between songs, the murmur of a concert crowd—and then it begins. A pulsing rhythm. Jackson Browne’s Running On Empty, an iconic moment recorded live in Columbia, Maryland, 1977.

Lookin' out at the road rushin' under my wheels
Lookin' back at the years gone by like so many summer fields

Gia has lived in eight or ten cities in twenty years. No roots, nothing sustained. Always running to the next city.

Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Tryin' not to confuse it with what you do to survive

She runs from connecting, from herself. Surviving behind walls so thick they’ve become her identity. Pushing away anyone who might slip inside.

I look around for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through
Lookin' into their eyes, I see them runnin' too

It seems like a sad existence, but it’s all she’s ever known. Performance as armor. Survival as self.

When she stopped trying, so did I. It’s hard to see value in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. But she still lingers—in song, in unanswered questions I still try to understand.

I turn to her and say, “This is your theme song.”

Honey, you really tempt me, you know, the way you look so kind
I'd love to stick around, but I'm runnin' behind…Running On Empty, by Jackson Browne

Gia listens for a moment, then shakes her head. She disagrees.

But I don’t.

Fragments

I worked on a piece over the weekend. It was a condensed version of Chapter 2 from my revised Memoir.  The new piece was for an upcoming anthology for Beyond Words. It was a one-word call: Father, which is the theme of the anthology.  I received this today:

I am happy to inform you that your piece Fragments has been selected and will feature in our father-themed anthology!

We will be in touch later in 2025 with further information.

Until then, congratulations and take care,

Gal Slonim

Editor

on behalf of the Editorial Board

Beyond Words

Memoirs

Friday, I went out to eat with a coworker, Wennie, and her wife, Ariel. It was Wennie’s idea for us to meet—Ariel is working on a memoir, too. They recently moved to Michigan after many years in California. Ariel is my age; Wennie is about a decade younger, one of those people who could easily pass for much younger.

Ariel’s health seemed fragile. She walked with difficulty, horn-rimmed glasses perched too small on her face. Her quiet appearance didn’t give away the colorful past she lived on the West Coast.

Once we swapped a few stories, I felt at ease talking about my own book. We exchanged emails and agreed to share writing. I’ll admit—I’m always a little intimidated by people like Ariel who have taken real writing classes. I’ve had no formal training; everything I’ve learned came from mistakes.

But Ariel had been part of a group of writers in California, and it reminded me how important it is to connect with others who share the same interests.

Narrow Lane

 "You've wasted your summer," she said—not for the first time—as if the end of summer marked some invisible boundary of importance.

Sam drew out another cigarette and lit it. She wasn’t ready to leave. The shadows were deepening around us. It had been bright when we entered the restaurant, but now no light leaked through the blinds, proving her point: summer was ending.

I tried to form a reply. I sputtered partial phrases, none of which made much sense.

"Don't get defensive," she continued. "You need to find someone more mature. Someone who can offer you something mentally."

 

It sounded horribly boring to me. Like watching paint dry—acrylic paint, not oil-based, no fumes to enjoy. I wasn’t looking for a partner to challenge me intellectually. I don’t put much thought into things—except people—and you don’t need a PhD to observe people.

I wanted the fumes.

"You deserve better," is what she was really saying. I’ve heard that before. More often than not, it’s less about me and more about them. My instinctive response is always the same: I don’t want better—I want you. More accurately, I want what I see in you. They don’t see it in themselves, or they don’t share the same vision.

Why is what I seem to deserve and what I want so far apart?

I’ve already reviewed my childhood trauma. I don’t want to remarry, and I’m not looking for someone to grow old with—just the thought turns my stomach. I’d rather be alone than settle for someone who doesn’t interest me. I’ve created my own narrow lane.

 

Firefly sits across the couch from me, eating a bowl of ice cream.
“After meeting you, I cannot see you being with someone your own age. You’re young at heart. Most people your age are boring. They’ve given up,” she says.

Sometimes I think I have too—just not in the same way.

Searching Questions

One in twenty people will go to jail in their lifetime. I know six friends and several acquaintances who have spent at least a night there. I’m not sure what that says about my social circle. I’m not saying I haven’t done things that could have landed me in jail—I just didn’t get caught.

I don’t seem like the type of guy who would end up in jail. My tattoos might suggest otherwise to a casual observer, though.

Why am I thinking about this? I was searching for a post about the time Tinkerbell spent a night in jail. It was over a domestic argument with her baby-daddy at the time. They took her in just to cool her off. I’m sure I wrote about it back then, but searching through 2,000 posts without a tag is like fishing for a needle in a haystack.

It has to be out there. It was too funny not to record.

Acceptance

 I got my first acceptance today. Neon Origami is a website dedicated to publishing writers' work. I am happy I can share it here.

I had this piece I always liked, A Tang of Lime. It is a well-crafted piece of flash nonfiction centered around a real-life flirtatious conversation layered with the cost of friendships. You can click on the link if you would like to read it.

Rejection

 I received a second rejection letter today, but it was encouraging. 

Thanks for sharing Shimmer with us. I liked reading it, but unfortunately, our Editorial Board thought it's not quite ready for publication in its current form.

We hoped to find surprises in your piece, to  read a story that is creative in the sense that it describes more than a "typical" love triangle mess.

Mentioning the psychic is underdeveloped, and if you want to keep it, we would suggest that you explain its symbolic significance. 

Finally, the ending could be stronger. Let the reader discover something new! 

I hope you are not too disappointed that we have to reject your submission. I do see potential here, but the piece still deserves some work.

I encourage you to continue sharing your work with us, either with a new piece or a revised version of this one!

This feedback gave me the direction to add to the piece and do what they requested, without adding other areas that are underdeveloped. I will wait several months and submit it again.

Shimmer

Before my trip with Tinkerbell, I wondered if she had ulterior motives. I was analyzing her from a distance--the invitation, her desire to get a new job with more money. They had me thinking that she might be thinking of making a change in her relationship. 

The undercurrents were there, but I think she has made peace with them. Her boyfriend is loyal and makes good money; she values those more than she misses other aspects. I know this by the way she talked about Billie or Gia when each left. Tinkerbell sees things through her eyes.

I try seeing others' possible motivations--which often differ from my own. You don't have to agree with them to see them.

I have been writing 2 hours a day, often more. Gaming has suffered. So has my sleep. I am not sure I am getting closer to my goal, but I am trying.

Today, I think I wrote my best piece yet. I melded two short nonfiction essays into one. Which is a good counterweight to getting my first rejection letter last night.

Best Of- Talk

 I have been pulling from my drafts in order to create several short flash nonfiction pieces to have available for submission when the chance arises.  This piece caught my eye. It is too short for what I am looking for, but I thought it was cute, so I am sharing it again.

Talk

Originally Posted October 28, 2005

My friend Jay might be a better-looking guy than me, but I am a better talker. Sure, I'm shy at first and tend to get silent when I'm really interested in someone. But give me an opening, extra caffeine and I can ramble.

I went to Jay's house after work. I was going to help him install his new cable modem. He answered the door dressed like a pirate. Yes, he lives in a fantasy. He needed an earring and some laces for his Halloween costume. I needed a black turtleneck for mine, so we decided to go to the mall before we worked on his computer.

Jay shopped for an earring like he was wearing it to prom. He wanted a clip-on. I tried to explain his grandmother doesn't even wear clip-ons anymore. I told him a real man would just pop a hole in his ear.

The earrings were on the clearance rack, but rang up full price. Luckily, we had been flirting with the sales lady while we scanned the earrings. She gave them to us for 60% off. Who says only hot chicks get free things?

A trip to the mall would not be complete without stopping in to see Sam at the salon.

"What are you guys shopping for?"

"I need a black turtleneck, and Jay is shopping for earrings. I'm turning artsy, and Jay is switching teams!"

Sam tells us her Ace Freely costume was complete. We stopped by Starbucks—'cause God knows I don't need to sleep. I chatted up the girl behind the counter. She had the place clean and ready to close, and I threatened to order the messiest drink.

By the time we got back to Jay's house, it was already after 9:30. I called customer support to get the modem registered to his account. I got Alison, a friendly support person from Ottawa. I think she was new. She couldn’t get whatever she needed to do to work. She needed to call her manager over. While we waited, I started reading her the Maxim magazine article I was flipping through, “100 Things You Need to Know About Women.”

Me: "Okay, here's one. #34: The average woman owns eight bras and wears each one five times before washing."
Alison: "That sounds about right, but I don't know about the five times.

Me:”19: The more piercings she has, the more places she'll let you put it."
Alison: "I only have one piercing. What's the next one?"

Me: "Okayyyy. #23: Every woman is self-conscious about her ass."
Alison: "No comment."

Me: "Oops, I think I hit a sensitive spot."
Alison: "I didn't say that."

Me: "#16: Chicks aren't afraid to get kinky; you just have to have the nerve to ask."
Alison: "I can't talk about that one—these conversations are recorded."

Unfortunately, Jay's cheap cell phone disconnected at that point. When I got customer service back on my phone, a guy took the call and hooked up internet access in minutes, but it wasn't as fun.

Wonka

When we returned to Tinkerbell's place, she showed me her preparations for Halloween. A three-foot-tall soft-serve ice cream cone sat in her living room. Her theme was Willy Wonka.

"Tink, this is amazing! How did you do that?" I asked.

She went into detail on how she constructed it. "The bottom is a trash can. The top I made from pool noodles."

"What about the sprinkles?"

"Those are clay. You have to bake them first."

The result was outstanding. She'd captured every detail, down to the texture on the cone. But this was only part of it. Stuffed in closets throughout the house were large toadstools, gumdrops, and lollipops. Each piece exploded with detail.

In the downstairs closet, there were materials for a giant Pop-Tart she was creating next.

"You could do this professionally," I said.

Tinkerbell downplayed her skills, but I’m an arts-and-crafter myself. I know good work. People would pay for such a display. She had been working on things since December.

"Wouldn't you love getting paid for what you enjoy doing?"

We headed back outside. Tink sat on her porch while I stood nearby. Tinkerbell gossiped about her neighbors as they entered and exited the condos across the street. Unlike the dorm, this time I was reluctant to leave.

I’ll make sure to post some pictures of the completed display.

Movin Day

 Movin’ Day

“Do you want to drive?” I ask. “I should warn you, Gia thinks my driving is terrible.”

“Are we going to have to take the keys away from you one day?” Tinkerbell teases.

She invited me to go with her and TRex for Movin’ Day. TRex is starting his second year at CMU. It’s her way of saying, You were a part of this.

Like so many times before, Tinkerbell turns it into an adventure. We’re not just helping TRex move into his dorm—we’re spending the night at Soaring Eagle Casino first.

I pull into their driveway in the early afternoon. TRex loads what wouldn’t fit in his car into the back of the Buick. He’s so big now—six-foot-two and lean muscle. I almost don’t recognize him, except for his smile. He still has his mother’s smile. He’s a good kid. Tinkerbell did a great job raising him. If I helped even a little along the way, I’m glad.

We take two cars, with Tinkerbell riding with me. I only miss one exit. She complains dramatically, but it’s all in fun.

Conversation flows nonstop during the drive. She tells me about the elaborate Halloween display she’s planning—this year’s theme is Willy Wonka. She’s been making giant ice cream cones, candies, even a six-foot Pop-Tart. It’s a year-long project. She still knows how to maximize fun. Tinkerbell has settled into her life, and I’m happy for her.

She still babies TRex. He’s her shining achievement. She complains about him when he’s home, but I know she misses him fiercely when he’s gone.

At the casino, the three of us spend more time wandering than gambling, but it’s still enjoyable. We play a few slot machines. No one wins more than they lose, though TRex seems the luckiest. When we finally retire for the night, Tink and TRex share a late-night pizza in their room while I sit outside on a bench, listening to the fountains. I’m settling into my life too.

The next morning, we help TRex move in. We’re a week early—he’s part of a special donor-sponsored team-building program—so the dorm is mostly empty. His room feels cramped for four boys. No privacy, one bathroom. I compare it to prison.

Tinkerbell is a nonstop flutter of over-helping and nagging. Halfway through, TRex’s roommate and his mom arrive. Suddenly the roommate’s mother is carrying on just like Tinkerbell.

“Oh my god, it’s like an echo chamber,” I whisper to TRex. “I thought it was just your mom.” From bits of conversation, I learn she’s a single mom too. Maybe that plays into it.

Tinkerbell and I explore the rest of the dorm. There isn’t room for two moms in that tight space. By the time we return, TRex has most of his things set up. I shake his hand and say goodbye, signaling to Tink that it’s time to go. She’s reluctant to leave, but my presence keeps TRex from having to push her out.

Things change over the years, but it’s surprising how much stays the same. I can picture the two of them pushing me around the old-folks’ home in a wheelchair one day—still bickering, still pampering.

Writing

I’ve been concentrating on my writing—both my memoir and a short piece I submitted to StreetLit for consideration. I’d really like to share the piece, but I can’t. Still, I think it’s pretty good. It draws from scenes that just didn’t fit in the memoir.

I’m writing. Surpassing my best words from my earlier years. And it feels good. I see so many possiblities.

Bikes?

I spoke with Sam Friday night — the first time since last November, when she walked out on me. She texted first, testing the waters.

Sam: Hey you, hope you are doing good. I'm going to come get my bike at some point. Let me know when you're available.

Bathwater: Hey, I'll be around this weekend. Just let me know.

Later, she called, and we ended up talking for at least an hour — just catching up. She made tentative plans to pick up her bike on Saturday but never came by.

I think the bike was more of an excuse to reach out than anything else. Her life is still a complicated mix of family obligations and unforeseen drama.

It was nice that she reached out, opening a door for further communication. I’m still deciding how far I want to step back in.

How the Universe Works

I’d been searching for the cover photo I used on the original version of my memoir. I wanted to use it again, if possible—but it was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t in any of my saved files. Not in my online photo backups. I was starting to fear it was gone for good.

But tonight, as I was pulling my backpack out of the backseat, I noticed a zip drive on the floor. My car is brand new. The interior is spotless. The zip drive just sat there—completely out of place. I checked my bag. All the pockets were closed.

How did it get there?

I plugged it into my computer. On it were several old files—including all the work I’d done on the original draft… and the photo.

This is how the universe works.

My Relentless Editor, Red

Red—the name I’ve given my ChatGPT editor—has set the bar for my memoir against some of the top works in the genre:
Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Lit by Mary Karr, This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff.

Red tells me my original manuscript, on the one-to-ten scale we created, started around a six. Now, it’s closer to an eight-point-five. I’m striving for ten.

I struggle through line-by-line edits, trying to maintain my words, my voice, while reaching the clarity and flow Red demands.

It’s not easy. Red keeps shifting the bar—pushing me to tighten the narrative, remove content I’m attached to, and add more reflection from my current voice. It’s hard to cut words I’m so close to. Still, we have a plan. A plan that might allow some of that material to be released one day.

An indie publisher is running a contest, and the submission window closes at the end of the month. Red thinks I’ll be ready by then. I wish I had more time—work keeps getting in the way.

Retro

 Max texted me today:

“What are you doing? I may need some help.”

“What do you need? I can make time.”

He and his girlfriend were heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

He was heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

I met Max there. He paid $450 for it. We loaded it into my truck and took it back to their duplex. Afterward, we walked into downtown Northville for lunch with his girlfriend, Kay. Over lunch, we talked about Max’s recent battle with a tonsillar abscess.

Like his father, Max is leaning heavily into using ChatGPT. It diagnosed his issue—and even pointed out the inadequate care he got when the hospital discharged him after draining it. I'm glad he is. It gives us something we can bond over.

I asked if they wanted the concert tickets, but they declined. I told them what had happened with Gia. I spoke in psychological terms—about her avoidant personality. They get that. Like many their age, they’ve replaced religion with psychology.

Later, I called Tinkerbell to see what she and Tech were up to. She mentioned she had Googled Gia. I’m not sure why. I never asked her—and I’ve never done it myself. Tinkerbell has this innate need to tear down the women in my life. She didn’t find anything I didn’t already know.

Just because I like to see the good in people doesn’t mean I’m not hyperaware of who I’m around.

Tinkerbell invited me to join her and T-Rex on Move-In Day. He’s starting his second year at CMU. It should be a fun adventure—one that reminds me of the good old days, when the three of us used to go everywhere together.

Back to Writing

 With Gia gone—and a newfound appreciation for ChatGPT—I’ve returned to writing. I’ve decided to take another stab at re-editing my book. It was something I always wanted to do. Now I finally have the tools to make it happen.

ChatGPT has become my editor. It gives me constructive feedback, helps me shape the overall theme and the themes of individual chapters, and keeps me focused on the goals I’ve set. I even had it write both a positive and a negative critical review of the book, which I now use as benchmarks to guide the editing process. And I keep having it do this as we go, constantly refining.

I think there’s going to be a 100% improvement by the time it’s done—without losing my voice in the process. Even if I don’t republish this edition, I’m finally giving the book the time and attention it deserves.

More than that, I’m coming at it with a clearer sense of self—something that’s grown since Billie left.

Max Update

Max moved in with his girlfriend. She rents a duplex in Northville, almost an hour away. I have met her twice. She is pleasant. I don't dislike her, but I don't think she is a good fit for him. I look at different metrics than Max, though, and I think she is too much like his mom. She is also a year older than he, and definitely less attractive.

Max quit his job, which was close to home, to move out there. It has been 4 weeks and he still hasn't found a new one yet. I don't understand this. I think it was a poor decision. The type of decision I thought he stopped making. I am disappointed, and I do not think his reasons are valid.

The two of them are caught up in this therapy culture. At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own actions. Perhaps having bills to pay will teach him some responsibility. It will be interesting to see how long she will indulge him, living there without a job.

Snapshot of February

In homage to Sarah H. at Death Wears Diamond Jewelry, who is no longer blogging but is missed.

Listening…The Telepathy Tapes, podcast. I think autism is the next set in human evolutionary development.  Give it a listen.

Reading…Just finished reading Dave's latest book, The Body In Time. 

Watching…All 13 seasons of Supernatural, again. 

Playing … I have been playing Last War on my phone. It is very intense. You must join an alliance, get on Discord, and spend money.

Building... I built Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs cottage while waiting for the Lego show this weekend.

Buying… Try not to purchase anything.

Loving... Just received a Lego-produced limited addition Forestmen's Hideout from Bricklink. It is a massive set. I haven't decided if I want to build it or save it.

Planning… Gia is planning to come here for a week at the end of April just to vacation with me. I can't wait. We still chat every day. She is back in Rhode Island with her family. 

Missing…  Gia, she is not dancing anymore so she doesn't come to Michigan to work, just to see me. 

This weekend is the BrickFest Show in Novi, Michigan. I have all my displays packed and ready for set up tomorrow.

Lego Update

 I took a nineteen-day vacation from work over the holidays. I spent some time with the boys.  There were days when I did nothing at all, but mostly I built Legos for the upcoming Brickfest Live show in Novi, March 1 and 2.  I have three new and three remodeled creations I have never shown at BrickFest.

This is a Troll/ Goblin Mine

This is an Old West Ghost Train

I made the Subway Hazmat Team Twice as Large

I redid this Stronghold that I showed at the church last year

This is a Creature From Toxic Waste scene

The scene was not complete when I took this photo

I really enjoyed building. I can work eight to ten hours straight on a project. I am getting better at planning and building. Often I found myself thinking, "If only I had an assistant to do the repetitive parts :)".

Pictures do not do the displays justice, but I haven't moved any of this downstairs for better photos yet. I really am starting to think I could retire. I don't plan on retiring for seven more years, but I feel like I could.