Pull Up a Chair: August 21, 2026

Pull up a chair and stay awhile. I’ve been thinking about something lately, and maybe it’s because this is my birthday month. Maybe it’s because the older I get, the more I notice things I never paid much attention to when I was younger. Whatever the reason, I’ve realized that the things I appreciate most these days aren’t the big, flashy moments I used to think would make life feel complete.

They’re the simple things.

When I was younger, I imagined happiness looking a lot different than it does now. I thought it would come from reaching certain milestones, buying certain things, or finally getting everything organized enough that life would magically become easier. I kept thinking there would come a day when the house would stay clean, the laundry would all be caught up, and every project on my list would finally be finished.

I’m still waiting on that day.

I’ve accepted that the laundry basket has somehow entered into a lifelong commitment with my family. Every time I empty it, somebody quietly sneaks another shirt into it when I’m not looking. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I’m convinced there’s a conspiracy happening in my laundry room.

Years ago, that would have bothered me more than it does now. I spent a lot of time trying to stay caught up. These days, I still like an organized house, but I don’t let a basket of towels decide whether I’ve had a good day.

That’s progress.

One of the biggest surprises about getting older is discovering how much joy can be found in things that don’t cost a penny.

A cool breeze after a week of unbearable heat.

Fresh sheets on the bed.

Hearing rain on the roof while you’re safely inside.

Finding the perfect tomato at the farmers market.

Watching birds argue over the feeder like they’ve got important business to settle.

Those little things have become some of my favorite parts of the day.

I think part of it comes from realizing that life doesn’t usually change overnight. It changes quietly, one ordinary day at a time. We spend so much energy waiting for the big moments that we sometimes overlook the hundreds of little ones that actually make up our lives.

Take coffee, for example.

When I was younger, coffee was simply something that helped me wake up.

Now it’s become a whole experience.

I enjoy picking out my favorite mug. I like sitting on the porch before the day gets busy. Sometimes I don’t even turn my phone on right away. I just sit there for a few minutes listening to the birds and watching the neighborhood slowly come to life.

Nothing remarkable is happening.

But somehow those few quiet minutes set the tone for the rest of my day.

That’s something I never would have appreciated twenty-five years ago.

Food is another one.

I still enjoy going out to eat every now and then, but some of my favorite meals are the simplest ones. A BLT made with tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes. A bowl of homemade soup when it’s cold outside. A fresh peach standing over the kitchen sink because you know the juice is going everywhere.

There’s something satisfying about food that’s in season and doesn’t need much fussing over.

Maybe that’s why I enjoy cooking so much. It isn’t about making fancy meals that belong in a magazine. It’s about gathering people around the table.

Some of my favorite family conversations have happened while somebody was reaching for another biscuit or asking if there was any sweet tea left.

The food brought us together.

The conversation is what I remember.

I’ve also learned to appreciate comfortable shoes far more than I ever thought I would.

I know that sounds funny, but it’s true.

There was a time when I would choose shoes because they looked nice. Now I choose them because I know exactly how my feet are going to feel three hours later.

The same goes for furniture.

I don’t care if the chair looks like it belongs in a decorating magazine. If I can’t sit in it comfortably for an hour while talking with family, it isn’t the chair for me.

Comfort has become a luxury I fully appreciate.

So has peace and quiet.

There was a season of life when silence made me nervous. I’d turn on the television just to have some background noise while I cleaned the house. Music was always playing, or something was going on in the background.

Now I actually enjoy quiet.

Not because I don’t like people. I absolutely do.

But quiet has a way of helping you notice things you might otherwise miss.

The wind moving through the trees.

The sound of rain beginning before anyone else notices it.

The neighbor’s dog announcing that someone has driven down the road.

Those sounds remind me I’m home.

One thing that has changed the most over the years is how I look at time.

When I was younger, I always thought there would be more of it.

More time to call someone tomorrow.

More time to visit next month.

More time to ask questions later.

Losing my dad taught me that later isn’t promised.

There are still days when something happens and my first thought is, “I need to tell Dad about this.” Then I remember I can’t.

Twenty-six years have passed, and I still catch myself thinking that.

It reminds me to appreciate the people who are here now.

The conversations.

The laughter.

Even the moments that drive me crazy.

Especially around here at Shady Pines.

Believe me, there are days when Ma asks the same question for what feels like the tenth time, and Uncle R decides to tell a story that somehow includes every person he’s ever met. In the moment, it can be exhausting.

Then I stop and remind myself that one day I’ll probably miss hearing those stories.

That changes your perspective.

The older I get, the more I understand why my grandparents sat on the porch so much.

When I was little, I couldn’t figure it out.

Why would anybody just sit there?

Now I know.

The porch isn’t about doing nothing.

It’s about noticing everything.

The breeze.

The neighbors walking by.

The hummingbirds.

The sound of kids playing somewhere in the distance.

The sky changing colors as the sun starts going down.

It’s amazing how much of life happens when you simply stop rushing through it.

I’ve also stopped worrying so much about impressing people.

That’s probably one of the best gifts that comes with age.

I don’t need the newest gadget because everyone else has one.

I don’t need my house to look perfect before someone comes over.

If you stop by unexpectedly, there’s a good chance you’ll find a basket of laundry waiting to be folded or dishes drying beside the sink.

That’s called living.

And if we’re friends, I hope you’ll grab a dish towel and start talking while I finish what I was doing.

We’ll both enjoy the visit a lot more than if I spent an hour apologizing because the house wasn’t spotless.

I’ve found myself paying more attention to people who make life feel easier instead of more complicated.

The friend who calls just to check on you.

The neighbor who waves every time you drive by.

The cashier who remembers your name.

The waitress who already knows you want sweet tea before you even ask.

Those people matter.

They make ordinary days feel a little brighter without even realizing it.

As my fiftieth birthday gets closer, people have started asking me how I feel about it.

Honestly?

I feel grateful.

Grateful for every lesson I didn’t appreciate when I was younger.

Grateful for family dinners that run longer than planned because nobody wants to leave the table.

Grateful for mornings on the porch with a hot cup of coffee.

Grateful for Georgia roads that still make me smile every time I drive them.

Grateful for readers who have spent years pulling up a chair with me every Friday.

If getting older has taught me anything, it’s that a good life isn’t built from extraordinary moments happening every day.

It’s built from ordinary days that were appreciated while they were happening.

That’s something I hope I never forget.