Houston run completed. No roses. No forced “Hallmark behavior.” Just the Tribe loading up, rolling out, and coming back east with a full war chest and a few new memories stuck in the tread.

The War Party in motion: morale high, cargo space already threatened.

We’re not “a family along for the ride.” We’re a unit. Everybody contributes. Everybody scouts. Everybody laughs. Everybody hauls loot. If one of us is off, the whole machine feels it. That’s Tribe math.

SETX MisFits on tour… and yes, we packed too much. (Tradition.)

Before the thrift raid even started, the Tribe hit a quick side quest at Buc-ee’s Baytown. Premium cache. Fake bolt. Hidden in plain sight. Everybody surged toward the coordinates like it was a supply drop.

And for the record: Pa found it. Rare event. Mark the calendar.

Proof of life: the fake-bolt cache that made the whole run feel “official.”

We fueled up because raids require energy and patience. No Valentine theatrics. Just a clean pit stop and a reset of the nervous system before going back into the racks.

Refuel stop: the Tribe, the Fit, and the next objective.

Food acquired. Expressions recorded for posterity.

Houston always hits different when you stop long enough to actually see it. Not the brochure version. The hand-painted version. The “somebody cared enough to leave a mark” version.

History on concrete: loud, proud, and better than any billboard.

Space City energy: Houston reminding you where you are.

Then it was time. The racks. The hunt. The sacred ritual of “this is either treasure or trash and we won’t know until we get home.” The girls locked in fast. Ma ran point. Pa went full tactical browse mode.

Value Village: where the Tribe goes to acquire loot and questionable fashion decisions.

Also… because we can’t go anywhere like normal people: Yes, Pa found a bra, put it on, and went hunting the family down the aisles like a gremlin. The reaction was worth the price of admission.

Giggles, embarrassment, and zero shame.

Evidence that the Tribe will never be “normal,” and that’s fine.

Side mission inside the raid: Pa also grabbed used electronics (speakers, an old radio, etc.) for the home lab. We’re stocking teardown material so the kids can keep learning the “flow of power” the hands-on way.

War chest secured. Also: “How much can you fit in a Fit?” Answer: yes.

This one hit hard in the best way. Between stops, Baby Boss grabbed a marker and wrote our motto on her Converse like it was the most normal thing in the world: “If it is to be, it’s up to me.” No prompting. No speech. Just… Tribe wiring.

Tribe doctrine, written on a shoe, mid-raid. (As you do.)

Every time Ma and Pa hit the arcade, there’s a tradition: Solar Fox. The machines reset. The scores wipe clean. And Pa lays down the first marker like a flag in the dirt. Then Ma counters and tries to take the throne.

Solar Fox Phase 1: Ma steps up. The Tribe watches. The challenge begins.

Solar Fox Phase 2: Pa returns to “set the standard.” (Allegedly.)

Donkey Kong: serious face, serious business.

And of course… we couldn’t just play games like normal people. We had to do a dance off. We had to hit the pixel floor. Houston got the full MisFits package.

Ma & Pa: dance-off initiated. Pride on the line.

Pixel floor: Baby Boss vs. the grid. (Spoiler: the grid lost.)

We rolled back east tired, laughing, and packed to the ceiling with thrift treasure and teardown electronics. No drama. No nonsense. Just a clean run and a full war chest.

Houston didn’t defeat us. We came home upgraded.

Kitchen table lab session. Battery. Light. Telegraph key. Real components. Real curiosity.

We don’t teach electricity as magic. We teach it as discipline and flow. Power must return home. Circuits must complete. Fuses exist for a reason. Understanding beats memorization every time.

Teaching the “flow of power” the hands-on way.

Twenty years of marriage. Two degrees. Zero quit.

While most people celebrate milestones quietly, Ma levels up like it`s a side quest she forgot to mention. Work. Family. Tribe logistics. Then casually walks across a stage and grabs another degree like it was scheduled between laundry loads.

Super Ma in full evolution mode. Final boss energy achieved.

If this Tribe runs like a machine, she`s the calibration system.

Southeast Texas hears the word ice and the news stations lose their minds. We hear it and check generators, top off fuel, and start sharpening pencils.

Stress gets redirected. Paint hits wood. Signage gets upgraded. If you can`t control the weather, control your craftsmanship.

Art therapy under storm advisory conditions.

Smoke investigation call. Dropped tools. Dove into dirt trails that were definitely not designed for a Honda Fit.

Six miles of lease road later, source located. Developer clearing land. No apocalypse. Just paperwork and dust.

Battle wagon dusty but victorious.

The Fit fit. Again.

What started as geocaching turned into folding chairs and ring ropes. Local wrestling. Loud crowd. Zero polish. Maximum energy.

Ringside chaos secured. Monthly tradition unlocked.

Family projector nights spilled into full vehicle branding. Text handled. Art executed. Blue shells spiritually loaded.

If you see this on I~10, prepare for item box chaos.

Gas under $2.00 in Vidor. We screenshot history around here.

Documenting miracles before they vanish.

Crystal Beach fireworks. Fort Travis exploration. Graffiti concrete and wind off the Gulf.

The kid is officially hooked on urbex. Pa pretends to supervise while also absolutely loving it.

Exploration > resolutions.

Forty might be too old for this. But somebody has to demonstrate form.

Cardio disguised as parenting.

Alarm hits. Brain says no. Discipline says move.

Cardio over doom~scrolling. Sweat equity over excuses. The Tribe doesn`t just preach grit ~ we train it.

Early morning reps before the world wakes up.

Power outage. 3:00am. No panic. Generator fired. Coffee brewed. Website updated under backup power.

Prepared beats dramatic every time.

Backup power. Front porch calm.

Back porch complete. Squirreladillo mythology expanding. Five Nights obsession intensifying.

Infrastructure + imagination ~ equal priority.

Logo finalized. Rain window hit perfectly. Chickens revolted on schedule.

Chaos, but organized chaos.

Three parks. Seven hours from home. Houston traffic prayer circle initiated.

Road miles > screen time.

Geocaching handle glowing under UV on the Vardo. Because subtlety is overrated.

Blacklight approved. Night mission ready.

We are a family of certified Southeast Texas misfits living on an acre and a half in a modest manufactured home. We raise chickens. We hunt geocaches. We project video games on the side of the house for the neighborhood. We roll a hand~built wooden vardo to state parks like traveling storytellers with better snacks.

Pa ~ Gym rat in the morning. IT by day. Farm hand by afternoon. Chronic over~torquer of bolts.
Ma ~ The glue. The boss. Degree collector. Keeps the circus calibrated.
Evelyn ~ Pro gamer. Sharp observer. Future world builder.

Chronicles of the SETXMisFits.