This is the front porch bulletin board for the digital vardo. Big stories live on their own pages when they need the room. Everything else gets pinned up here first so folks can look around without having to chew through a dictionary.

:: Older logs / archaeology mode →

Click the picture to read the shed recovery quest.

An abandoned shed left behind after Hurricane Harvey got one more chance at usefulness. Pa tore it down, Ma came in like a tall Valkyrie for the roof work, and the whole thing came home by trailer, leverage, straps, and stubbornness.

The MisFits made a woods-and-weirdness run to Whispering Grove Faire in Kountze, Texas — complete with fire performers, knife throwing, gnome diplomacy, and Evelyn helping Stormeigh see over the crowd the Lee-family way.

It turned into exactly the kind of day worth saving: pine trees, handmade faire chaos, rogue training jokes, Ma keeping the orbit steady, Pa finding the gnome jokes, and the girls making another memory out in the middle of it all.

Click the faire collage to read the full Whispering Grove Faire field log.

:: Read the Full Whispering Grove Faire Story ::

Ma and I slipped away to the beach for the weekend and spent a little time hanging out with our adult friends, enjoying the sand, the Gulf air, and a rare stretch of grown-up breathing room while the kiddo was elsewhere doing kiddo things.

Naturally, because this is us, “relaxing at the beach” still somehow involved the Vardo, the Jeep, the four-wheeler, a pile of beach gear, and me experimenting with Meshtastic signals using the Vardo and a push-up antenna pole.

Some folks go to the beach and read a book. I go to the beach and start wondering how far a little radio node can holler across the coast.

The Jeep, the Vardo, the beach, and a little antenna reaching up like it had something important to say.


A rare kid-free beach pause with Ma, the Vardo close by, and absolutely no shortage of sand, sun, or mischief.


From driveway chaos to beach camp setup, this is pretty much what SETX MisFits looks like when it escapes to the coast.

Evie got off the bus today and immediately started explaining how our road works like she had just discovered a secret navigation system hidden in plain sight.

According to her, she does not need GPS to know when she is almost home. She just has to wait for the bus to hit the rough straightaway.

In other words, rural kids do not use satellites. They use potholes, road bumps, weird landmarks, and whatever mysterious brain-map gets installed after enough rides down the same country road.

The best part is... she is not wrong.

Out here, directions have always been a little different. You do not say, "watch for the GPS pin." You say things like, "when the road starts beating the kidneys out of you, you're getting close."

And if that fails, there is always the giant LEE in the grass. Because apparently our neighborhood came with its own map label.

Evie unlocked the overworld map.


Actual rural kid GPS marker. No subscription required.


Somewhere down there is a school bus full of kids learning terrain-based navigation.

So there it is.

Modern kids have phones, maps, and location sharing. Evie has a straightaway full of potholes and enough road-memory to know when she is almost home with her eyes closed.

No signal required. Just don't miss the bumps.

This one turned into a full-on Louisiana run — battlefield dust, backroads, small towns, and a whole lot of finds. Started as a trip to watch the Battle of Pleasant Hill and turned into one of our favorite adventures yet.

Click the image or here to view the full Pleasant Hill Run page.

Recovered a few more old rail ties for future projects around the homestead. Those things are no joke — heavy, awkward, and absolutely determined to remind you why staying in shape matters.

By the time we got them loaded, moved, and staged, I was real glad I put the time in at the gym. There is a difference between “that’s heavy” and “that’s a problem,” and these were flirting with problem territory.

Recovered rail ties lined up and waiting. Future projects always seem to start with “let’s just grab a few of these real quick.”

Meanwhile, we have got a daily situation developing with one particular chicken. Out of the whole flock, there is exactly one that has decided the rules do not apply to her.

Every morning, like clockwork, she makes her escape, goes and lays a single egg somewhere outside the coop, and then just waits. No panic, no drama — just standing there like she fully expects to be picked up and escorted back.

We have officially nicknamed her Cuddlebug. Not because she behaves, but because she absolutely does not — and somehow still gets away with it.

Cuddlebug, the daily escape artist. Breaks out, handles business, and then waits for pickup like it was part of the morning schedule.

And just to round things out, Ma has taken it upon herself to upgrade the Honda Fit into a rolling work of art — specifically designed to cause maximum embarrassment in the school pickup line.

Started with “Fortnite,” then escalated into full-on parking lot commentary. Every morning is now part commute, part public performance.

Honestly, I think she enjoys it way more than anybody else involved.

Ma turning the Honda Fit into a rolling billboard of middle-school embarrassment. Mission accomplished.

Sunday was final-prep day for our upcoming 20th anniversary family vacation.

Ma, Evie, and I split up and went full pre-trip mode. Ma and Evelyn spent the morning pulling everything out of the Vardo, inventorying it, reorganizing it, adding what we still needed, and loading it all back in neat and ready for the road. Meanwhile, I went into full dad-mode pre-trip inspection on the Jeep: mechanical check, electrical check, tools accounted for, med kit stocked, and all fluids topped off and ready to roll.

Air pressure checked out perfect in every tire, including the spares. That is always the kind of small thing that does not feel important until it suddenly is.

By the end of it, the whole rig was loaded, checked, and standing by. Exactly how I like it before we point the nose west and go make memories.

Dad-mode pre-trip inspection in progress. Fluids, tools, tires, and all the little things that keep the adventure from turning into roadside folklore.

On the Vardo side of the operation, Ma and Evelyn had the inside spread out, sorted, and brought back under control. Gear got checked, supplies got counted, and the usual rolling-cabin chaos got turned back into something roadworthy. It was one of those real behind-the-scenes prep days that never looks glamorous, but makes the whole trip possible.

The other half of travel prep: empty it, sort it, question every item, then somehow fit it all back in better than before.

After all that, we called the heavy lifting done and treated ourselves to a little bit of pampering at the nail salon.

And yes, all three of us got our toenails painted.

Not exactly the traditional pre-expedition ritual, maybe, but around here we believe in balanced operations: check the spares, stock the med kit, secure the loadout, then go get your toes painted before vacation starts.

Mechanical readiness, organized gear, and freshly painted toes. Honestly, that sounds like a solid launch sequence to me.

I've been experimenting with something that feels a whole lot more real than scrolling: writing a question on the gym chalkboard and letting whoever wants to answer, answer. I put this one up a few days earlier, and by the time I snapped the follow-up, this was round three and by far the most people had joined in so far. Turns out if you give folks a real question and a little room to write, they will still show up. That feels a lot more like social media than most social media does.

The question goes up first. Then the room decides whether it matters.

More replies than last time. Maybe people were just waiting for permission to be human in public again.

One of those quiet little legacy days that matters more later than it does in the moment: Dad and Eve rode to school together, turning an ordinary morning into a memory worth hanging onto. Short ride. Big meaning. Full story lives on its own page.

:: Read the full ride log →

Turns out the MisFits have quietly built a whole digital pit crew. We use AI to help plan vacations, sort out homestead ideas, untangle website rebuilds, and keep family projects moving when the brain is tired but the work still needs doing. It is not replacing the real life part of any of this. It just helps us haul the map, the notebook, and the extra flashlight. Weird little future goblins, but useful.

Not sponsored. Not corporate. Just part of the tool pile now.

A few aerial shots of the homestead work core as it stood in late February. Nothing glamorous. Just the real map: house, chicken yard, sheds, vehicles, work zones, and the lived-in shape of the place where a lot of our projects begin. Sometimes it helps to step back and look at the whole board before the next round of repairs, plans, and bad ideas gets underway.

The work core from above: pen, shelter, shed, and all the ordinary moving parts that keep the place alive.

Not a showplace. A real one. Trucks, trailers, chicken structures, open yard, and whatever project is next.

Whole-board view. House, chicken zone, outer yard, and the covered storage where some of the stranger rigs sleep.

Valentine's weekend took a hard left into MisFits territory: family convoy, scavenging, supplies, thrift-store victories, and a proper war chest hauled back east. Too much happened to leave buried on the front page, so the whole expedition got its own chronicle page.

:: Enter the Houston field report →

Past chaos and older campfire logs →