This year—what I’ve started calling Season Six—has had a theme: my friends are either becoming grandparents or retiring. Sometimes both. And while those changes might sound like life slowing down, they’ve actually brought more smiling, more stories, and a kind of peace I didn’t expect.
The summer sun was pouring gold onto Broad Street late in the afternoon when I signed off early and walked toward the loft. A live band was setting up for Twilight Alive just a block away, and I had other plans—celebrating the retirement of my dear friend, and closest friend, Danny Strickler, after 32 years in the newspaper business.
Danny is one of five brothers born to the Strickler family in Colonial Heights. I knew him well before he ever knew me—he lived just over the hill from where I grew up. He went to Sullivan Central, served in the United States Marine Corps, and eventually started his work at Mason Dixon and later at the Kingsport Times-News, where we finally met.
That’s when everything changed.
Most people know Danny for his steady hand, his quiet strength, and his dedication to family and charity. But I know him as something even more: a guide. Back in 1985, when most IT managers kept their doors closed, Danny welcomed me into his world. He introduced me to my first Apple computer and helped me learn. He never blocked my curiosity—he encouraged it. That curiosity would shape my life’s work: websites, design, software, communication. If it weren’t for Danny, I might’ve taken a completely different path. And beyond the career, I look up to him—friend, father, husband, man of integrity—and I’m grateful beyond measure to have him at the center of my life’s circle.
Danny’s party was everything it should have been. Not at the house. Not at a restaurant. But in a downtown loft filled with food, laughter, tequila, and the kind of friendship that only comes with a few decades under your belt. I’ve known Dan for more than 30 years—since our days in the newsroom. Over the years, I’ve come to love his wife Tracy, their kids, their grandkids, and their dogs enough that I’ve earned the title Honorary Strickler. I wear it proudly.
I didn’t get a send-off when I left the industry after 38 years—mine came with a layoff. That’s just the way things go now in publishing. So there was something satisfying, even redemptive, about watching Dan go out the right way. Surrounded by colleagues, family, and the closest of friends.
Dan’s already a seasoned grandfather. Etta and Sunny Day—his two granddaughters—are magnetic little humans. Etta has a presence that feels like she’s already halfway to the top of whatever she’ll pursue. Sunny Day, meanwhile, might be an Olympian in the making. She’s brave, wild-hearted, and completely herself. The kind of kid who draws a crowd without meaning to.
Tracy retired earlier this year from McMillan Eyecare. When I asked her what the most noticeable part of retirement was, she said without hesitation, “I’m not in a hurry.” That stuck with me. I call it Strickler Time. I’ll ask Danny the same question in a few weeks. I have a feeling the answer will be similar.
The party brought old friends together—some I’ve known for 40 years or more. It hit me again: I don’t have kids or grandkids. I’m not retiring. But I do have something rare. I have lifelong friends, and we’ve survived enough chapters together to fill a whole library. Some of them have known all of my wives. That’s how far back we go.
One of those friends is Bill Robinson. He opened the first real door for me in the publishing world, and he also managed one of my early bands—TenPenny. It was through his help that we secured a spot at the first Fun Fest, opening for the classic rock band Head East on that first concert night at J. Fred Johnson Stadium. That connection shaped more than my career—it gave me a stage, literally and figuratively.
After all the stories, memories, and reflections, it felt good to just be there in the loft—back in the moment, celebrating. The streets of downtown Kingsport were alive. A Sullivan South reunion was happening just down the block at High Voltage, another band was playing at The Reserve, and the windows behind us framed it all like a movie. But inside, with margaritas flowing and old friends gathered, our party was the heart of the night. Music drifted up from the street below, mixing with our own soundtrack of laughter, conversation, and a few well-earned toasts to Danny.
It was an East Tennessee summer in full effect: hot, humid, then a little rain, then clearing skies. Just enough of a weather show to sweep the sidewalks clean and end the evening in peace.
We’ve got photos to prove it, too. There’s a gallery of moments from both Danny’s celebration in a downtown Johnson City loft and Tracy’s earlier retirement party in Kingsport—each one filled with laughter, people we love, and the kind of moments you want to hang on the wall.
Lately, I’ve been thinking more about what matters to me—and who. I had lunch not long ago with a friend at Holy Taco in Boones Creek. When we stepped onto the back patio, he asked where I wanted to sit. I pointed and said, “Over there. Next to the troublemakers.”
We sat beside a couple with a Harley parked out front. We got to talking, and somehow, I mentioned Dante’s Inferno—specifically the ice at the core of hell. To my surprise, they not only caught the reference, they knew Gustave Doré, the illustrator. We all had a laugh at that—literature, motorcycles, and the unbearable heat.
In moments like that, I realize I’ve been to heaven and hell more than once in my life. I’ve had losses I still can’t quite speak of, and I’ve had high points that took my breath away. I carry those memories in a mental folder labeled Best Days of My Life. They’re all in there—good, hard, and sacred.
Looking back now, I see the shape of myself more clearly. The way joy and heartbreak carved me out. And I know that what I’ve treasured most, what’s lasted through it all, is friendship. Not the kind you pick up and drop. The kind that ages well. The kind that adorns your soul like gemstones—platinum and diamond, sharp and luminous.
I love the stars. I love old rocks. I love jazz and literature and the sound of stories being passed around a table. And now, as more of my friends become Mamaws and Papaws, and we gather in lofts and listen to bands and raise glasses to each other’s next chapters, I know something for certain:
My life is rich. My stories are worth telling. And my friends—they are the crown I wear.
Images from Tracy’s Retirement Party earlier in the year.
