Dear Future Me at 100,

As I sit here, a century into my journey, I reflect on the path that led me to this moment. The memories, like old photographs, flicker in my mind, and I want to share them with you—the man who has weathered storms, embraced sunrises, and danced with life.

1. The Great Migration: Remember when we left the bustling streets of Chicago behind? The city’s heartbeat, once so familiar, faded as we drove westward. Our soon to be little family 5 fear later in Idaho—two kids, a wife, the dogs and me—chased dreams across the prairies. Idaho welcomed us with open arms, its mountains whispering secrets of resilience and solitude. We traded skyscrapers for snow-capped peaks, and I never looked back.

2. The Simplicity of Idaho: Idaho—the land of potatoes, endless skies, and quietude. Our home nestled among rolling hills, where the air smelled of pine and adventure. The kids grew up chasing fireflies, their laughter echoing through our wooden cabin. We tended to our garden, teaching them the magic of soil and seasons. Life here was raw, unfiltered, and profoundly beautiful.

3. Seasons and Shovels: Ah, the winters! The snow arrived like a silent storyteller, blanketing our world. I became a snow shoveler, my breath visible in the frosty air. Each flake carried whispers of resilience, reminding me that life, like the driveway, needed clearing. The kids giggled as we built snowmen, and my wife’s eyes sparkled by the fireplace. We were a symphony of mittens and hot cocoa, finding warmth in shared moments.

4. Brett, the Neighbor: Brett, our neighbor, was a sage wrapped in flannel. He’d shuffle over, his breath visible, and share tales of blizzards past. “You’ll never want to see snow again,” he’d say, grinning. But Brett was wrong. The snow became our canvas, and we painted memories upon it. We shoveled, laughed, and marveled at the icy crystals. Brett was right about one thing, though—my huffing and puffing. Age catches up, even in the frostiest of winters.

5. The Wood Stove Debate: The ice storm of ’16 left me sprawled on the driveway, salt scattered like breadcrumbs. My wife laughed—a cruel, beautiful sound—as I nursed my bruised pride. She insisted on a wood stove, fearing power outages. “We aren’t in Alaska,” I protested, but she had a point. So, we installed the stove, and its crackling warmth became our refuge during frozen nights. Love, like firewood, keeps us alive.

6. The Dance of Time: Now, as I pen this letter, I wonder what you’ve become. Have you outlived me, or do you read these words as a centenarian? Did the kids inherit our love for snow or seek warmer havens? And my wife—does she still laugh at my misadventures? I hope you’ve danced with life, twirling through seasons, and found joy in the mundane.

7. A Final Thought: Remember, dear old soul, life isn’t measured in inches of snow or miles crossed. It’s etched in the wrinkles of your heart, the warmth of shared meals, and the echo of children’s laughter. Idaho taught us that. So, raise a glass of mountain spring water to the man who once shoveled snow and dreamed of eternity.

With love and snowflakes, Your younger self

P.S. If you’re still shoveling snow, invest in a good back brace. Trust me.