Jan. 31, 2025: Even more gratitude

Wow. What a ride it's been.

Never in my life did I think I’d sit here and say I’m actually thankful for my parents' divorce. But I am. I’ve found a way to be grateful for it.

My mom’s home is in downtown Macon because that’s where her mom’s home was. And thanks to the divorce, downtown Macon became my home too—not just physically, but spiritually. This city has a heartbeat, a history, a soul. When you’ve walked its streets for decades, stood by it through thick and thin, and weathered its battles, you realize Macon isn’t just a place. It’s a survivor. A city that has endured out of love.

My dad, on the other hand, grew up in Macon, is deeply rooted in it, yet feels let down by it. He calls it a “one-horse town, and that horse is dead.” But the truth is, he doesn’t hate Macon—he’s disappointed in it. He sees its potential and wishes it would rise to meet it. Maybe it’s the Lebanese in him, but my dad believes that if you’re going to dream, you dream big. You chase happiness and success with everything you’ve got, grabbing every opportunity by the horns and never letting go.

Thanks to all those long days riding shotgun while he worked his outside sales gig, selling HVAC equipment, I got to see the city from the passenger seat. For better or worse, we were stuck together in that car—him tuned into AM radio and Rush Limbaugh (don’t judge, my dad is awesome and I love him), and me, begrudgingly soaking it all in.

My dad is a dreamer. To him, life is a game, and he’s going to win it with a smile on his face. He’s also a fantastic storyteller.

My mom? She’s an artist. But her real impact on this city came when the corporate machine took over Macon Blueprint. Back then, my grandmother and her team of powerhouse women—Mary Ann, Debbie, Tricia, Wanda, Martha, Ruth—ran that shop. If you needed blueprints, copies, faxes, you went downtown to see them. They took care of every architect, engineer, contractor—anyone building the city.

When my grandmother retired, the new company made some choices that weren’t just bad business; they were wrong for the community. My mom wasn’t having it. She saw the writing on the wall and knew Macon deserved better. So she said, “Nope. Not today,” and opened Macon Prints & Instruments.

It wasn’t an easy move. The community was divided. But looking back, her decision gave people a choice. If they wanted real care, real service, and a team that knew their names, she was there to provide it.

And me? It was a family business, so I was there too—learning, working, and loving the same people my grandmother had loved.

In 2009, my mom made the tough decision to sell the company. Generations in the industry teach you how to “read the work,” how to spot the signs of an economic shift. She got out while she was swimming, not sinking. She did it with class. But I know it wasn’t easy. Things haven’t been the same since—not for her, not for me. We both lost a part of ourselves that day.

But Macon? Macon is still in my bones. Even after being away, my name isn’t absent from these streets. Neither is my mom’s. Neither is my dad’s. That’s what it means to be rooted in a place—to have been held up by the people here when you had nothing, to have walked streets that remember your footsteps.

And now, life has brought me back in an unexpected way. My friend—the stranger who plants roses—has cancer. It’s aggressive. But he’s found solace in resin art, and he’s asked for my help. So now, it’s my turn to carve my own impact, to give back to the community I love so deeply.

Boldly Authentic Arts is built on love. If it can help artists sell their work to pay for doctor’s visits, medicine, or just bring a little light into someone’s life, then I’m all in.

I know this is a long post. There’s a lot swirling in my head and heart. But it’s all good. It’s all dreams and excitement.

If everything had to happen to bring me back to life, to help others learn to live again—then hey, come along for the ride.

Don’t ask me which way we’re going. I’m just figuring it out as we go. What I do know is it’s not down.

Funny thing, though—my mom’s first name and my dad’s last name are well known in Macon. But unless I told you, you’d never know I am them. And I never really understood the weight of that until now.

Knowing this city, knowing its people, hearing all the stories about how great Macon used to be—I feel an immense responsibility to be part of making it great now. Not just in memory, but in reality.

Macon isn’t a one-horse town. It’s a town with heart. And I’m here to be part of its next chapter.