Stardate 11.30.2025
Yesterday was one of those rare, joy-soaked days when the work of your hands feels almost holy. I spent the entire day tucked inside my new home studio—Mulligan’s Magical Forest—lost in creation. Snow quietly buried our state in silence, but I hardly noticed. The driveway never got shoveled… not even once. I was too immersed in the place where the magic happens.
Meanwhile, my wife and her trusty elf transformed our home into a Christmas wonderland. Between their sparkle and Mother Nature’s generous snowstorm, it looks like we’re headed for an honest-to-goodness white Christmas.
Now, if you’ve read my first book, God’s Black Sheep Squadron, you already know the shillelagh walking stick my dad entrusted me with years ago—the one that hung proudly inside Mulligans on Cave Creek Road—is a fraud. A charming, ridiculous, utterly inauthentic fraud.
Shillelaghs in Ireland were more than walking sticks. They were symbols—each one carved differently, each one deeply personal. And since pubs sprouted on nearly every corner, you could tell who was inside simply by the shillelaghs leaning by the door. A unique roll call of characters.
For years I carried mine with reverence, telling its story with pride. And many of you, God bless you, kept the truth to yourselves.
When Dad returned after his long absence, I presented his “heirloom” back to him. He studied it, squinted, and delivered his verdict with classic Mulligan flair:
“What is this piece of s**t driftwood?”
“It’s from your bar,” I replied.
“This is a gag from one of my patrons,” he laughed.
And just like that, the great mystery was solved.
Turns out the real shillelagh—Dad’s true treasure—had been entrusted to his sister Peggy. I imagine the two of them in Heaven right now, doubled over in laughter while the whole clan enjoys the joke at my expense. Dad. Peggy. His parents. His siblings—Jim, Dickie, Tom, Uncle Mike, John, Mary… and Dad himself, Patrick John, perhaps the greatest storyteller in a family of ten. What a reunion they must be having.
But this little imposter shillelagh still carries its own kind of magic. It now hangs at the entrance to my magical forest, greeting all who step inside.
So when you visit us here in Iowa, ask to see the famed “inauthentic heirloom.” I’ll show it to you with a smile. It may not be real—but the story certainly is.
Don’t beam me up yet, Scotty. I’ve got thousands more tales to tell before I join the Mulligan clan above. Nearly 6,000 stories live in the archive now… and soon, videos will join them. I can't wait. Thank you for your patience with me as I learn this new technology for vlogging which is coming soon.
Cheers, my friend. Have a wonderful day.
🖖 Captain’s Addendum
Bones: “Spock, remind me again—why would anyone proudly hang a fake walking stick at the entrance of a forest?”
Spock: “Doctor, humans often assign meaning to objects based on story, not authenticity.”
Bones: “So you’re saying the driftwood stays because it means something?”
Spock: “Precisely. Though calling it ‘driftwood’ may be unnecessarily unkind.”
Bones: “You didn’t hear the father’s review.”
Spock: “Fascinating.”
Michael’s Reflection:
There’s something sacred about carrying symbols that remind us of where we came from, even if they aren’t perfect—or even real. Sometimes God works through the imperfect reminders, the mismatched pieces, the things that make us laugh. Maybe that’s part of how He keeps us humble… and keeps us going.
📖 Scripture of Encouragement
“A cheerful heart is good medicine.” — Proverbs 17:22
Sometimes a laugh and a story heal places nothing else can touch.
✨ Mission Log
Unofficial artifacts, unexpected joy, and the quiet faithfulness of showing up—these are the things that turn ordinary spaces into magical ones.
Thank you for spending a few minutes of your day with me.
May your heart stay warm, your home feel bright, and your spirit find something to smile about today.
Mom Health Update
One more note before I part. Some of you are curious about my mother's health. I spoke to her this morning. "Don't tell your followers I'm climbing mountains. They're hills!" she scolded.
Well, today she added that she is now leaning over to pick up pebbles while climbing hills. She is ready to join the gym as soon as today. My buddies across the pond who work at DoNotAge asked if my mom would be willing to document her journey to improved health. Mom is on it. She will be keeping a journal. My siblings and I are super proud of her.
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