Chris Schroder

This weekend, millions will hoist a drink or two and toast St. Patrick, not knowing or caring his life had little to do with the legend we were taught and continue to celebrate to this day.

Growing up, we bought our groceries at Winn-Dixie. I found even stranger brands as a young itinerant reporter, moving through small Southern towns like a bad storm.

In my 20s, when I was put in charge of a 25-person marketing team spread over two floors at The Charlotte Observer, I observed our biggest weakness was communications. Ironic, since we were in that business.

This week, I came out on a national PR website. It felt like it was the right time.

When I was four and just becoming aware of people outside my family, I began noticing our wide variety of shapes, sizes and colors.

For three years, I’ve written the same words on Airbnb’s reservation field that says “tell your host why you’re in town.”

Charlotte toddler Annie was watching “Sesame Street” late December when her mom, Amanda, thought she heard Grover say the “F” word. Annie’s dad (my son Thomas) replayed the segment, agreed it was debatable, posted it to Reddit, launching a top listing, 124,000 views, 3,400 comments and an international sensation.

Most barbers help you get less hair. Mine wants to help me get more.

When confirming a business lunch, my contact reminded me our alma maters play three days prior, predicting one of us will be happy.

Last week I led a crisis training for a nonprofit leadership team. It’s my favorite activity in public relations.

I happily discovered one of my favorite sandwiches just a few years ago – not at a restaurant – but at Kevin Rathbun Steak at the Atlanta Braves stadium, available only on game days.

When I was a kid, I had a strange paranoid tendency, though I think I came by it honestly.

I was a few steps ahead of my son Thomas and his daughter Annie, nearly 20 months old, when we visited the mall weeks ago. I instinctively snapped a quick photo and posted it on Facebook.

In the March 1980 Republican primaries, George Bush had already lost what he called his “Big Mo” to Ronald Reagan. He bounded off his campaign plane in conservative Augusta, Georgia, for another obligatory meeting with local reporters.

I’ve always fancied myself a change agent. Joining a traditional college fraternity, I decided it was time the boys invited in their first female “brother.”

Last year, white supremacists marching in Charlottesville shouted, “Jews will not replace us.” Saturday, a kindred hater massacred 11 Jews in a Pittsburgh synagogue.

When my great-grandfather Jack Spalding and partner Alex King opened their Atlanta law firm in 1885, they alternated lugging coal up flights of stairs to heat their Atlanta office. What seemed like advanced technology then, coal contributed to unhealthy offices, dingy skies and darkened buildings.

This week marks the fifth anniversary of The Atlanta 100 – a simple idea our small team had that we could add something of value to the media landscape.

Sixty years ago, tribal hate blew a hole in the walls of Atlanta’s Hebrew Benevolent Congregation Temple on Peachtree Street. I slept unaware next door. The bombing followed The Temple’s rabbi’s calls for integration and awakened our city to the hate seething below our community’s surface.

Early Christians, unsure if a stranger was a believer or persecutor, drew a line in the sand. If the stranger drew a corresponding line, forming a fish, conversation flowed. If not, they’d part.

Today everyone has a camera on their phone, but as a youngster when my parents gave me a Kodak Instamatic 100 for Christmas, I was an anomaly.

As a circumspect newspaper reporter, I was wary of salespeople. They wore cologne, dressed fancy and drove nice cars.

Lunch with a former client and longtime friend was going well until conversation drifted toward macro topics. I proffered my biggest concern was the environment and what kind of world we’re leaving future generations – whether children will be able to play outdoors in future centuries.

My adrenalin’s already pumping as the Atlanta Falcons kick off the NFL season Thursday against the Philadelphia Eagles. I’ve been a rabid fan since attending their inaugural 1966 season. Could this be their year?

Walking down Memphis’ Main Street last week, I was admiring new restaurants, bars and trolley cars. Then I gazed to my right and unexpectedly saw the sign and the motel – feeling an immediate kick to my gut.

Golfers daydream of making a hole-in-one. I don’t play often, but claim two. Alas, neither hole exists today.

I used to think it unfortunate that Atlanta’s suburbs rushed to incorporate into individual cities, boxing in our city’s limits. However, as we suffer the weekly drip of financial misappropriations from the detritus of former Mayor Kasim Reed’s terms, I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t be smaller.

I used to hide my iPhone as I walked down unfamiliar streets. Then I noticed no one was looking at me – they were looking at their phones.

In 2011, my daughter Sally discovered a baby squirrel had fallen from a backyard tree. Hoping the mother squirrel would eventually repossess her offspring, Sally carefully secured it on a towel on her deck behind a baby gate.

When a friend called last month to inform me of their parent’s death, I knew the other reason he was calling. After sharing condolences, I offered to write the obituary, something I’ve done for many friends‘ families.