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There was some banter this week on Twitter and other social media related specifically to my favorite Beatle. Kanye West and Paul McCartney, at 72, have collaborated on a hit single and apparently will be working together on other projects in the future. Kanye fans have praised the rap star for helping to launch Mr. McCartney’s career. Kanye followers have also begged the question, “Who is Paul McCartney?” We can make up our own jokes about generational musical tastes, a complete cultural disconnect, and our real sense of amazement that some kids don’t know who our Paul is. The question posed on Twitter automatically triggers a nerve for anyone over 30. “Who is Paul McCartney?”

Hook Street is the typical neighborhood cul-de-sac that we all recognize from our childhood or from a T.V. series like the Wonder Years. On an average day in 1965, preteens ran in packs, mothers pushed baby strollers, the noise from a ballgame could be heard in a backyard, older folk sat in their front yards of their ranch houses in lawn chairs. In the mid 1960s, kids moved around the streets independently without today’s pragmatic concerns of never letting children out of visual proximity. The world was a different place in so many ways.

At age five, that translated to me finding my way across the street to the home of Mary and Ray Lyke. They were a larger than life couple in their mid 40’s, who when you’re five, appeared to be in their 70’s. Their house was my secret hideaway. Mary made the best iced tea and Ray was a big, gregarious man who was hard on the outside with a marshmallow interior. The Lykes had one child, 16 year old Doreen, who when she wasn’t in school or chasing boys, doubled as my, and my brother’s, babysitter.

The door to Doreen’s bedroom was typical hollow wood and whenever you entered the Lyke’s house the music blared through as if no door existed. At the time I had no idea that what I was hearing would turn out to be a soundtrack to my life. Nobody could have imagined that these reverberations entering my little ears would echo for centuries. As our neighbor and babysitter, Doreen would allow my eight year old brother, Gary, and me into her inner sanctum, a place that not even her parents could tread. Covering Doreen’s walls were photographs of four young men that I didn’t recognize. Doreen informed us that it was their voices we were listening to as the 45’s spun on the record player. John, Paul, George, and Ringo, four chaps from across the pond, had already begun to impact people worldwide. Thanks to Doreen, they had made it all the way to Hook Street in Hurley, New York.

From the first day I walked into Doreen’s room, I was hooked into the wonderment, the magic, and the mania that was the Beatles. The faces that went along with the music were alluring in a cult-like way. Smooth, handsome mugs, hair flopping over their ears, and enticing, mischievous smiles. I wanted to know them, I wanted to be like them, I admired them, I envied them, and later on learned to appreciate them. When we were introduced, the foursome was already well on their way to becoming the biggest music sensation ever. This fabulous four influenced the last few generations in a more powerful way than any other political, religious, or social source. At only five, I knew the lyrics to” I Want to Hold Your Hand”, “She Loves You”, and “Please, Please Me.”

When Doreen turned 17, she was allowed to take Gary and me to the movie “Help” at the old Sunset Drive Inn. In the front seat, looking into the summer night at the huge screen, I was in a hypnotized trance. The Beatles appeared on the huge canvas and for that moment it felt like nothing else in the world would ever matter. It felt like I was at the center of the universe.

It is getting easier for me these days to get nostalgic and fall back to days gone by. My introduction to The Beatles was a time of pure innocence. Life and all that lay ahead appeared magical and pain free. On the surface, day to day living was simpler, less complex, and definitely not as dangerous as today. I rode my bicycle to Myer Elementary School down the road, played hardball with Glenn Littlefield and the big boys in our backyard, and investigated the woods by myself. All of this with my parents showing little concern as to where I was. I spent a lot of time in a 16-year-old girl’s bedroom listening to music. For a tot like myself, The Beatles were bigger than Santa Claus. They were young and full of life, plus you could actually see them, and listen to their amazing melodies. They initiated my long love affair with all types of music and lyrics. As time moved on, I became interested in song writing and none were better than Lennon and McCartney. Ever since those days, most all of my inspiration and motivation comes from song lyrics. I hear the first few chords of a tune and it triggers a time, a place, and ideas for me to write about. Everyone had a favorite Beatle and mine was Paul. I think if I had been older when I met The Beatles, it probably would have been John, but in my early adolescence I possessed no edge or skepticism and no political agenda. Paul gave off the appearance of a youthful wholesomeness, and at the time, did not allow his cutting sarcastic wit to surface.

In 1968, my family moved away room Hook Street to the nearby village of New Paltz. It was just about the time The Beatles were growing their hair from shaggy to super long. As a group they were experimenting with many things and at the same time looking to find their individual voices away from the group mentality. In the short span of time they were bonded brothers, they left an indelible mark, a tattoo on my soul, and an appreciation for music and artists of every variety. Paul is the most successful recording artist of all time. A man who has sold over 100 million albums as a member of The Beatles, another 100 million combined as a member of Wings and his solo career. He has been an altruistic philanthropist, who happened to be Michael Jackson’s idol, and a man who through his music lifted people to be their better selves.

On New Year’s Eve I watched “A Hard Days’ Night” for the 100th time. There is a scene when The Beatles are rehearsing for a performance and singing “If I Fell.” It was 1964, and as I watched it became obvious to me why I fell so hard for them. They were so cool, engaging, and spellbinding, their hair was perfect, and beyond the beautiful melodies and sappy lyrics, I could see a glitter in their eyes. As they sang one set of lyrics, I could tell that underneath they had so much more they wanted to say, and in time, they would. In the present I can still see Paul McCartney staring back at me from the wall on Doreen Lyke’s bedroom. He and his three mates changed the world for me and many others. They were a starting point for my recognition of talent, creativity, growth, exploration, change, and brotherhood. Never again would the world be that uncontaminated and charming. Paul McCartney and John Lennon were arguably the best singer/song writer combination ever. Paul helped to form the most famous rock band the world has ever seen. Besides his group, Paul was inducted as an individual performer into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He has been knighted by the Queen of his home country. More importantly, a long time ago, he was a mystical God to a young boy discovering life. Throughout my life, every time I heard the music echoing from Doreen Lyke’s bedroom, I was taken back to a time of innocence, a time when anything seemed possible. That’s who Paul McCartney is.

Here are some more photos that Doreen has sent me since I published this article:

 

It was December 31, 1983 ,   George Orwell’s day of reckoning would be upon the world in a few  hours.  Just 31 days  later I was going to turn 24 years old.  The rotary phone in my house rang around 2:00 PM. “No problem Bruce, I can get a date by then, pick me around eight.” At 23 I had never had  a steady girlfriend. When it came to  relationships, maturity, and commitment , I was an  “A-1 jerk.”  Despite my callowness  I had enough bravado to pick up the phone that night and start dialing for a date. My standard line at that time was: ” would you like to get together?”  In my narcissistic cleverness I believed that did not leave the damsel  much wiggle room. It was a trap that left little escape except for a reply of “yes” or a flat out rude “no”. The more sophisticated young lady might say “it depends on the date ,” to which I  would gently remind her that was not the question and then repeat the original query . I actually made contact with eight different girls that New Years eve (some of which are Facebook  friends of mine today),  with the exception of my last desperate  telephone conversation I got very similar responses. “Yes I would like to get together but not tonight, I have plans. My final call went to a local New Paltz  girl, who at the time was a freshman in college, and I had previously been on a date with. “I do not  plans tonight, but no I do not want to get together with you.”

Myself, Bruce and what would turn out to be his future bride (Stacey) went to dinner and a few bars that night. As the ball dropped I was alone,  and for the first time beginning to understand this was becoming a regular occurrence for a supposed “Player” such as myself. Nothing sucks more than having a reputation as a player but in reality never getting put in the game. That night , as a solitary man standing in Ward’s Bridge Inn,  I made my first and last New Year’s resolution. I was resolute that I was going to change my cocky attitude and behavior towards the opposite sex. I was alone and realized in was not so much out of my choosing but more a result of the  arrogant and rude egotistical  persona which I represented. Looking back  over the last 30 years I am convinced it is only official New Years’ declaration I have ever made.

Every day, every moment is a chance for us to set goals and  impose positive change upon  ourselves.  No doubt January one is  a day the general masses  point  to as their start to affecting new agendas. On this date it is easy to make promises, to pledge to ourselves of the amazing  year we are about to enjoy. “I will quit smoking,”  “Friday night is the only night I will consume alcohol.” ” I will work out at least 3 days a week.” “I will read four books in the next year.” These are specific measurable milestones that will either be accomplished , or not. Beyond ascertain goals are the vague and more abstract resolutions: ” I am going to be a kinder person.” My work ethic is going to improve.” I am going to be a better listener.”  ” I want to become more spiritual.” It is estimated that 80% of our populations admit they make New Year’s resolutions. Less than 5% take credit for actually following through. Even in a small poll I conducted the statistics say a large number of people do make a resolution but their plans quickly fizzle out. My father use to make many proclamations about what he was going to do after the holidays.  My brother and myself  assumed he meant after the Christmas Holidays and the start of the New Year. When questioned in mid January as to why he was not executing  his plan he would say, “I meant the President’s Holiday.”

It has become more of a punch line then an effective tool for self improvement. We make proclamations , with minimal commitment, and less accountability. Why do we need a date on the calendar to think about making personal adjustments. On August 31, we can declare we are going to stop one of our annoying  uncharitable habits, or any day for that matter. I came down stairs this morning and was greeted by our loyal and long time nanny, housekeeper, and overall friend to our family, Linda. “Good morning Linda, Happy New Year. Have you made any resolutions for the new year? ” ” I did, I made one this year but I am not going to tell you because I make one  every year and never follow through.” I groveled and begged  to get an answer with a promise to keep a secret. (First broken promise of the new year) “I am not going to work as hard  this year,” she laughed .” That  was the first time I ever heard that resolution. It sounds like an easy one to accomplish, possibly good for your health, but not so fruitful for your economic standing.

Driving to my office I  thought about Linda’s humorous resolution and knew her proposal could not work for me . Starting my own business and with two girls in college I need to work a lot harder in 2015 than I did this past year. Besides, I have made but one  New Years’ resolution in my life, and do not feel like risking my perfect record of following through. In that unaccompanied instance when 1983 was turning to 1984  I resolved  moving forward I was going to treat women with respect, endearment, and adulation.  In 1984 I began my first serious long term relationship with a member of the opposite sex. We were married  five years later and have survived 25 years of matrimony.    The eighth girl I called on that long ago New Years eve, (255-0867) was the only potential suitor who directly told me she did not want to get together with me. That discerning  young girl was a 19 year old college freshman named Donna Burnham. (Siegel)

The entire world was thrown out of balance on the blue morning of September 11, 2001. Those two towers falling to ashes  forever changed our landscape as we knew it. More so than the Empire State Building, they had become the emblem of the New York Skyline; of the  city’s strength, its’  uniqueness, and a symbol of the city’s cultural diversity. The Twin Towers are now relegated to memory and photographs, we are left to find an equilibrium between the everlasting past tragedy and a new day.  Prior to  that fateful fall day, The World Trade Center was the calling card to a city that never sleeps, it represented all things possible.  Every time I approached the big apple, in the 26 years those giants ruled the sky, my mind would take me back to August 8, 1974.

On that mid-summer dawn, on a day not unlike September 11, a tiny Frenchman named Philippe Petit rigged a 450 pound cable between the two towers. Using a 55 pound balancing pole he made eight passes, 400 meters above the ground. For a 14 year old boy, terrified of heights, it made an indelible impression with regard to imagination, dreams, and the urgency of finding balance. I have never lost my fear of high, open space, but from that day forward, I have carried a pole in between my ears on a search for the that elusive balance in life.

How many times have you heard, “Find  balance, that is the key to a happy and fulfilled life.” Or, “Do things in moderation” or, ” Too much of anything is not healthy.” In my annoying “tongue in cheek” way I have bought into this idea of balance. Ever since my two daughters, Laura and Mary Kate, were little they were both into gymnastics. For both of them, their worst event was the balance beam. I would kid them that I hoped they found better balance in their lives than they had as  gymnasts. I guess I thought it was an opening for my pontifications on finding a middle ground. They always told me to shut up as I railed on about which ever application of balance applied: schoolwork and play, exercise and relaxation, sleep and over sleep, focus and banality, having a drink and being over served, love and gullibility, being nice but not too nice. At one point or another over the years of their adolescence I have emphasized balance and tried to set an example.

Most recently I have been concerned about my daughters balance between school and their social agenda. If Donna and I have erred as parents, it has been on the lenient side. If judged from the outside there have been far too few rules, excessive partying, and at times a lack of respect for their providers. As a couple we have calculatingly, or sometimes lazily given our girls an extremely loose rope. We have explained to them often that there is a time and place for everything. We both have urged them to take their education seriously, treat people with respect (we don’t count as people), not drink and drive, and not get pregnant . Beyond those guidelines we have left Laura and Mary Kate on their own to find stability.

Laura recently completed her first semester at Florida State and Mary Kate is a senior in high school contemplating where she wants to attend college. Donna and I  have privately questioned our own parenting methods when it comes to
imposing structure and discipline. While on the phone with Laura the first months after she left the nest all we heard was ” I am going to class and studying hard.” Sounded good, but from various sources of social media our impression was that she was down south having one huge beach party. On our one and only visit to the campus during the fall semester, it seemed as if FSU was party central and Laura’s apartment was the eye of the storm. Back on the home front, MK has been treating her last year of secondary school with apathy.  Instead of looking to finish strong, she has been cavaliering about her academic performance and her attendance. Once big sis arrived back in town, the two of them began creating more social activity than Khloe and Kim. Without any concrete results to measure, Donna and I were  concerned our girls had lost their grip on fixedness and harmony.

Last week three things happened that helped swing my own personal pendulum of anxiety back to the middle. After not seeing Laura for a couple of days, upon her return from the Sunshine State I went online to check her first semester grades before I blew my stack about her social habits. Upon review it was obvious  Laura had backed up her talk with results. After double and triple checking I was convinced the grades matched Laura Siegel:  A+, A+, A , and B were the shocking letters next to her name for a 3.7 GPA.  I immediately texted her my congratulations and adulations.  Aware that I was very unconvincing, I told her I never doubted her. A few days later I arrived home and opened the mail and saw Mary Kate had officially  got accepted to her second school that offered in writing a partial scholastic and field hockey scholarship.  I knocked on MK’s bedroom door to tell her how proud I was of her. But of course whether she was there or not I got no reply.  Finally, last Friday I headed to the dry cleaner to complete my weekly chore. I opened the door and thought I saw a man I recognized. It was Philippe Petitte in the flesh. “My god are you?, “Oui, oui”, said the little French showman. I quickly learned that he lived in nearby Woodstock and was just finishing up making a movie about his walk between the towers. The former juggler and jester who walked in the sky chatted with me for nearly 10 minutes. I told him how much I admired his high wire act and the impact it had on me. I asked him what gave him the courage to walk on a tiny cable 400 meters in the air. “Bon equilbre.” he said with a knowing grin. I walked out into the December cold a little confused by his French.  After I had thrown my dry cleaning into the car I checked my phone and at last Laura had responded to my congratulatory text from 48 hours prior. “Thanks Dadio for teaching me balance.”

The cold, the music , the people, but mostly the darkness are a constant reminder of the time of year. Joy to the world ,and peace on earth , the “Holidays” cometh, like your birthday, whether you want them to or not. From my days in Sunday school I aware that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth. Of course Jesus wasn’t really born on what we call December 25th, but, ah ,what the heck. Like a herd of sheep as soon as Thanksgiving’s thanking is over we start heading right to all trappings of Christmas. Of which very few of them have anything to do with the Lord.

The cars with trees on the top, the wreaths, lights , and poinsettias are impossible to hide from. From the beginning of November my radio stations are playing the same old familiar yuletide songs being sung by a choir. No matter how much effort I make to avoid it I get Bing Crosby and David Bowie crooning together ” pa rum pa pum pum pa rum pa pum pum “. Not a bad sound if it wasn’t shoved into my ears every year 100 times a day. I nod passively as I am asked for the 10th time if my shopping is done. There is more tension than usual around my house and family. Is the tree as big as last year? Who are we spending Christmas day with? Where did the money go.? Did anyone send out Christmas cards? And of course, Santa Claus himself never reads Mary Kate’s list accurately.

The above mentioned primarily refers to traditions of the Christmas season. But is the emotional side of the holidays that hits me much deeper in my gut. No other time of the year am I more reflective, pensive, and sad.
I have more blessings in my life than I deserve, and yet Christmas makes me think primarily about things and people left behind. It gives me a homesickness for a home I cannot return to, a home which maybe never existed. As hard as I try for it not to Christmas represents the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of my past.

There are times every Christmas season my heart feels the magic of the season. When I hear bells and think of what a wonderful life it is and angels earning their wings. When I see my daughter Laura meticulously decorating our tree with glee and a twinkle in her eye. When I think back to the years Mary Kate believe in all the miracles. And finally, when I think of my own mom and what she was like, not just this time of the year, but every day of my whole life. She truly loved to give more than receive ,and boy the Christmas season was her finest stage. She was totally enamored with the whole season and everything about it. As an under graduate home for the Christmas break I would quietly attempt to sneak in the house very late at night, or I should say very early in the morning. Many times my mom would be up sitting in the living room just staring at our “Charlie Brown tree.” On one occasion I asked her why she saw gazing at a dumb tree with lights and ornaments on it.” I see everything I have to be thankful for and I try to see what is ahead.” This will be the third Christmas my mother won’t be with us during this festive time of the year. But for the first time I am going to make an effort to heed her wisdom. I am thankful, I do see opportunity ahead, and I will not dwell on all I’ve left behind. I’ve learned the hard way you cannot return to a place that never existed.

I can still hear the thumping of two little feet running down the hard wood floored hallway. For years I heard it every night somewhere between three and four am. The sound was always loud enough to awaken me and on most nights brought a soft crack of a smile to my face. Within seconds a little body was jumping on the bed and making a part between me and Donna. Soon after sliding under the covers, and curling into a oval shape , I could feel a tiny hand lean on my turned back. Mary Kate, the second of our two daughters , was a regular guest sleeper in the master bedroom for what the “experts” would say was too long.

Donna and I had pledged to each other on numerous occasions we would never have kids. After six years of marriage marked by  happy and selfish life styles Donna apprehensively told me she was pregnant. At 35, going on 20 , my reaction was a cavaliering “What the heck, let’s try being parents (hopefully of boys) and see how we do..” Laura was born in the deep and dark December of 1995. We made a calculating decision not to have an only child so Laura’s Irish twin, Mary Kate,  was born the day before Saint Patrick’s day 1997. Now that she is 17 and a senior in high school I find myself asking the question all parents ponder at some point; ” where did the years go?”

The little girl in her pajamas scooting down the hallway at 3:00 am was now 5’9 and 130 pounds. She is beautiful, smart, and as independent minded as any  person  I know. She would never let me describe her as “my little girl” out loud without me receiving a hard punch, but somewhere in both our hearts she is daddy’s princess. Our subtly demented bond is not at all evident to the casual observer. If a film crew had followed us around on the daddy/daughter six day California excursion over the long Thanksgiving weekend   it would have made for head shaking reality T.V.

There was not too much excitement getting to Los Angeles . Once on the ground at LAX the show started. Me, in charge of travel plans: rent-a-car, hotels, directions, plane tickets, etc, is never a smooth event. Once on the ground and having secured our luggage we started our search for the shuttle to the car rental venue. Instead of looking real hard I prefer to ask for the directions, I figured the traffic cop approximately 10 feet away from me waving on vehicles would be an excellent source. (here we go with the authorities again). ” Excuse me sir, excuse me , yo a little help please, just want to ask a quick question,” my voice was rising with each phrase. Mary Kate had already found the shuttle and did not hear or care about  my inquiries  .” I see where it is dad, let’s go,”  ” Wait a second MK, this idiot is ignoring me. He  is a fucking obnoxious moron who can hear every word I say but chooses to ignore me.”  Without another word, sensing oncoming conflict,  Mary Kate was gone as Mr. whistle blower was heading towards me. “What did you say?” up close and personal now, I repeated my mean spirited diatribe .  Officer Krupke and I exchanged a few coast to coast  geographical  non pleasantries and argued about who had the larger rear end. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Budget shuttle going by and in the window was my princess, with a disdainful look giving me the one finger salute.

Our drive from LAX began at about 10:00 pm west coast time. The Los Angeles freeways were as quiet as they will ever be as the dynamic duo sped along at 80-90 MPH cruising to Palm Springs. The scene could easily have been the two of us moving about in Kingston. It was all her music, loud and distasteful. She was cold,  I was hot. I was either driving too fast or too slow. With the exception of debating over directions, conversation was sparse. Of course I was responsible when at first we tried to check into the Palm Springs Renaissance, when in fact we were supposed to  be at the Indian Wells Renaissance Spa ( totally her fault). I wasted my breath in a one way conversation about the ease in  proportion to the  reward in admitting to a mistake,  or personal error. Finally on the morning before Thanksgiving 5:30 am New York time we were in the hay of our hotel room in the beautiful California desert.

Maybe it is something about the energy of the warm sun. Maybe it was the dramatic difference in everything regarding  our change in coastlines. Or maybe it was just two irresistible forces moving at each other tired of the collision. Although we continued to argue, debate , and stand our ground,  the following five days turned into a fun and memorable bonding experience for dad and his baby girl (At least I thought so) . The first day we spent many hours poolside working on our tans and kibitzing over how many Banana Daiquiris we each consumed,  and the ambiguity of who ordered the virgin (Daiquiri) if anyone. We ate dinner outside at a quaint Italian Cafe with waiters and waitresses singing show tunes. Mary Kate actually acknowledged she recognized  a couple of the songs and with that we had our first ever musical common ground.

When it came time early Thanksgiving  morning MK was ready to do what she was there for; play  field hockey. We arrived at the Indian Wells Polo Club at 6:30 am, well ahead of most of the 4,000 female players and over 400 college coaches that would be attendance. For the next four days I had the joy of witnessing my little girl grow up in the California blue skies. She played for a club team, and coach, that were completely strange to her.  She felt the pressure of recruiters surrounding the 30 fields typing steadily into their lap tops. She had to be prepared to play a full 60 minutes for six games in three days. Unlike her personality off the field,  Mary Kate plays with a calmness and coolness that would make Wayne Gretzky proud.  Her facial expression never changes, she hustles 100% of the time, and she is always positioned where she is suppose to be. I observed her with her brand new teammates , I watched her play on a team that lost more than it won for the first time in her career , and I looked on from afar as coaches approached her after games were over. She was nothing but poised, polite, articulate, and confident. She was physically one of the bigger players on the field and  shined in the desert sun.

Both of us dressed  up for a “club team” Turkey dinner at the hotel Thursday night. I was one of the few parents there and Mk didn’t seem to mind me at her side and even invited me to sit with her teammates . I got this small feeling that maybe she wasn’t that embarrassed of me after all. The rest of the trip we soak up more sun, ate healthy, went to bed early, and got along like a couple of college roommates. As I looked on nervously she spent a lot more time playing field hockey,  and we both spent considerable time  talking to coaches.

By Saturday we were on the highway heading back to visit Hollywood and L.A.  Mary Kate had programmed the directions back into her phone. Cruising at 90 mph and engaged in casual conversation I looked out of the corner of my eye and thought I saw the exist for 10 west. “Aren’t we suppose to take 10 West back to L.A.?” ” Don’t ask me, you’re driving,” responded the girl who never is wrong or makes a mistake. “Please check with the woman on your I-pod, because I think we just missed the exist.” Upon further review, indeed we did miss the exist, but of course it was my fault. “Yeah we were supposed  to, but you have the music too loud and are asking me too many questions. I told you to not talk so I could hear the directions. See what happens when you don’t listen to me.” I was more amused than upset. ” You’re right MK, my fault we missed the exist.” Her head turned to the opposite window and I could see the slightest smirk come over her guilty face.

As Saturday  moved from morning  into twilight me and my friend found ourselves on Hollywood Bld. At first look main street Hollywood  appeared  like an exaggerated times square New  York. Elvis was there , Michael Jackson, Minnie and Mickey, and other crazies . We checked in on a movie shoot , strolled along the stars” walk of fame” , and were solicited  by a young lady offering to expose herself for a minimal fee . Me and my traveling companion giggled ,joked, and took pictures with the  stars and the wannabes . She reluctantly indulged me to show off my Pac Man skills at Dave and Buster’s  in exchange for me agreeing to have sushi for dinner. I ate with my chop sticks and looked out over the circus in front of me.

I focused for a moment on the young lady across the table  from me. I thought about where are relationship was as father and daughter.  I had a photograph in my head of that anxious child dashing down the hallway in the middle of the night. Through the commotion surrounding me I could hear the sound of thumping feet .  I looked up again at the beautiful, stubborn, independent,  woman seated with me.  Now, all I saw was a  little girl scurrying into our bed,  her moist  tiny paw clinging to me. Just for a moment I was sad. I could not feel her cling anymore.

 

 

 

Somewhere, way above the clouds, over Chicago, Illinois, the captain requested that passengers please return to their seats and fasten their seatbelts. The irony of the heavy turbulence above the Windy City did not get lost on the person occupying seat 24D. Halfway across America, flying in the dark November sky, the bouncing 747 jet was finding its’ way to the “City of Angels”.

Mary Kate was leaning her head on my shoulder fast asleep. My mind and pen were moving at an even faster pace than the aircraft. It is possible that using me as a pillow is the greatest sign of affection I have seen from my daughter. My latest adventure was taking me to Palm Springs, California to chaperone Mary Kate at a four day field hockey “festival”. Some four thousand teenage girls were invited to display their talents in front of college coaches gathered in the desert sun. Every girl was there to chase a scholarship offer, and a chance to be affirmed or quite possibly discovered.

Earlier in the day, back on the ground, I was thinking about the almighty dollar and how it related to scholarships. During this dream sequence, I opened my latest bill from American Express. Shocked by the amount owed and the minimum due, I did what I usually avoid doing; I reviewed the account summary. The bill is broken down into categories: entertainment, restaurants, household items , etc. Surprise, surprise by far the highest percentage of charges accumulated this year was for travel. Through October, my bill said that I had spent $46,000 on airfare, golf, and hotels. Besides the expense, the travel itself had spun out of control. I had to ponder the question: what was I chasing?

In specifics, my trips took me to play golf, family vacations, visit prospective colleges, see my daughter in college, civil deposition hearings, and book appearances. In the broader sense, some of my voyages were much more wistful. This year I have been on the proverbial “road’ chasing past and future relationships, but mostly dreams. It has been an extremely expensive ride. The price for chasing dreams is costly, both literally and figuratively. I have spent much time this year in airport terminals and many hours in meetings all across the country. Touring college campuses seems like an everyday occurrence. I played some great golf courses on the West Coast and the Carolinas. I’ve been in the Buffalo cold, the Miami heat, the North Carolina mountains and the California desert. I’ve been able to go seek, to go back, to think and reflect.

It’s 8 o’clock pacific time and our plane is making its’ descent into LAX . Mary Kate and myself were headed away from the snow and into the sun. All the flying and travel and all the money spent for this long Thanksgiving weekend so that I will be with Mary Kate to watch her chase her dreams. As I step off the plane and out into the warm Los Angeles night I am not afraid. Pursuing the stuff that dreams are made of is worth the cost. It was time for me to get my feet back on the ground. It is time for me to start turning my dreams into reality. It is time for me to get my head out of the clouds.