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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.

I pushed the exit doors of the Milton Sports Dome open and walked out into what part of the day that remained. The darkness and cold were making their mid-November, New York rush the day after the clocks were turned back. I had just watched my youngest daughter play her last high school field hockey game of her career. Although she plans on playing in college there was a melancholy feeling of finality, a literal, and metaphorical end to a season. Although my wife and father had attended the game, I had made the trip solo. My car was parked facing outwards, close to the exit road. As, I started the car engine I knew I was not prepared to head directly home.

The open road was ahead of me and the music was of my choice. No teenage girls blasting Gangster Rap, only the rifts of Jimmy Paige and David Gilmour. In the last six months I have spent much time going back to places, music, books, and people that I had not paid any mind to for years. I have become familiar again with my home town, high school friends, frat brothers, old teachers, even some distant family members. The “Closed” sign I had worn on my chest for 35 years now said “Open for Business”. The clock in my car read 3:44 and without much convincing I made the detoured turn heading for New Paltz. Cruising down Main Street I could see the Mohonk tower sticking up at the top of the mountain. I had ignored it for years, but it was always the monument that marked my home. The village I had come of age in had matured quite a bit . There was more traffic, stores, people, and commercial real estate than I could remember from my youth. Certainly I had driven down Main Street on several occasions the last few years, but today, unlike any other, I was focused on the past.

It didn’t appear that there was much of a change in the Sunday afternoon crowd in Pat and Georges. The tavern was as much a New Paltz landmark as the tower at Mohonk. The majority of the patrons had their eyes on the 12” flat screen TVs scattered about the barroom. I got a little chuckle out of my own thought that my return might somehow interrupt an NFL Sunday at 4:00 P.M. Before I could order my first Corona I heard a voice from 30 years ago, “Hey Mr. Siegel!” I spent seven years in my 20’s teaching and coaching in both Pine Bush and New Paltz, so the call out was not foreign to me. “Oh my God, Mike Johnson,” I was 21 years old when I was a History teacher and J.V. basketball coach in the Pine Bush School district. Mike was a thin, handsome, smooth athlete back then. More than that he was a great kid. He was one of the rare ballplayers to excel at football, basketball, and baseball at a large high school. If all the players had the personality traits of Mike Johnson, coaches would never stop coaching. Thirty-some years later we embraced in a bear hug. Mike might have weighed 160 in high school but today he couldn’t wait to tell me he currently weighed 270.

I met his beautiful girlfriend and the three of us shared more than one too many drinks together. With the football games blaring in the background, I more than willingly listened to Mike fill in the 30 year gap. He never left Pine Bush, didn’t have any kids, didn’t attend college, had a 9-5 job he liked, took up golf and dropped some familiar names he played with. Looking directly at his girlfriend Kelley, he said he had met the love of his life and was happier than he had ever been. It was evident to me that Mike has not run from anything in his life. Unlike his old teacher and coach, he appeared to be free of any demons. He was still friends with the people he grew up with. He was that same wide eyed kid I coached back in 1984. He had discovered love and contentment in his own backyard.

Despite the temperature being in the low 40’s, my car window was all the way down as I navigated my way out of New Paltz and back home to Kingston. I was butchering the 1970’s Boston song, “Don’t look back, a new day is breakin’ it’s been too long since I felt this way.” Don’t look back” had always been one of my motivational mottos in my 20’s 30’s and 40’s. Yet, since the release my book “You Can’t do Both’ on May 1,2014, I have been stuck in some kind of time warp. My metaphoric time machine is stranded in the years 1975-1985 during my high school, college, and formative teaching years. The best guess for this awkward trip back in time is twofold. First, the ages 15-25 are so intense for all of us learning real life lessons with virgin hearts. We are vaulted into the arena to face puberty, the opposite sex, leave home, start a career, and look for long term relationships . We spend the rest of our lives making adjustments and repairing the wounds from those battles. In avoiding facing that period for so long, it was inevitable that I would reach a line and start to head back. Second, at 54 I am consciously afraid of the winter ahead and afraid that I have left something behind from the summer of my youth.

Back in my house on this early Sunday evening I have an epiphany. Mike Johnson represented all the kids I taught, all the kids I coached, and he represented a younger version of myself. I looked on Facebook and saw that at 45, Mike was connected to over 200 of his high school teammates and classmates. They sent notes to each other, shared laughs, their likes, they cared about each other, they looked out for one another. Before the release of my book, my connection to the people in my life from high school was nonexistent. I thought about a picture that I had recently seen of my class at our 35th reunion from the fall of 2013. I had been available for many of the reunion parties and had never gone back. Both in real time and the perspective of my life, it is the late fall; the winter solstice is around the corner. The closer it gets, the more I keep returning to those years I have made such an effort to avoid.

In the present I am well aware Winter is coming, still, I see a 15 year old Mike Johnson more vividly than ever. It is December 21, 1984, and we were in a packed gymnasium in Chester New York. Our J.V. basketball team was undefeated , but the underdog Hamiltonians were giving us more than we could handle. We had been 18 points behind and closed the gap to two in the final minute. I was standing, screaming, imploring, motivating, trying to will victory. For the first time in 30 years, I am in that moment, and I can feel it- quiet and easy going. Mike runs towards me without an invitation. His eyes are wide with fire, his sweaty arms are locked around my neck. His forehead is pressed against mine. He has completely broken the barrier of personal space. “Relax coach we got this.” After all this time, I understand what the player was saying to the coach. Until the game or the season is over, we do have it. We are prepared, we have hope, we have opportunity. I left something behind in the summer of my life. Seeing Mike was another happenstance of late that makes me feel like I am closer to finding it. I know it’s getting later in the game for me personally, but before the snow starts flying I want to go back to Summer. Back to the longest day of the year. The Summer Solstice, a day when you can find strength in what is left behind, a day when there remains the innocence of hope and opportunity ahead; a day when a new season is beginning.

It was Sunday at the O’Brien’s  house and you could sense the higher level of focus amongst the family. Linda and Walt O’Brien had already been married 30 years and spent those three decades raising nine children.  There was plenty of love, caring, and discipline to go around; and although the matriarch and patriarch of the O’Brien family were both of strong fiber, it was always clear that the true leader  was a power higher than any person of skin and bone. The Catholic Church ruled the  O’Brien  family. The words of the bible were strictly adhered to. The ten commandments were the law chiseled deeply into the grain of their children from the time they popped out of Mrs. O’Brien’s  womb. It was no surprise that all of the O’Briens  attended parochial schools and were eager listeners in Sunday youth classes.

Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien were as old-school Catholics  as they come. They did not have sex until they were married. When they did make love it was only with the intention to procreate. There was no meat on Friday, no using the Lord’s name in vain, and Mrs. O’Brien hung on to her rosary beads in worship as Walt  preformed the Eucharist. Homosexuals were considered deviants and gay marriage was an unthinkable union.  Everything that happened in their life, and in the world , was according to God’s plan and purpose. When they lost a child at birth it was because God wanted that baby’s soul in heaven. When Mrs. O’Brien caught her youngest son masturbating she cried for days and prayed that the devil had not completely possessed him. So when Kristen , the fifth of their nine children, broke her news to them , the O’Briens were shook to their cores in a way that would only drive them deeper into their faith.

Kristen was all you could picture when thinking of a good Catholic girl. Dark thick hair pushed back to show off her pure skinned face and large brown eyes. At seventeen ,ready to turn eighteen , she had already developed the body that  had grown men taking a second look. In school, her figure was not accented because of the uniform she adorned every day. But on the weekends and at casual school functions Kristen turned heads with her skin-tight Jordache jeans and high heeled boots. Her appearance and outward innocence had the high school boys craning. Bobby Daniels was a 28 year old gym teacher and the men’s varsity basketball coach. Bobby had been married for four years and had two little baby girls. Good looking and athletic, he certainly got his share of attention and flirtations from the young ladies of the Senior class. Of the throngs, there was only one girl Bobby went out of his way to reciprocate.

It always starts with physical attraction.  A shared glance, a connection, a common ground. Next comes awkward conversation, mostly in front of others with attempts by both sides not to show motive. For teacher and student the next part is the trickiest. Getting moments alone without raising eyebrows of students, teachers, parents, and administrators was difficult. Attempts were made to discover a shared free period or lunch and to find ways to bump into each other. For Bobby and Kristen, that time started in the fall of ’84 at second period. Coach Daniels had a free period and Kristen had a study hall that was easy to get a pass out of. Their meeting place for these beginning flickers was his small office just off of the gym. Small talk about next year, marriage, college, boys, turned quickly into secrets, whispers, and ended up with desires.

Where is the line between love and lust, desire and affirmation, adult and child , the bible’s definition of responsible sex and the real world view? Age old questions whose answers vary from juror to juror. In the case of Kristen O’Brien and Bobby Daniels the lines were blurry to both.  It was clear that a risky and life altering affair was sewing its seeds in the bowels of the senate gym.