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The Sunday prior to Labor day 1967 was the kind of idyllic day that is indelibly etched in my mind. The high blue summer sky wasn’t going to catch the sun hiding on this day. The steam was bouncing off the concrete patio that was acting as the dance floor for the annual end of summer blowout party held at Williams Lake Hotel in Rosendale New York. The sounds of splashing water and crews constructing sandcastles could be heard over the music pouring out from the patio. The summer sun worshippers were draped over the upper balcony listening to the Lake’s summer house band doing their cover of Sinatra’s ‘Summer Wind.’ If ever there was a day in my life when I could have stopped the clock, just one time, that day back in 1967 would have been it. Standing at the top edge of the patio I had the perfect view to say my goodbyes to all things summer. It was the ending of an innocent era. We were on the brink of RFK, MLK assasinations, the summer of love, Woodstock 69, the moon landings and the Nixon Presidency. But on this day the innocence remained. The blue and yellow rafts sprinkled across one of the seven Binnewater glacier lakes. The shrieking of the shuffleboard was being drowned out by the “Simon Says” game that had broken out on the side lawn. Teenage waiters and waitresses hustled to get the food and beverages to the patrons who were hanging on to those last few delicious sips before the curtain closed on another summer. The game room was bustling as the teenyboppers were desperate to make their final move or else wait another summer. From the juke box the Zombies were asking: “what’s your name, who’s your daddy, is he rich like me?” This is what the Sunday before Labor Day looked like to a seven-year-old boy as the summer of 1967 was saying good-bye.

Underneath the sleeping willow trees, a couple of the boys from way back when, oblivious to their surroundings, were punching time clocks hovering over their makeshift chess board. From a perch between the stage and the water, I surveyed the little piece of ground that was my fiefdom for one more day. Looking back more than 50 years later I am still amazed at how idyllic the scene presents itself. My mom was on a beach chair by the water. She was good for a full day gossiping in a last grasp effort before she was back to reading fairy tales to elementary school kids. Before we moved to New Paltz my dad worked summers at the Lake tending bar, and this Labor Day would be his last. He reminded me in the morning, “remember when you come into the bar call me Uncle Randy.” At the time I had no idea what kind of game he was playing, so I went along. Craig Murray and Candy Canning, the two Lake teen stars walked hand in hand towards the woods on the perimeter of the property. I always paid attention when I saw the boy get the girl, especially Candy Canning. I never stopped to think how fortunate I was to be creating so many sweet memories of my childhood. As a seven-year-old I assumed this is what summer looked like everywhere. Those Labor Day weekends were filled with experiences of provocative intrigue. I was not aware at the time, but the summer of 1967 would be the last of my “perfect little summers.” I was having my last look of good adulting fun while maintaining utter innocence. I had the feeling a movie reel was playing and everyone in the scenes were actors playing roles in my story. A tall handsome young man named Don Anderson was being introduced on the patio stage. All the young girls swooned to the crooner’s (part time server) upbeat rendition of  ‘Mac the Knife’. The sun was brighter, the music was smoother, and the libations were ice cold.

If any of the American holidays are bittersweet, it is Labor Day. One big party representing a sendoff to a summer full of seasons in the sun. In the next breath it meant a time to open books and get serious about all the tasks ahead. Labor day weekend is a metaphoric portal of play time to work time, of summer shenanigans to getting your nose to the grindstone. Labor Day is very similar to New Year’s in that in both instances it is a time for both looking back and planning ahead. Those first few summers spending July and August at Williams Lake gave me a magical look at a big summer party. The waiters were tall and handsome wearing white shirts, long pants, and black bow ties. The waitresses donned short shorts to go along with loosely fitting tank tops. Nobody was aware of it then, but it was era that was losing its glitter. The Catskills and resorts like Williams Lake were losing most of their market share to oceans and casino vacation spots. The days of going to the Lake with your family were giving in to family excursions near the ocean. For a short span of years Williams Lake contained a mythical enchantment for a very impressionable pre-teen. The memories of sailboats drifting at sunset, sparkling splashing water, and the ice cream trucks filled with toasted almond bars. Everyday my mother gave me a quarter which I had to make last through the day. Twenty-five cents were good for one seven-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola, (10 cents), a bag of Bachman pretzels (five cents), and a game of pinball (10 cents). The total experience was priceless.

Flash forward fifty years to Labor Day Sunday 2023. I stared out into the quiet of Sunday evening coming down from the back deck of my house on Flower Hill. Gazing out into the groggy twilight the past didn’t seem so far away. All those school days of being a student, and then a teacher, when Labor Day was all about play time ending and work time beginning. When I left teaching Labor Day turned into a day of me declaring “Rich Siegel Independence Day.” There would be no more ringing bells screaming at me, no more tests to take, no more out of touch administrators telling me what, and how to teach. It was time to leave summer and school days behind. It was time to enter a world where you were accountable every day to yourself only. A world where you were measured on the results you produce. A world where you are your own boss and completely accountable for yourself. A world where there are no unions or gov’t agencies to support you when you slip. Before I blinked my eyes, I spent 35 years working for myself, where any income I was paid was only from business I directly produced. No matter what, throughout the years whether I was a schoolteacher or an insurance man, Labor Day has been a time of reflection and transition. It has been a time for singing the songs that you heard anytime you were near a body of water. Labor Day is a time for setting goals and putting on your serious face. For me, it has been a time of letting go and for starting anew.

Sitting alone on my back porch the end of summer 2023 there were certain things that didn’t look any different than the end of summer of 1967. The school busses were warming up, leaves were already showing a hint of orange, and the nights were beginning to chill. The cars stood still on the New York State Thruway filled with city folk attempting to be the first one home from the mountains and lakes of Upstate New York. As we grow older, we tend to think the world was such a better place when we were young. I would speculate all generations come up feeling that way. The fact is we change, we evolve, and so does the periphery world around us. None of us stay the same, nothing at all stays the same, and certainly nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. “Heading out to San Francisco for the Labor Day weekend show, I got my hushpuppies on I guess I never was meant much for glitter and rock n roll.” Every Labor Day weekend since the time I left home for college I sang the words to the Jimmy Buffet song “Come Monday” on the golf course to my golfing mates. To me the song represents a symbolic transition between summer and fall, childhood and grown up. “Come Monday it will be alright,” Buffet opined of a summer love that he intended to carry over to fall.

This Labor Day turned out to be a reflective opportunity to remember and respect all the Labor Days of yesteryear. Tonight, I didn’t hear splashing water, or local celebrity crooners making the young girls cry. I drifted all the way back to the innocent nostalgic summers of my youth and the world it exposed me to. In my head was a vision of Jimmy Buffet cruising the California coastline top down, girl, and guitar securely in hand. There was nothing in his view except for ocean and the setting sun. The summer was over. It was time to head south to start looking for that lost shaker and salt.

The golf ball arrived at the zenith of the steep incline adjacent to the putting surface. At the summit, the Bridgestone One oscillated trying to push out one more forward roll. One turn East and the little white golf ball would glide down and snuggle near the flag stick. One rotation West and the ball would return from whence it came. Sometimes God wins, sometimes the Devil wins. Golf is not unlike the game of life, an inch here or an inch there and your whole world can be turned upside down. For Jason Day, competing in 2023 British Open in Liverpool England, half of a rotation of his golf ball meant the difference of him making a five instead of a three on the 17^th hole. The result placed Day in a second-place tie with three other players. In monetary terms the wrong turn of his Bridgestone cost Day $500,000. Laying on my couch two days removed from knee replacement surgery I watched Jason Day’s eyes as his golf ball had returned to the exact spot, he had just struck it. His eyeballs rolled to the back of his head which was pointed directly to the sky Realizing full well it was past any time for any kind of divine intervention. “How could the game be this cruel.” Once you become aware that everything in the game of life and the game of golf is controlled by yourself and not by anyone watching the game, you’re left with two choices: Throw a hissy fit and give up, or swallow hard, take your medications, and start over.

There are a litany of perspectives when it comes to god, the devil, and the overall spectrum of religion. My personal theory is that everyone possesses an energy representing all their positive potential and an energy that is in the business of selling you the easy way around all of life’s inevitable obstacles. My entire life has been two, long, separate, conversations with the two spirits that are in a constant battle for my soul. Sometime in my late 20’s I entered a 30-year contact with the darker side of my inner self. The deal was not very complicated. I proposed to my dark side that if he stepped out of way, helped me navigate the big catastrophes. He would let me see what I produce without interference from all things that come easy and burn fast. There was nothing written, simply a verbal agreement between me and one of my soul mates. A standard quid pro quo with the side of myself that fed my destructive compulsions. I had three simple requests: 

1. I get the girl. 

2. I receive shelter from the horrible curve balls we are unable to hit (car accidents, cancer, victim of crime) 

3. I will maintain a full head of locks well into my golden years. 

I wanted to be accountable for what I made of this life. My success and failure, all my wins and losses.  Only I was not willing to surrender my soul for eternity, so I kept my requests reasonable. If those three requests were met, then my personal Lucifer could get his pound of flesh. When the fourth quarter arrived that would be my time to pay the piper, life well lived or not. .”The test will either make you quit or it will give a greater appreciation for all that went before and all that lies ahead.”

It was a bleak and blustery Sunday night in March of 2020. As I walked out of the Egg’s Nest Tavern, I braced for a head wind I sensed through the damp.. It had been a month since I turned sixty and it was time to button down the hatchets. I had just left my dad’s house for what would turn out to be the last time the two of us would be together in my childhood home. It wasn’t 100% clear to me yet that my evil partner in crime had not so subtly began collecting his debt. In the prior couple of years my business was disrupted to the verge of panic creeping into my normally unaffected façade. Six weeks after that stormy night in March of 2020 my Dad died in a nursing home. The death was covid related. My business was failing, now my muse was gone, and the country was shutting down for a pandemic. On top of these life events my physicality was morphing into  “busted down old man”. I had already had one hip replacement and was preparing to have the other hip and right knee replaced in succession. I don’t think of myself as a “woe is me” kind of guy but I dug myself into the proverbial bunker of a long private recovery. The dark side of my psyche was showing me that life is meant to be hard. That nothing great can happen until you understand that you can’t make it to the promise land without experiencing the pain. By the grace of God my inner devil had gotten me this far in one piece, it was his turn to take a piece of flesh.

The kind of battle I was about to wage called for clarity. There was no way I could get through these tests unscathed if I was under the influence of alcohol. It is often said that people, places and things need to change if you as a person are going to evolve. I quit all of my vices and stopped frequenting the normal haunts filled with the losers and the hustlers who I called friends. It was time to dive deep into my immediate family and get a grip on my personal health. Sometimes in life your grit gets tested. Do I have the gumption to adjust to a life that I never really wanted to embrace. We buried our dad in April of 2020. Gone  was daily confidant and best friend. The Pandemic raged on. I suffered through two bouts of long covid, both times they were wrongly diagnosed, one as a heart attack and one as a bad flu. While I was sick, I was being bamboozled out of major bucks from a former business associate. After making a ascent to the top of the mountain, for the first time I was sliding backwards. My strategy for running the race has always been to have the look of the hair but the brain of the tortoise. And nothing frightens the tortoise more than falling back. The tortoise is slow and steady, going backwards is never an option. By the deep spring of 2020 I was spiraling downwards. My emotional, physical, and financial state was in peril. It was time to get back in the boat and start bailing. The alternative was to watch my ship sink into the abyss way before its time. The ball had rolled back to my feet. 

The payback had begun. I have lived most of my life with a lethal blend of arrogance and pride, now it was time to face the reality of living life when youth, at last, had run out. What, if anything, had been learned in fighting the good fight for 55 years? What if anything was owed? It was getting easy to start calculating the losses. My parents had passed. My daughters moved out of New York to Atlanta and Rhode Island respectively. My business was suddenly not the smooth oiled machine printing money hand over foot. The pandemic turned into a political and scientific battleground. I fell victim to the woke bullshit that came from high up places. Moreover, by body, which had been steadily breaking down the past ten years earlier was now in need of major repairs. Most disappointing was that during the pandemic I was cancelled by several friends and partners based on some political commentary. Besides my immediate family I was left to walk in the new old age alone.. Left alone in a hot and deserted place there are only two options: You can wilt and disappear into obscurity, or you can see your plight as an opportunity to make the necessary changes to move forward. My mind went back to the inner devil and the contract I entered a long time ago. I had been given the opportunity to make it to the top and now it was time to see how I reacted as the mob came for my chips. My days of living fast and large were behind me. Acceptance is the first and most challenging step to any type of evolvement. All the things I that identified were either taken from me or I gave up. Three years off, no golf, no gambling, and no drinking can make a man lose patience, or gain it. I had become an orphan in the true sense of the word. Now it was time to see what I could do on my own.

It has now been over a month since I underwent knee replacement surgery. Every movement for the past month had been wrenched in pain. Like Jason Day after his golf ball returned to his feet, I found myself looking to the heavens with a confused and frustrated scowl. “How can I be trying so hard and not making any progress? Will the sun ever come out again?” It was a look of despair that only comes when your life has run into a series of challenges that seem to be non-reversible. The British Open was taking place a few days past my surgery. This was my third major surgery in three years. Unlike any other physical obstacles, the knee replacement was by far the greatest test I have been through for my patience and pain tolerance. The affects of having my knee sawed drained a big piece of life out of me. As a sharp pain shot through my right knee, I reached my breaking point. “This is the final payback. The slate had to be clean now. I had earned the privilege to go back to living life on my terms.” The ball had rolled back to my feet. All that has been giving back had left me completely empty and completely full. The prowess of my youth has faded like the labor Day sun. Anybody who makes it to 60 carries the wounds and scars that are owned solely by them. No matter how hard I’ve tried to reject any flavor of humility in this life it has started to creep in. For me it is now about my inner devil releasing me peacefully into elder statesmanship. My devil has had his way with me most of my life, now it’s time for me to see what kind of deal god is looking for.

“Rich, slow down, I do not want to die in this car, my life ending up being a statistic.” I was 26 years old and had already put my life on cruise control. From my perspective there was nothing in my way but an open road. The world had already become my oyster. I was driving a red 1986 300ZX with an entire summer of shenanigans in front of me. I turned to my travel companion with a smug grin. ‘There ain’t nothing going to slow us down today,’ tapping on the shiny new toy strapped to my dashboard. My mother, in one of her ill-advised attempts to help her younger son get around life’s restrictions, had gifted me a “fuzz buster” so I could avoid adding to my growing pile of speeding tickets. My radar detector indicated I had clearance for another 30 miles as I pushed our speed to over 100 mph. When I heard the words “slow down” I immediately pressed my foot harder into the accelerator speeding to 120 mph. Simultaneously, what looked to be an army of flashing lights and sirens were gaining on me. In a matter of seconds two New York State Trooper cars had me boxed in like a sardine and appeared to be calling for backup. “Hey Jim, get a look at this beauty. This guy has one of them fancy radar detectors to go along with his fancy ride.” His partner took the bait. “Wow, I’ve never seen one so elaborate. That had to cost “pretty boy” an arm and a leg.” For 15 minutes I sat there and was served up a record helping of humble pie. The story would provide for many laughs over the years but in the moment, there were numerous ominous warning signs regarding my future that I wasn’t ready to accept.

The situation I found myself in was making the career highlight films of these two road-tested authorities. They handed me a ticket for 100 mph (that insured the maximum fine) in a 65-mph speed area. Much rougher than the 300 hundred dollars I eventually paid was listening to the two troopers roast me. “Did you ever see a bigger compensation problem than this guy Jim? A big shot, trying to go the speed of light.” The other officer was shaking his head sizing up my passenger side. “Yeah Jim, I’ve seen tons of them, cocky kids who believe they are non-perishables. Most of them end up dead before they make it to 30.” They were talking directly to each other, but I was more than aware who their soliloquy was directed at. After the officers had distributed my litany of moving violations, I was left alone to hear a second lecture form the person riding shotgun. “I don’t know about you, but I have big plans for my life, and they do not include getting banged up in a car.” At this point my patience was running thin. “What do you want?” I asked the young lady I would marry three years later, ‘a dude driving steady in the right lane, minding all the rules, hanging on for dear life.’ I crumbled up my parting gifts and tossed them in the backseat. In the four years since graduating from college I move immediately into the far-left lane and pressed my foot to the metal.. In my mid 20s I was a full-time high school history teacher and a varsity basketball coach. I had money in my pocket, a dynamic sports car, and a nice-looking partner in the front seat. I felt like I had enough street credibility to drive as fast as I liked. At the time, the incident was nothing more than a funny joke. I was nowhere near perceptive enough to grasp the metaphorical warning that my life’s biggest crash was lying in wait for me.

In those days I was in a big hurry regardless of if I had anywhere to go, or not. I was racing as fast I could to whatever big event was next. Not once did I take a second to get a grip on myself. I was suffering from a bad case of “what’s next syndrome” that is typical amongst young people who are both ambitious and extremely impatient. My traveling companion who made it quite clear that it was my car she was enamored with, not me. “Rich, you think you are such a clever one, but you do not understand that there will be consequences down the road as a result of your sloppiness.” I don’t really remember what I said back to her, but I do recall my attitude back then was diluted ‘I was born with a leprechaun on my shoulder, everything will always work out fine me.’ Yes, I was that shallow, entitled, and immature. ‘I’ll be just fine, I may not be untouchable, but I am close,’ was the mantra I consistently used back then to get me through whatever crisis was simmering. The conversation was not going to die easy. “On the outside it looks like you got it all together, but we both know better,” she said with disdain. “You’re working on being a narcissist, you always think you’re the smartest person in the room, and you are very insecure. The worse part is you recognize this and are doing nothing about it.” She was right, but at that stage in my life I could have cared less. 

Through the years the incident was good for many belly laughs at mine and my mother’s expense.  Only after all the distance and time that was put between that day back and 1986 and today, can I see how loudly life’s warning signs were screaming at me to slow down. The whistles were blowing, the sirens were roaring. I was living large without the experience or wisdom to back it up. When you are moving that fast you don’t see much, there is only a far-off mystical destination in sight. I had decided to skip all the apprenticeships, claiming top dog status before producing top dog results. I told anyone who would listen that I was on my way to reinventing the art of teaching and coaching. I was a classic case of a cocky young man who was so egocentric that he committed the mortal sin of not seeking the help of those who went before. There is no doubt that the speeding ticket I received that day back in 1986 was a loud warning alerting me that the road ahead was filled with huge potholes. At the time I was a teacher, a coach, and all around entitled, selfish guy. My eyes were wide shut, I couldn’t see myself past tomorrow. From my view whatever loose plan I had concocted in my head was working. All I had to do was keep showing up and the money, fame, and status were in my future. I believed I possessed a guardian angel who made sure all was right in the world of “Rich Siegel”. In the following three years, without request, I was presented with the hard lessons I had always been convinced I would find my way around. I learned there are no guardian angels; only yourself. You choose the direction, the goals, the speed. Success and failure are soley in the eyes of the beholder. I learned we are the ones responsible of our paths. And I learned I wasn’t as good a driver as I thought.

Standing in that moment at 26, in the summer of 86, everything looked idyllic. I didn’t want to listen to the voices telling me to slow down, I was sprinting towards a place having no idea where that place was. I was not yet familiar with the teachings of Lao Tzu and his philosophical wisdom “the journey of 1,000 miles must begin with a single step.”  At the time I could not comprehend how long that 1,000-mile trek can be, uphill in the dark, both ways. In my eyes anyone who was telling me to slow down was a conspiracist theorist who was jealous of my propensity for acting the part of the ‘Big Shot’. In my warped mind I had figured this life out at a very early age, I thought I was immune to the hard lessons that are necessary along the way. Those painful lessons that you will lean on in the future. I honestly thought God’s angels had tapped me on the shoulder, “don’t worry Rich, we’ll keep you under a close watch.” Yes, I was that delusional. There are consequences in this life for our flaws that we aren’t able to get under control. I woke up on my 30^th birthday an “Insurance Man”, married, with merely a couple hundred dollars in the bank. Robin Leach was not getting ready to invite me onto ‘The Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’. That 26-year-old hot shot cruising in his red 300zx was going to be forced to swallow a lot of bitter pills in the years ahead. They are what I call today “Now or Never Pills”. At the age of 30 I had to pay off all the fines of my past and start my sentence as an adult.

“They’re they go,” the officer not named Jim said to no one in particular. “yup, there they go”, repeated trooper Jim. Like the arrogant dummy I was in those days I fell for the trap. ‘Who?’ I blurted out. My two captors began laughing, (unprofessionally I might add,) “Who?” he wonders, trooper Jim said staring directly into my eyes. “There they go, all of them people you were passing.” He reached his hand inside my car to hand me my citations before giving my “fuzz buster” a few final loves taps. “Yup that’s a real nice machine you got right there. The troopers headed back to their ride. “Where do you think that kid will be ten years?” I imagined hearing one of them asking the other. “Dead, in jail, or he’ll be ruling the world.” Although they were right about my life being a rough ride, none of those three things came to attrition. Today, I barely recognize that shiny boy who was so far away from who he would become.

One of my favorite fables is ‘The Tortoise and Hare.’ If ever there was a young man in his 20’s who resembled a high energy rabbit it was me. I was running at full speed and anyone who stood in my way was going to get run over. On that day back in 1986 I was still three years from any type of starting line of an adult existence. It took me three years to understand that I was running myself out of the race in the first mile. All those people driving the speed limit got to their destination’s way before me on that day. I’d love to bump into those two troopers who went over the top in belittling me. “Hey guys, I want you to meet my wife, she was the girl in the car with me that day.” I want to tell them, not right away but I did slow down; I wanted to tell them they were wrong about me. For the moment, I am securely planted in the right lane of life and for now I’m appreciating the smooth ride.

It could only be chalked up to happenstance that I found myself on the last day of the 2022/23 school year settling down on a bench adjacent to the Elementary School I attended back in the 1960’s. The day was slightly overcast and not as warm as one might expect the temperature to be for the beginning of the summer. It was official, I could see a couple of remaining teachers carrying boxes to their car, school was dismissed until Labor Day. The Ernest Myer Hurley Elementary School (named after the principal at the helm when I was matriculating) didn’t look much different from the way I remembered it on a very similar day exactly 56 years when I rode my bicycle home on the quarter mile trek back to my house on Hook Street. There were very few vehicles left in the parking lot, but I suppose everything looked apropos considering the date. There is always an eerie quiet that can be heard at a school ground the moments after the final yellow bus has left the building. Staring out over the solitude of a vacant ball field, that I recalled as the stage for classic fourth grade softball games that my big brother starred in. Memories that I was sure had been lost along the way came rushing back. Mrs. Hutton was my first-grade teacher, and a blond girl, named Kelley Cahill, with a big gap in her two front teeth, was my crush. At seven years old my progressive parents allowed me to find my own means of transportation to and from the halls of academia. In 1967 I assume it was reasonable to put a seven-year-old on his two-wheel bike with the red streamers flapping in the open air.

Was it coincidence that 56 years to the day I ended up back at the exact same spot? Lol. What a day! The triple crown of happiness for a kid: The last day of school, the first day of summer, and the longest day of the year all wrapped up in one. On that June day in 1967 I pedaled down Zandhoek Road with a breeze blowing through my hair and an eternal summer of sun and fun ahead of me. In those days everything in my life centered around baseball and the Beatles. Across the street from my house lived our babysitter, Doreen Lyke. Miss Lyke had been diagnosed with a classic case of Beatle derangement syndrome by the time she reached 16. In the back of our house we had a makeshift baseball diamond where I honed my skills with the top teenage ball players from Hook and Walnut streets. I still see my dad, jogging from our back yard, his lean long body dolled in a white tee shirt, kinos, and a pair of high top Keds. In my seven-year-old mind any ball field I was ever on with my dad he was the best I ever saw. There he was running at me, I tossed him the mitt we shared ‘one day I might get to be just like him,’ I said to myself.  After the game it was time to go across the street and have some of Mary Lyke’s home brewed iced tea and listen to some tunes from four mopped topped teenagers who resided in Liverpool, England. I could have never imagined then, living in my idyllic Shangri la, that what lay ahead was going to be anything but perfect.

Before I knew it, it was 15 years later and I wasn’t standing on a major league pitching mound. Instead I perched in front of a bunch of 16-year-olds in a classroom somewhere in Pine Bush New York. My parents had eked out livings in teaching gigs and it always looked like not such a bad idea to me. Let’s start with the fact that it is a full-time job with benefits,  20 weeks of vacation a year, and you can retire at 55. Throw in snow days, wind days, heat days, cold days, and much more…..  it was a no brainer that a lazy Peter Pan type would decide to be a teacher. Besides, becoming an adult was never a priority for me. The truth I’m finding about myself in the late stages is that ‘I’m a teacher, but I could not sustain my passion for teaching working within in the constraints of America’s public education systems. Today, I feel blessed to have been able to be a teacher and coach in the Public-School systems for seven years. The years I spent in the classroom and on the basketball, courts were without a doubt the most intense of my life. Everything I am today, every word I say, and all the attitude I have developed were baked the deepest from my experiences in the 23 years I lived in the public school system. It can happen in life. One moment you are gloriously chasing your dreams in a certain direction, and then a strong wind comes along and moves you in a different direction. Starting over can be the most frightening of times.

What does a naturally born teacher do after turning his back on his life’s destiny at the ripe old age of 28? Of course, he can’t wait to be an insurance salesman. I had identified myself as three things before turning 30: A school kid, an athlete, and a teacher. I do not mean to offend when I say I doubt anybody grew up dreaming about being an “Insurance Man”. In the most critical juncture of my life my best option was pounding the pavement selling insurance. I had walked away from everything I knew, whatever identity I used to own was gone and all my apples were thrown into being a businessman.  The toughest questions I had to face came from my parents, simultaneously, ” What the hell are you doing?” And the more basic, “Why in the world?” There were several factors, but it came down to a voice inside of me. Untethered security and stability or take a shot at life moving over to a different lane. The six-month running conversation I had with myself back in the spring of 1989 went something like this: ‘Rich this is the time to suck it up. Eat your humble pie, finish up your credits, and get a teaching and coaching job in the same district.’ That voice had control of me right up to the very end. Another voice that speaks truth to myself was relentless, ‘No way can I continue to listen to bells and administrators for another 30 years. It will not end pretty.’ I jumped right into the business world and never swam in the shallow again. I handed in my teaching license, collected the $3,452 which had accumulated in my union retirement fund and signed up for my three-week course to be an insurance broker. In one years’ time, at the age of 29, I quit my stable chosen career, got married, moved to a new city, and started my career in the world of finance.  ‘Hello, my name is Rich Siegel and insurance is my game.’ Go figure. Let me not forget I was broke.

It was June 23, 2023, the day after I my respite at Ernie Myer’s school. I was driving my car around looking for a parking space during the local high school graduation. The covid kids, warriors who missed far too much time while the so-called experts held their education hostage for two years. Covid was finally in their rear-view mirror as they marched towards the stadium in their maroon gowns and white caps. You could see the water dripping off the tassels swinging side to side. I watched from a distance as the undaunted graduates braved the rain as if they had expected it. The clock in my head had quit running on school time some 35 years ago when I started the long journey into business and finance. And now here I was falling out of the other side of those years. For the first time I officially allowed myself to question myself in reference to my life altering decisions back in 1989. ‘Did I do the right thing for myself leaving the teaching profession?’ I stopped moving my fingers for several minutes before I gave myself time to reflect before formulating my reluctant answer. ‘I don’t know. I will never know,’ And ‘What’s the difference?’ I thought about how much the characteristics at this time reminded me of similar
crossroads and that once again it was time for dramatic alterations. A time when I needed to act, when I needed to adjust, even reinvent. I had to change my perspective, I needed time to reevaluate my priorities preparing for the end of the game.

Somehow, after all the in-betweens, I had ended up in the exact place I started my journey 60 years ago. The little boy from Hook Street had put a lot of mileage behind him. He’d driven some smooth rides and there was more than his share of highways where he didn’t miss a pothole. After all the bumps and bruises I had come through the storms relatively clean, still with a fighter’s chance. I was sitting in front of my old elementary school in the processes of a major make-over. My phone started buzzing, and I was
thrust back to the reality of the day. “Hey dad just wanted to let you know our flight is delayed and I’ll be at the airport in Puerto Rico for the next 12 hours. Not a big deal, I’ll be back in Providence tonight.” I hung the phone up and thought about how far my daughter had already traveled, and how many open highways that lay ahead for her. The great philosopher Carl Jung saw life in the round as “something forever coming into being and passing on.” All those sayings I vividly recall form my youth, “What goes around comes around.” “We reap what we sow.” “Every dog has his day.” I could hear Mrs. Hutton asking us to turn the page. “See Pete run. Look at Spot. He is Pete’s dog.” It seems like such a long time ago. It also seems like it happened yesterday. Along the way the words have gotten bigger, and the
world kept getting more and more complicated . There will be many times when you’re out there alone on the road when it will be prudent to listen to that voice calling you home to your roots. Once you return to the starting point it will all come back to you. You just have to get back on the bike again and start pedaling.

What was, or when was, the happiest time of your life? Go ahead, think about it. A time when you felt accepted, when you were in control of all the big problems in your little world.  A moment when you said, “I’m going to be fine.” It doesn’t happen often but when it happened , for sure, you knew it. In those moments you felt like you were the master of your universe. For many of us those feelings of calm happened in our younger days before we went on that 30-year journey in search of spiritual maturity. Was it your days of little league and girl scouts? Maybe it was those first years after leaving the control of your parents behind? Or maybe, the first-time cupid tugged at your heart? The next time cupid pulled at your heart.  Maybe you felt it during the time of raising a family, or as you climbed the ladder of your life. All of us have been there, in a space, a zone when you are convinced all the synergy from the cosmos is leaning your way. When the labor of hard work, or love, and a series of good decisions has caused all the obstacles of life to wreck their havoc on somebody else. From the second we fall out of our mother’s womb we unconsciously begin to yearn, even whine, about our right to happiness. In short order we humans discover there is not a direct train route to the land of the giddy. It also becomes evident early on in life that everyone’s specific location in the land of happiness varies. Except for love, it is hard to think of something, in the abstract, that are both hunted and then short lived as happiness.

In his book ‘Hector and the Search for Happiness”, Francois LeLord sends Hector, a psychiatrist, on a trip around the world with the mission of finding out what, in the human experience, triggers happiness. What are the roots of this simple concept that the Declaration of Independence says every American has the right to pursuit. What part of your brain needs to be fed to deliver your body to your “happy place”? Of course, everyone has differing appetites but there are certain universal categories such as love, family, money, and status, that when injected with enough portions sends you in the right direction. Hector traveled from his home in Paris, to China, to Africa, before finalizing his trip in America. During his extensive adventures Hector kept careful notes on each encounter he had. Hector quickly discovered that, universally, people want to be happy. He came to understand that many of us see our immediate families’ happiness as our number one pursuit. What he also discovered was that people were in survivor mode, and any form of happiness was a function of the periphery happiness that comes with survival. Hector cumulates his journey in Miami, Florida, where he meets with the county’s most renowned professor on “human happiness”. The two of them agreed that “happiness” is an individual pursuit, whose parameters are defined only by the individual. You are the Superintendent of your School of Happiness. You are the single author of your curriculum.

The actual definition of happiness is: The state of being happy. And happy is feeling or showing pleasure or contentment. Happiness is abstract, and only a person in a happy state can confirm his or her happiness. It is often said that “being happy is a choice”. There will always be obstacles in our lives that can give us reason to be unhappy. We all know a person who is never happy, and they can’t wait to tell you their reasons : “My boss is an ass.” “It’s going to rain all day.” “He didn’t call me back.” We all know people who consistently have a reason their day is not going well. Life is always ahead of them, and they feel they have no hope of catching up. These unhappy people have an uncanny ability to always have a glass that is half empty. There is a small persistent group who live amongst us they decide each day to put on a happy and optimistic exterior. This is where it gets complicated. Nobody can be happy all the time. Without sadness, and struggle happiness would lose its meaning. The challenge to being happy is us recognizing our problems and finding ways to make the best of them. Afterall, it is within living life and finding ways to make yourself satisfied that we find happiness along the way. What are the things that bring a feeling of satisfaction to people? Personal accomplishment, a romantic relationship, a promotion, being accepted by your peers, or a windfall of cash falling from the sky. It could be assumed everybody searches for happiness and it can be equally assumed that ever very few can find it, let alone, sustain it.

Unfortunately, there will always be a portion of the world’s population who view being intrinsically happy as an impossibility. The disturbing events of their past do not allow them to see any way of getting to a happier state in the future. In a sense they have stripped themselves of their God given right to pursue happiness. Scientists believe that there is an entire section of the human brain that is devoted to an individual’s happiness. A place in your brain that is stimulated by triggers associated with making you have a deep feeling of happiness. “Without your health, you have very little.” Humans are taught at a very early age that good health can be a prerequisite for happiness. The road to any sort of a search for happiness starts with a healthy body. Right next to good health on people’s list of happy triggers is the almighty dollar. Some will say that after establishing yourself as a physically and mentally capable player the next step on the road to happiness is financial security. As Johnny Depp so aptly suggested; “Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it can buy you a big enough yacht to pull up right next to it.” Exactly, money is not the answer to everything, but it is hard to argue that lots of greenbacks makes the whole game of life much less stressful. There is substance in the words “money is the root of all evil” but it could be argued many people who preach this point do not have very much money.

There are the very few who walk amongst us who claim to have arrived at their happy place and have decided to make it their permanent residence. Most of us are lost wanderers in this world, searching, poking, and asking ourselves the questions: Am I happy today? Is there happiness in my future? What are the elements that need to formulate for myself to find peace and happiness? What do I need to do to try and sustain a happy state? As Hector traveled the world, he asked people what it took to make them happy. It was a rarity that Hector would receive a similar answer to his questions: “Whenever I travel and am learning new things,” “Being around my family is my happy place”, “after I have accomplished a tangible goal,” “Walking alone in nature,” “When I am in a loving relationship,” One person had a cynical and humorous answer. “I think my happiest time was one before I arrived on this planet.” One of Hectors’ many findings was that people’s happiness had very little to do with location and everything about the emotional stability of the heart. Happiness does not have an address; it can thrive anywhere but seems to have stronger powers under the sun or near the ocean. Happy doesn’t know race, or gender, it is an equal opportunity emotion. It is in the individual’s power to control his or her own happiness. Fact.

We all live together on this singular planet, surrounding by a litany of other planets, spinning around in the middle of nowhere. We are here for a short visit. It is only a handful of years and before we know it our biological clock is expiring. We are not unlike Hector in his search for the origins of happiness. We have much so much thick brush to navigate in our search . As in all challenges the first step of getting started is the hardest. The first step is deciphering what does it take for you to find your happy place. There is only one person who can get you to where you must go. Happiness must come from within, there is not one person or activity that you can depend on to sustain you being happy. Life will find every possible nuisance to give you reason to feel unhappy with your yourself and your life. There will always be something, or a time from the past, that will keep you feeling down, if you let it. There will be the time when we don’t get the girl. There will be many times in our lives that we fall short of our own expectations, and there will be times when are closest friends let us down, or even worse, we let them down. We all face periods in our life where we are absolutely convinced the stars are aligned against us. If you live life hard enough there will be times when you are sure that there is a calculated world plan determined to conspire against your personal happiness. At the end of the day happiness is literally your choice. If you have lived this life with any passion, there isn’t a day that goes by you couldn’t find a plethora of reasons to bring you down. Yes the Declaration of Independence gives us the right to pursue happiness. One of the biggest challenges of this life to going out and getting your share.

Have you ever listened to a writer, or a philosopher, talk about life and discover that the word “process” is an oft-used word? That’s the quirky kind of thoughts that were top of the mind recently. He sat alone on his back porch on a mid-May day in upstate New York. He could hear the whistling wind move amongst the trees, yet the air movement directly surrounding him was stagnant. As he let the energy from the cloudless sky’s sun soak in, he closed his eyes. “How could there possibly be that many threatening weather sounds, so close, when the skies above had unlimited visibility. The calm before the storm? Or maybe the peaceful stirring of serenity? Either way, his eyes remained shut. The whistling breeze went quiet. A chorus of birds began their choral rehearsal. In the moment, he was able to find his way to the elusive peaceful place inside of him. The surroundings were perfect. It was highly unusual for him stumble into a location where nothing was in the way. The topography triggered him to pick up his pad and start jotting down random thoughts: “Good processes, usually lead to good results. Do not get married to process but respect it.” In the case of this day, the second the big yellow ball in the sky collided with his face he was building his story. All his beginnings started with questions. “How did I end up where I am presently?” That’s a query for the start of a book, not an essay. Next question: “Who am I? Who was I? Who Cares?” And then, just like that, you have the beginning of something.

In the next step of the process, there are more questions. Who is your audience for your story? The fact was he wrote for himself mostly, but in the front row sat others who had equal passion for their trade. Ideally, he wanted to write for everybody. Yet, he was aware of the impossibility of connecting with 100% of his readers. Therefore, he concluded the motivation came from himself, and the chips will fall where they may. Those were the first few words his filter purposefully allowed to pass across the stage. He laughed to himself about how much he stretched his altruism. “I write for myself.” He conceded. “Yes.” He thought, in this life all processes and final decisions begin and stop with, “me”. Of course, all writers attempt to write in universal terms to connect with the reader. Without clarity, a bond, a hook, or a purpose your audience will quickly seek another platform. On this day, his answer to himself was firm, “I write for myself. The process of prosing narrative can be both therapeutic and healing. He wrote for survival. In all those times of life when everything around him seemed to be souring his writing was still alive. Getting lost in the story the breathing comes easier as the adrenaline rushes through the body. The process of writing is not that dissimilar to the process of life. Everyday presents a different perspective to one’s view of the world. And everyday our lives and our perspectives regarding it change.

There comes a point in all accounts when the reader checks in to get stable footing on the road he is being led down. When the conveyor of the story checks with ground control in terms of direction. And then the difficult sometimes ignored questions: “what is the point of it all?  Is anybody still following along? Have I done, ok?” Is there a plan or are you going to keep making it up as you go. He had a good laugh attempting to calculate the preparation/spontaneity ratio he had experienced in his life. He realized the importance of a solid plan, with the addendum that all plans need constant tweaking along the way. Like penning an essay life’s journey is filled with rough drafts before we feel comfortable presenting the final product. The initial dream starts to develop before adapting and evolving into stories that end up right where they started. He scribbled fast and hard, “this is all going in the garbage anyway.” Even as he uttered those words he searched in the rubble for the themes and ideas that sometimes are buried and never found. “Just keep writing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep doing, keep failing. Then one fine day after all the facts have been gathered, they can be shined, buffed, and eventually packaged.”

If you are living life with an open mind everyday presents an opportunity to view yesterday’s circumstances in a different light. Every day we should take a fresh inventory of our story. What’s new since last we stared into the computer? Where is the story headed? How did yesterday bring anything new in terms of developing ideas? He wandered into a coffee shop to search for the words to complete his narrative amongst the other confessed seekers in search of a fleeting truth. Within the process of writing there is a nonstop flow of questions: “What is the purpose, why should the reader care? Is the story filled with hope and inspiration.” Sometimes it’s the notes from the day before, or a dream that you can recall as motivation. There are times you are in the middle of a story, and in your search, you discover sources that stimulate the story in a different direction. The night before he had unexpectedly bumped into a couple of high school chums, whom, he had not had a serious conversation with in 45 years. This chance meeting opened some vaults that otherwise would have remained dark. A conversation that, while intriguing and full of confessions, could have never taken place without the passage of decades. Nonetheless, he was grateful for this happenstance impromptu reunion. There are people in this life whose painful youthful experiences coming of age never completely heal. When he was senior in high school, he walked off the stage vowing to himself to run fast and far. He imposed an embargo on childhood friends and all characters from the past. He could admit now that he was a spoiled, disenchanted rebel who in some very sinister way thought he was special beyond practical expectations. The problem was nobody else noticed or cared. Now, he plopped down in a chair next to the two most popular girls in the New Paltz high class of 1978.

In the process of writing, not unlike the process of life you must reach inside yourself and open the door to the “hidden goodies”. Like the travels of life, writers at any one time have three or four stories simultaneously dancing around in their head. The normal goal of ‘stay in the moment’ gets bumped aside for not being able to find that moment. He chuckled to himself thinking of a machete,  chopping away all the brush that always found its way to his mind’s writing place. The very first peck is usually proceeded with a check list of reminders: 

1. He confirms the “theme” of his prose.

2. He reminds himself that when lost to return to basic principles and processes.

3. Think about the immeasurable periphery rewards that go along with the process of writing and having written.

Then he begins thinking of metaphors and analogies that are universally relatable.

The checklist brought him back to the conversation the night before, and the two old friends who knew him when snot was running down his nose. They had spent the evening reminiscing about those intense days of schoolbooks and holding hands. They shared stories only the three of them could appreciate. He could not have expected this unlikely encounter which put him in that uncomfortable position of feeling unprepared. Three old friends who hadn’t gone as far to avoid each other over the years, but also hadn’t searched very hard to grab a catch-up cup of coffee. Still, they appeared glad to be sharing some mirky high school parking lot news.

Another day another chapter. The day after his chance meeting he sat in a coffee shop thinking about all the years he spent hiding from the boogie monsters of his past. He now finally understood it was all about finding that balance between letting go and purposeful avoidance. You can run from yesterday but eventually it will track you down.  He strolled away from the breakfast nook and over to a bench aside the old colonial church and watched Sunday morning come down. The sun was struggling to break through the gray sky. Endings in life, and in the stories can be joyous and they can also be devastating. Endings can be sudden surprises, or they can be calculated plans that are executed without a hitch. The indulging part about writing a new story is that with enough patience you can develop a resolution that fits your script. He had waited two days to see what, if anything, had developed since Thursday evening. As Sunday rolled towards late afternoon, he investigated his quiet surroundings. The 17th century place of worship stood in front of him as he looked for the “closure” that people too often mistake for salvation. He saw three sexagenarians in the present, having put the hard work in, sitting watching the sunset over the Catskill mountains.

The giggles regarding the who’s and when’s, the confirmation and denials surrounded by hard laughter all the way back to a day in English class 1977. The three of them were in the back row predicting their futures. What they were going to do and who they were going to be. ‘I’m going to be a famous interior designer.’ I’m going to be a schoolteacher,’ the third friend was hesitant. ‘I guess I’ll try it all. I’ll play the game and then tell the tale….. so we remember.

The three of them had gotten what they’d asked for such a long time ago.

“Rich, you got to get up, I just got off the phone with your father, your mom died last night.” It was 6:14 am on an early January morning. A day that was as cold as one I had ever felt or would experience again. My mom was 76 years old, and for the prior ten years her health had been erratic, still, hearing Donna’s words sent me to a numbing trance of which I remain. I immediately sprung out of bed and switched my mind to auto pilot. I had very little experience with losing people close to me. My initial persona was one of being completely paralyzed. There is no one who is prepared to compartmentalize the death of their mother. At 47 years old, I was in the prime of my narcissistic conquering of the universe. This morning’s news provided me with a reality trip as what was to lie ahead. In silence I stumbled to the shower, dressed, and prepared to make the drive to the family homestead. Back to the place where for 25 years I lived under the roof of a woman who was my whole world. Not for one second had I imagined a world without her. In those years of growing up in New Paltz not a morning went by that my mom didn’t enter my room at some point to announce, “It’s time.”  The two words proved to be an effective way of dealing with a son who didn’t have much use for schedules or alarm clocks. It was a simple motivational
tool my mom implemented to combat my tendencies for tardiness and procrastination. “Nobody ever made anything of their lives by staying in bed.” My mom’s magical words, “It’s time” was my daily reminder that those in this life that do not keep moving fall behind. My mom understood my
competitive nature and she instigated it regularly.

Nina Vail was born in Peekskill New York in 1935, at the time she seemed destined to live a charmed life. Her father’s side of the family (Charles Vail) were wealthy real estate developers who owned several commercial retail properties. Growing up, education was not much of a priority for a privileged little cherub who would become my mom. Nonetheless her parents sent her to New Paltz Teacher’s College, not so much to get educated, but more to find a husband (that was always her side of the story). My mom’s co-ed years turned out to be the time her father was feeding horses at racetracks across the nation. By the time my mom turned 23 she didn’t have a diploma, she was married, she had a son, and her parents had gone from being rich aristocrats to bankruptcy. Her destiny had been sharply rearranged from being a pampered entitled daddy’s girl to the real-life grind. Regarding motherhood, there was zero pretense, she loved her calling and was determined that being a mother was going to be the best thing she would ever do with her life. In her mind her life’s calling was to be the mother of Gary and Richard Siegel.

She was more content living vicariously through her boys than pursuing any of her personal ambitions. The happiest I remember my mom being was at my brother’s graduation from Brown University. In my mom’s eyes my brother being an ivy leaguer vindicated her lackluster years in the halls of academia. Despite Gary’s best efforts to plead that I was mom’s favorite I never saw a beam on her face like I did that day of the Brown commencement back in 1979. Until grandchildren arrived my mother’s greatest claim to fame was “my good son went to Brown.”

My mother’s infatuation with elitist institutions only made me a little bit jealous.  I didn’t doubt for one second that my mom did have a favorite and it was me. Lol. All the joking aside I know my brother is convinced our mom loved us both equally. Her priority in life was singular; protect her boys and present them with every opportunity to stand as critical thinking independent adults. There were many times when my mom’s protective paranoia made it more challenging for myself to gain the independence that I
struggled to find in my youth. Looking back three main themes were the foundations of our Mother/son relationship 1. Unconditional Love: I, and Gary were 100% unconditionally loved. We were always our mom’s number one priority. 2. Unlimited Support:  In my mom’s eye I was an angel, a knight in
shining amour. In her eyes I was the best player on all teams, besides being the smartest and best looking. There was certainly no objectivity when it came to my mom evaluating my life performances. One time after a high school basketball game, I kicked a referee in the butt. I was suspended for two
games and placed on double secret probation. When I came home that night, “He deserved it,” was all my mom offered. 3. Belief in her children: There has never been a person, and I am sure I will not be in contact with a person who believed in me more than my mom. “The cream will rise Richard,
and you are pure cream.”

My mom loved holidays and special occasions, especially Christmas. It was of utmost importance to my mom that Christmas be special for myself and Gary every year. My Dad would bemoan the money my mom would pour into gifts and the accouchements that went along with the Christmas holiday. Every night from December first to the middle of January my mom would sit in front of our Christmas tree, put on some Christmas melodies, and stare into the lights and ornaments. “Nothing makes me happier than my family being together for the holidays,” she was fond of saying. Every year mom made sure to have
one big gift that was usually shared with my brother. I recall a snowmobile, tickets to Mets opening day. One year it was a family trip to Disneyland in California. My mom made sure myself and Gary had sweet memories of our childhood. She took it upon herself that her two boys would emerge from adolescence with every chance to make the best possible lives for themselves. My mother’s doting and unconditional support could have its drawbacks. She anointed me to such high pedestals, at times without merit, which gave me a distorted reality of where I stood in the pecking order of the universe.  She, without question provided me with a good self-esteem, maybe too good. It was left for me to learn how to temper my mother’s high ideals of me within my own reality. 

In many ways my mother was a very liberal in the manner she brought up her two boys. There were few specific requirements that needed to be met to stay out of her doghouse. She insisted that we were well mannered respectful boys who were expected to mind the authorities and get good grades in school. She expected us to develop passions outside of academics and in general have a well-rounded childhood. She expected to not hear from school administration or police regarding any nefarious behavior. In my brother she had a son who was naturally independent and anxious to depart his hometown. Although her method was identical with each of us the results were the opposite. In her youngest son she had a classic ‘momma’s boy’ who was far too comfortably attached to the nipple, and unlike my brother I was in no hurry to be weened off. At 16, I had my own car and no curfew, who could
have more independence than me? My mother was in a trap, and she knew it. If she imposed restrictions on me, I was going to rebel more than she was ready to deal with. By letting me run loose she knew she was giving me enough leeway to get much closer to the edge of the cliffs. Either way, it was years later that my mom told me: “The hardest thing about being your mother was understanding you and feeling every ounce of your joy and of your pain.”

It was January 12, 2012, I had made my way over the mountain to my childhood home. I pulled down the steep driveway just beyond the hairpin turn. My father was standing in front of the opened garage door in his pajamas. It was approximately 7:00 am, the outside temperature on my pilot’s consul said
4 degrees, and snow was on the way. My psyche picked that moment to let the faucet open. All those nights of my youth when I came pouring in that driveway knowing my mom was waiting there for me under every kind of life circumstance. Most nights, or early mornings not a word was spoken. She may
not have known all the naughty details of my misadventures but in the broader sense of understanding me she knew everything. In her private moments I knew she bled for me, she cried for me. She also celebrated my accomplishments with seemingly more joy than I could ever muster myself. There is not a person who has lived in this world who has loved me harder or longer than my mom. She had my back in the ways only a mother can.

I got out of the car and headed towards my dad. My father looked worn down, and tired of living. Half of him was gone. I believe that cold morning was the only time the two of us ever embraced in a full hug. The empty numbness I felt that January morning has not left. Grief is a very personal process that for me has been an elusive one. Alone by her casket, I made my piece with the woman who gave me life, and consistently gave me far more credit than I earned. ‘Mom it was not your fault that I was a very slow learner. Thank you for having the courage to let me find my way to me at my pace.’ I told her to ‘rest easy, thanks to your patient hand, you knew your second son better than he did himself.’