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Monday was already off to rough start. It was 10:08am when I looked down at my phone and saw a text from my wife. This fact (her texting me) gave me cause for alarm, backed up by the fact that in 33 years of marriage Donna rarely texts or calls from her place of work. “Judy’s sister Beth died last night.” My intuition was unfortunately correct for a change. Beth Rivers, my sister-in-law’s sister passed away on March 6, 2023. She was 67 years old; my sister-in-law is 65. The siblings were the closest version of Irish twins I would know until my second daughter was born. So much has been written in literature on the tight link that exists among siblings. “I could never love anyone as I love my sister,” stated the lead character in the film adaption of “Little Women”.  From my experience, “Irish Twins” are on a whole different level of typical sibling love, falling just shy of identical, or paternal twins. 

Through the recent decades Beth and I often found ourselves sitting next to each other at family functions. I doubt she was aware, but that fact was a matter of my pre-meditation. Her approach to her moody, aloof, and cynical bother-in-law’s brother was simple: “I love reading your stories…..you keep getting better and better.” My cautious reaction to her at first was passively suspicious. My imagination could hear the two sisters talking and Judy giving Beth the inside track on how best to handle this guy with an over-sized opinion of his own voice: “Rich has a huge ego, just stroke it and the two of you will get along swimmingly.” As shallow as that makes me seem it would have been purposeful advice 25 years ago. Beth was one of those people who saw the best in everyone and wasn’t in search of some angle. Not one time did I ever see Beth without her glass more than half full. One could not help but to feel comfortable around Beth and her husband Kevin.

As the years passed Donna and I were blessed with a pair of daughters, born 14 months apart. Somewhere around the times my daughters were four and five, when presented with an opportunity, I began to scrutinize a pair of sisters, who at the time were in their 40’s. There were moments when I looked over at Judy and Beth while coyly making mental note ‘is it possible that my daughters could capture that type of magic?’ I noticed the glances they exchanged from across the room while one of their charges was running astray. Or the way their fingertips touched the others forearm as they commiserated in some subtly nuanced code. Maybe it was simple stuff: “I think it’s time to take out the turkey,” I never had an idea, nor really cared about what they said, for myself it was all about the way the sisters presented to one another.

In those years when I zoomed my focus on Laura and Mary Kate’s bond I can remember thinking ‘My two are tight, but they may kill each other before they reach adulthood’ It would be many years before I understood this sibling oneness that had eluded me and my brother. Judy and Beth were each other’s “best friend” in the truest sense of the term. They were not only each other’s first friend, but also their longest lasting friend by far. Since the day that Beth went off to college hardly a day passed when the two didn’t speak. Judy is now left alone to live without the person who probably shared more of her inner secrets with her than her husband of 42 years. 

My brother and Judy were traveling in Italy when they received the news of Beth’s passing. Following a sad call of condolence, I put the phone down and stared motionless through the window. All I could see were flashes of myself and my brother throughout the years, and of course my two daughters. Born 24 hours before St. Patrick’s Day 1997, we came home from the hospital with Mary Kate and introduced her to her 13-month-old sister Laura. Her older sister waddled her tiny legs to the car seat sitting on the floor of our bedroom to have a peek. There was an awe in the eyes of my oldest daughter. She kneeled downed and took a long peer into the car seat without uttering a sound. The vision of my two daughters bonding in that initial moment remains with me. Over the years I have often imagined what the two of them would have said to each other if they could have articulated words at the time. “So, mom and dad wanted me to have a partner in crime in this life (we did). Mary Kate Is the best present I could ever have received in my life. Nothing will ever come between the two of us,” were my imaginative words I had put in Laura’s mouth.  Mary Kate whispered back, “I’m with you Laura.” They willingly dressed identically and were seldom seen separated from the other. They were undocumented twins. People in local retail establishments took to calling them Mary Kate and Ashley, two popular child TV stars at the time. 

The years stretched out and it became obvious that Laura would never waver from the pledge I had imagined her committing to. When Laura was four, we made our first trip to the dentist. I was on my own with the two of them. Mary Kate and I sat in the waiting room while Laura bravely headed for the big chair. A minute later a touch of a cry could be heard through the open door. Before I could stop her Mary Kate was going as fast her three year old wheels could take her enroute to save her sister. I quickly ran for MK, who had already dug her sharp little teeth into the dentist’s calf. After apologies, and even a private chuckle with my dentist friend it was clear to me this sister commitment went both ways.

“Sisters is probably the most competitive relationship within the family, but once the sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship,” said the noted anthropologist, Margaret Mead. There were many power struggles between my two daughters in their adolescence, mostly ones too personal to all of us for me to share. From the outside looking into their relationship, I noticed that despite their shouting matches or Mary Kate’s propensity to physically overpower her sister, blood was only drawn a couple times and the mend of the wounds were immediate. I am guessing that at some point they agreed not to compete in the same sports in high school. At the same time all their girlfriends that strolled through our family home were always mutual friends of my daughters. They attended the same social parties, listened to the same music, and vigilantly had each other’s back when it came to the others romantic interests. All suitors knew to get to one they had to win the respect of the other.

The following Monday after Beth had left the common grounds of earth Judy returned from Italy to a world she had never known. Her confidante, her best friend, her soulmate, her guardian angel in life had been called to heaven much earlier than any of us could have expected. Beth leaves behind her husband of 43 years, four children, ten grandchildren, a brother and, according to Beth, ‘the best present her parents ever gave her’. Shakespeare wrote, ” A ministering angel shall be my sister.” Par for the course, “The Bard of Avon” had summed it up in a short phrase. The bond that Beth and her sister shared, and the one my daughters seem have in common,  is one I am sure is exclusive to the pairs themselves. Beth and Judy were each other’s angels; a steady voice, a presence that provided comfort amid tribulation. I will not assume to understand the gravity of loss that Judy is experiencing. The concept of the absence of the one single constant your whole life, the unwavering connection that made you partners in the joy and heartache. Judy and Gary’s son Eric, and daughter-in-law have two amazing young daughters. The last time I saw Beth was at a summer picnic at my brother’s house. Her sisters’ granddaughters were darting about in their summer dresses. “How lucky these two little cherubs are to have to each other,” said Beth to me in the last conversation we were to have. Simultaneously as I nodded in agreement Beth’s eyes looked away to catch the glimpse of her sister’s gaze, naturally.

January was on its last leg of the year 2023. Winter’s most severe weather month was only hours away from being history. In upstate New York, the time had arrived when the amount of sunlight during the day was noticeably lengthening. Metaphorically the weather and the season currently seem to parallel my own life. The recent winters have provided enough evidence that the planet is warming. I never doubted that fact, I have only questioned how much of a priority we need to make it when China, India, and Russia will never do their part. Still, here I reside in the northeast. This winter marks my 63rd straight of shivering and shoveling our way through December, January, and February.

It befuddles me that I am 63 years old and still find myself implanted in the Empire State. While I sit in a coffee shop in Kingston New York watching another upstate winter pass through, I can’t help but let out a good-sized chuckle of disbelief. ‘When I was a kid, I would have bet the ranch that deep into my life I would not have been anywhere near the Hudson Valley.’ I continually insist that anyone born and raised in the Hudson Valley hit a major home run in the demographics category.  The Hudson Valley is an amazing place, but I always wanted to make my mark somewhere far away from where I was raised. I simply wanted to escape the suffocation of similitude. I don’t regret my lack of exploration to other lands, but I would not have predicted it. As much as I appreciate the fact I made it this far maintaining good health I still look in the mirror these days and see nothing close to the young man I once knew.  Without making the effort I do spend what my wife describes as “far much too time looking for answers you’ll never find.” Not a day will pass when I don’t think about all the decisions I have made in this life that have gotten me to the exact moment I am at today. Fortunately, for reasons I’ll never understand I spent a great deal of time in my youth contemplating how I would look as an older man. Today, I cringe when I look in the mirror and see my father staring back at me.

Whether or not we like it, we come to a point in our lives when a personal inventory needs to be taken if we have any interest in seeking the roots of purpose. Even as painful as it can be, I never understood how the players in the game of life could evolve without keeping a personal scorecard. I would guess the evidence shows most people don’t. I think true to some of my narcissistic tendencies the best teacher I’ve ever had in my life is me. My scorecard includes a curriculum and a grading formula in the vital categories; Health, Family, Career, Purpose, Empathy, etc. The questions and the answers are given by me:

Do I live with a sense of purpose and what exactly is that is that purpose?

How are the dreams I dreamed in childhood working out?

If any, what kind of children will I bring into the world?

Will I find a career that will bring me happiness and prosperity?

Can I find new interests that will keep me passionate until my dying days?

The fact is the dreams of a 15-year-old boy back in 1975, today, look nothing like those long ago visions. At closer inspection maybe my life was actually very similar to what I had in mind? Each individual situation is very different, but any person who arrives in their sixties, with their health intact, can’t help but to reflect on what they made from the confusing mess that we call our lives. We all travel our unique highways, and our trip affects us all differently. The bottom line is nothing good happens in life until you learn how to evolve as an individual.

When we are young very little time is spent considering what life will look like for us in the “golden years”. We are all deeply entangled fighting off all of life’s inevitable obstacles as we chase the American dream. All young people at some point declare, “Oh , I’m not going to live past 50 anyway.” We haven’t a clue of how to make the transition from a hard charging ambitious young tiger to the wise old owl. It has often been stated, mostly by people of the older generation, that the aging process is a privilege. We scratch and claw to climb the proverbial company ladder so fervently that we lose all perspective of our personal purpose. We instead, make life simply a survival game where we get up each morning and do a list of things that have nothing to do with being. We turn into “doing” beings and no longer are human beings. There are many levels to the game of life and judging from my personal observations very few human beings get past level one: “Surviving each day”. Most humans live day to day, paycheck to paycheck. The goal of everyone is to provide food and shelter for themselves and immediate family.

We arrive at a point in time where we either take ownership of our lives, or we blame everybody but ourselves for coming up short. All the memes you have heard along your journey begin to reverberate in your ears, suddenly with new meaning: “Life is short.”, This is not a dress rehearsal.”, “You do not get a do-over.” Since I have turned 60 two questions have danced in my head.

1. Am I satisfied with the life I have led so far?

2. How and where do I want to spend my time the next 30 years?

The youthful ambition I once possessed eludes me quickly, even when I find new invigoration to recapture it. A heralded football coach had a great line about his team, in the year after they had won their first Super Bowl, as they struggled to an unimpressive 2-4 record. “You are what your record says you are.” He was talking about his under performing football team but, in my opinion he unknowingly had created a perfect metaphor for all our lives. At the end of the day, you are the only person responsible for the score card you accumulate over the course of a lifetime. You even get to set up the criteria for how you evaluate your successes or failures. I have come to a point in my life where most of the game has been played. Like the players on the sideline with four fingers in the air, I too literally have four fingers in the air prepared for the fourth quarter. I feel like I have a moderate lead but in no way has victory been secured.

In my youth my dreams were in one way lucid and, yet still, at times very specific. My dreams all had me as the “hero” swashbuckling my way through life like a Zen Warrior. I got the girl. I had a beautiful family, I was a well reasoned and thought of person, I was at the top of my field, my voice mattered, and I was living an amazing, meaningful, purposeful life. I convinced myself that nobody could get me to where I wanted to go except myself. Right from the start of the game I took on full responsibility for every result I produced. Sure, I had support and help along the way, but I realize now that I was accurate to attack this life understanding I am part of something bigger than myself. It was totally up to me to be a major individual contributor to the one without dismissing personal accountability. Anyone who wants to make a mark on their existence sets goals for themselves that are tracked and charted as achieved, or not achieved. Pretty simple shit that most people go to great lengths to avoid. Why? Because with goal setting comes suffering, losing, setbacks, pain, and a constant wrestling match between your ego and the person that is you. When you set the bar high there is correlation in risk and reward, pain and joy, failure and success. For every victory I have obtained in this life it would be easy for me to tally more defeats. The key is to learn from all the wins and losses and make it better.

Life is a constant stream of adapting, adjusting, and evolving. Whether it’s’ Madonna maiming her face to maintain the appearance of youth, or the Kardashian’s enlarging their butts, one does get the feeling that searching for the proverbial fountain of youth is still an ongoing art in America. Sitting on the edge of old age I watched Madonna at the Grammy’s spit in the face of embracing her age gracefully. The news last week had Lance Kerwin, who I watched as a 16-year-old play ‘James at 15’ on television, had passed away at the age of 63. The young teenager who I had related to in my youth was now another victim of “dying way too young”. Last night America watched a 64-year-old Andy Reid lead the Kansas City Chiefs to their third Super Bowl, his second, with a 38-35 victory over the Philadelphia Eagles. There it was. The story line I had trouble finding. For Madonna, she is failing miserably leaning into her age. Whatever dreams Lance Kerwin dreamed have runout of day light. And then there was Andy Reid, proudly wearing the travails of his 64-year football life. He hoisted the Super Bowl trophy high above his head with the youthful glee of enthusiasm his quarterback had demonstrated minutes before in the arena. Reid was asked if this was his swan song, “no way” the coach proclaimed. “With this guy as my partner, (his arm draped over Patrick Mahomes) I am not going anywhere.” I pushed myself all the way back in the recliner. Madonna had lost herself. James at 15 has passed. Andy Reid has decided to keep charging hard doing what he loves. No doubt, he’s on to something.

It was already the second day of January 2023. Christmas, the new year, and all the commitments that go along with the Holidays were in the rear-view mirror. Yes, the Monday after New Year’s Day 2023 was a national holiday, for me it felt like an old-fashioned day to enjoy some personal time. Over 62 years of observation has given me enough evidence to understand the planet earth is in a warming pattern. I stepped out of my car and into the bright January sunshine. The temperature was in the 60’s and it was plain to see that the good people of Kingston had not been granted a “White Christmas”.

The beautiful day was providing a perfect opportunity for me to look back to this date one year ago. A full 365 days had passed since last January 2, 2022, when I was leaving my doctor’s office having just completed my annual physical. I didn’t realize it then, but for me it would turn out to be an unexpected pivotal day. “Rich, for a 62-year male you are in above average physical condition, but there are some numbers creeping up that are starting to concern me,” said my doctor baiting me for a response. ‘What does that mean?’ was all I had in the moment. “It means if you continue your current lifestyle, you will likely have liver problems down the road.” ‘My liver? Are you telling me I need to quit drinking?’  In my head I was no where’s near prepared to go down this road. ‘Did I just hear you say I need to stop drinking?’ “No, it is not my job to preach, but it is my duty to show. I am merely suggesting moderation.”

The professional had delivered the message. I sat there quietly numb and sick to my stomach.

I returned to my car outside Dr. Smith’s office, slid down into my seat lacking the ambition to start the ignition. My truth at the time, was that drinking had become an issue in my life. My drinking habit had progressed since my children both left the nest in 2015. For the past several years my drinking had become daily and my intake in those sittings were consistently increasing. I was torn up inside knowing that some sort of direct action was needed. I was shocked that I had gotten myself into this position, yet I knew in my heart a day of reckoning was hovering. When the chickens come home to roost it is never when you expect, and it is never good timing. ‘I can’t quit drinking. But I must quit. O.K. it’s settled. I will start a dry January tomorrow.’

The ride to my favorite watering hole that night was sobering to say the least. Deep down, between me and myself it was time for a “coming to Jesus meeting”. ‘I can’t quit drinking. I said silently, this time as a question. This just could not be. I have dealt with addiction my entire life, but I was always certain I could control alcohol in my life. I knew plenty of people with a drinking problem, people who drank every day, and people who had been in and out of rehab facilities.   

My partner’s car was already in the restaurant’s parking lot. My first reaction to the recent doctor’s visit was two quick Cosmopolitans, and three coronas. Leaving the restaurant that night I had the same feeling I had when I left the golf course three years ago.‘ That might have been the last drink I have in a very long time,’ was whispered somewhere deep in my subconscious.

My daughter and her boyfriend were busy in the kitchen preparing a late dinner as I walked through the door. They had returned home the day before biding their time for a job change and seeking refuge from an inflamed job market. My daughter’s friend pushed a cold corona in front of me. “We’re making salmon tonight.” ‘I’m in for some salmon,’ I said sliding the bottle back at him. ‘I’ve decided to take a break from the sauce. I think I am going to shoot for a dry January.’ Before what I said had sunk in my daughter blurted out, “why not do a dry year?”

We had a nice dinner that night with the effect of my earlier five cocktails going without notice. We talked about the plans the kids had going forward, and how long they planned on staying in Kingston. I announced to Donna my plans to be alcohol free for the month of January to which she replied, “good luck with that.”

Laying on the couch that evening I thought about the many approaching crossroads that were now intersecting my life. Decisions and changes that go along with being a senior citizen (business, family, physicality, location, and purpose) were rushing at me all at once. It is time to deal with perpetuation plans, wedding plans, empty nest syndrome, counting money, family, and most importantly rediscovering and re-defining myself. I decided that night that these important transitions were going to be made with a clear head.

My daughter’s words, ‘why not do a dry year?’ were penetrating my physique more than I wanted. ‘It was an interesting proposal, one that I did not believe I had the discipline to maintain. I was ready to sign up for a dry January, but a year, that is not possible. Time passages add up quickly when you take your situation one day a time.

Before I knew it the doldrums of a cold winter January had passed. I survived my first martini business meeting, my birthday bash, and the Super Bowl without any alcohol intake. By February I was receiving unsolicited feedback on my status. ”Rich you look great.” “Hey Rich, did you lose weight?” “Hey Rich, I hate telling you this, but you look ten years younger.” “There’s something different about the way you look, are you doing Botox?” The litany of positive feedback was the drug I needed to determine I was going to stretch out dry January into something more dramatic. As time continued to roll on the easiest thing each day was saying to myself” ‘I am not going to drink today.’

Life is a game and I had put down the gauntlet for myself. All I had to do was not do something, and although big rewards and prizes were not rewarded it had become clear in the first few days that going through this life sober gives us all a better chance to reach our potential than not.

As the time of my abstinence kept expanding, I continued to stretch out my “back in action date”. By the time summer arrived I was still dry, and I had a new goal for myself of one year of abstinence. The test I was applying to myself was the hardest, easiest, most fulfilling, most difficult, and the most exhilarating challenge I had ever put to myself. I discovered in fast time that quitting the drink did not help dissipate any of the obstacles that were already in front of me. Your problems do not quit you. The jam-ups you got yourself into do not disappear just because you stop running from them. Drinking, for me, had become all about escaping my anxieties of growing old and being non relevant. I was drowning my sorrows until I found out they could swim.

I would speculate that in 2021, I took in some sort of alcoholic beverage 350 days that year. That means I spent at least 1,000 hours and close to $30,000 simply having a cocktail before I went home to dinner. All the hours do not include the wasted time during the next day sleeping and recovering from the so-called pleasures of the night before. The best present you receive when you give up the liquor is “time”. So much precious time with lots of options. At first there was an empty lost feeling of “what am I going to do to replace all that drinking time. Not everyone concurred, but I was confident my writing was improving and more focused. Not that my relationships with family members were strained because of my alcohol consumption yet it didn’t take long that me being sober was only strengthening bonds. It didn’t happen immediately but there was a gradual rise in my energy and ambition.

By July first I was determined to go the entire year without one iota of the sauce. I was already starting to ask myself the question: ‘why would you ever go back?’

One year ago, today I found myself amid a personal tailspin. For a few years I kept repeating the same questions: ‘What do the next 30 years look like for me?, Will my obsession with “Peter Pan” ever evolve enough to find me as a normal respectable senior citizen? Can I make sense of all the money I made in this life and how very little remains? Despite all of the regrets that go along with our imperfect lives can I find peace within an extremely unpeaceful soul?

These were vital game of the life questions of which instead of working towards real solutions ‘I was going for a cocktail to figure things out at the bar.’ “Keep maintaining your habits as they are now and you will be spending most of your old age in Doctor’s offices and hospitals”, were the words that called me to one simple action: give up the booze and one-night stands (with alcohol) and see what the world looks like through clearer eyes.

All of life’s inevitable obstacles and problems do not go anywhere after you decide to try to stop running from them. The difference is sobriety gradually brings back a facilitator’s ambition. Nothing great in this world happens without experience, suffering, learning, and then growth. The rewards of being alcohol free for a year were plentiful: Better sleep, improved skin, weight loss, and most importantly stronger deeper bonds that were formed with family and friends. This past year I gave myself a chance to look at the world in an entirely different light. What I do going forward is an unknown. I didn’t do much this year except to decide to not drown my sorrows any more. In doing so I have seen a whole fascinating new side of life emerge. The easy part is over,  there are no more excuses, now it’s only me that can get in my way.

It was the second week of September in the year of 1974. The Ali/Forman rumble in the jungle was only a month away. The country was only days away from President Gerald Ford pardoning former president Richard Nixon from going to trial due to his involvement In the Watergate scandals that had engulfed his administration. That particular autumn I was a 14-year-old, five feet tall and 105 pounds quarterback of the J.V. football team matriculating as a freshman at New Paltz Central High School. My first period class, which started at 7:44 am, was Earth Science with the famous Mr. George Campbell as my instructor. George had recently been named by the New York State Teachers Association as ‘New York Teacher of the year.’ In myself and Mr. Campbell’s case when great teacher met apathetic student there was nothing he could do, even with all his amazing teaching skills. If a stubborn me decided I wasn’t interested in the subject matter the teacher didn’t have a chance.  Mr. Campbell was a serious educator who did not like his classroom disturbed in the slightest way. But today, for the most attractive girl in the school, he made an exception. The tall young lady with hair the color of the sun was wearing tight blue corduroy slacks a beige pullover, and a sheepish grin. “Excuse me Mr. Campbell, I am on the yearbook staff, and I oversee getting teacher photos. May I please come and take a couple of shots as you teach class.” It turned out to be a morning of firsts. It would be the first and only time I saw George Campbell rattled, and it was my first introduction to the “it” girl of New Paltz High.

Cynthia D. Conner stood approximately five feet nine inches with perfect golden locks that extended halfway down her back to go along with her sparkling blue eyes. She was the hottest young woman this 14-year-old boy had ever seen. “Sure, come on in,” George, who was renowned for his tomfoolery, was now walking towards Cindi with a shit eating grin on his face. “Here sit on the couch, I want the yearbook editor to be in the picture with me. Cindi, who I would learn later, had her own affinity for shenanigans positioned herself reluctantly onto the couch. The awkward, yet still fun loving, photo appeared in the 1975 spring edition of the Huguenot yearbook. The record says fate never gave me a chance to have a conversation with Cindi Conner in high school, or anytime thereafter. Still, she was the kind of beauty and force that made it impossible to not be interested in checking her out. In the school year 1974/75 Cindi Conner was the best looking and most popular person who attended New Paltz High (believe me, she had a lot of competition). I remember thinking what is a little boy like myself doing in the same school with a full-blown woman like Cindi. All those years ago I wondered what becomes of a stunning beauty from a small upstate New York town. Forty-eight years later trolling through my Facebook feed the news flashed before me: Cynthia D. Conner, 65, of New Milford New Jersey, died in a one car accident Saturday morning in an area near her residence.

That morning, 48 years ago, I saw Cindi Conner in her prime. A tall, sexy, life of the party kind of chick. Her looks and her body left her little choice but to learn all aspects of men early. From what I could observe back than by the time Cindi was a senior in high school she had very little use for all things that us regular students were embracing. She dated mostly college boys who had been upperclassmen at New Paltz the previous few years. From everything I saw then, and hear now, Cindi was consistently the life of whatever party. It would not be a stretch to say Cindi was born into a family who was affluent and carried much influence on the local level. Her mom was the daughter of the “go to doctor” in New Paltz in the days when the local physician was the wealthiest man in town. Her Dad was a larger-than-life figure who owned and operated a full-service gas station on the corner of 44/55 just below the hairpin turn. Looking in from the outside Cindi and New Paltz was a match made in heaven.

The striking free spirited teenager and a progressive college town. According to her friends Cindi was part of the New Paltz downtown bar scene at the age of 16. I heard more than one story of her mother, in her bathrobe, storming into New Paltz bars to drag her partying teenage daughter home. She was not the cheerleader type, yet she dated the high schools’ top jocks. I know very little about what happened to Cindi after high school.  She married a guy she met at the small private college she went to. The marriage didn’t last too long, and it produced one child, a son. Some thirty years ago Cindi settled in a private gated community in West Milford New Jersey where she was well respected for her bigger than life personality and her devotion to her pets.

There are thousands of small towns across America. We do not get to choose which one we will spend our adolescence. When we start out, we know nothing about the people we will come of age with. When you attend the same high school with a group of people for four years you are automatically linked into a bond that simply will never fade. We got to see each other in our most vulnerable and insecure states. From the surface we knew everything about our classmates. We knew their grades, their friends, what their father did for a living, and who they were dating or wanted to date. We were great at judging surfaces and not so good at understanding everyone’s individual emotional circumstances. We looked to each other to find our own direction. My brother Gary was a senior when I was a freshman, so I had a front row seat to take it all in. I looked to his friends to teach me the ropes. Watching Cindi, my brother, and his classmates find their away around that last year of high school helped me put together an itinerary for my future. Sad, but true, high school for some was the highlight of their lives. For others it was just a necessary step to move on to the next stage. Still, others hated the entire process of the public schools and passed the day away in the “pot lounge.” No matter what our experiences were in high school the details stick in our mind like a heavy weight. I shake my head at how haunted I got about the past events that made the back page of school paper. I can’t help but see Cindi standing in that doorway of Mr. Campbell’s first period Earth Science class. That day it looked like Cindy was happy, but somehow misplaced. She had a bit of an uncomfortable look about her as if she had outgrown her current situation. The former classmates I have spoken to about Cindi have very little information about her life after high school. My recollection that morning was of a young lady in the prime of her life without a clue as to what her next move would be.

For the moment Cindi and I were in high school together we never had enough commonality to share communications. From where I sat, she was a superstar and I was on the bench a long way from getting into the game. It wouldn’t be a stretch to speculate that Cindi’s best years of her life may have already been behind her.  I may have been temporarily on the bottom of the high school “cool” spectrum, but I could sense that my time was coming. Everything I have read about Cindi since her passing indicates she was the last person to call it a night. Cindi was the one who wanted to not only take in all the fun, but she also was the first to participate as a major player amidst the shenanigans. Was it possible that morning back in 1974 that Cindi Conner’s best days were behind her? During the Holiday season Cindi Conner’s sudden death comes as another harsh reminder of how fragile our time on earth is. In general terms we never lose interest in seeing what happened to all the supporting actors we came of age with. What did they do for a career? Did they stay local? Family? Did they find the “whatever” they set out to find on their journey? One of New Paltz’s brightest lights was put out in West Milford New Jersey at age the of 65. I would venture to guess that her heart and soul never left New Paltz.

My personal memory of Cindi will always be fixated on that early morning in 1974. A dazzling blond was nuzzling her way onto the couch to play victim to Mr. Campbell’s lechery. It, of course, was all in good fun and I am sure I was not the only student to enjoy the distraction from the days lesson. On paper Cindi leaves behind a son Nicolas, her beloved dog Luna, and a slew of neighbors and friends who described her as a “force of nature.” Her opinions were powerful and unbending, there were no awards in the High School yearbook for her being the teacher’s pet or winning any academic awards, yet her smiling dimpled face is spattered all over the pages of the 1975 Huguenot. I received a private message from a male high school mate of Cindi. It came right at the time I was thinking about putting a story together about Cindi. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see Cindi at the reunion (New Paltz High had a big reunion this summer), and now that won’t happen. Cindi was always ready for a party. Over the years she became political and had a fallen out with some of her good old high chums over the recent political nonsense.” He went on to say: “We must come to a time of healing. We have more things in common than we do separating us.” My wiser and older friend usually has a good perspective regarding this turbulent and always uncertain world. In death we look for messages, sometimes we can see them clearly and other times we are left empty and confused. Cindi Conner lived life on her terms. Hopefully, she found the peace in her later years that avoided her in her youth. This is one time we can use a premature tragic death to gain a deeper appreciation of where we came from and what we still have left.

RIP Cindi…… You and I have a plethora of New Paltz stories to tell each other when we meet up in the next life.

I turned my body from the prone position to have a peak at what the new day was bringing. It was December 11, 2022, and the first snow of year was glistening in the early morning sun showing off its virgin cover. Christmas was less than two weeks from being an afterthought. Only 24 hours earlier I had awoken to for a morning beach walk in the warmth of the Caribbean sun. The weather in the last few days was a microcosm for my present life. Yesterday the sun was high with a strong wind blowing at my back, but today I could feel the weight of winter settling into my aching bones. After two full hip replacements rolling out of bed and into the new a day is not as easy as it used to be. At least in the recent year the aches and pains that represents my body has everything to do with age and nothing to do with the alcohol I consumed the night before. The end of vacation in Turks and Caicos marked the 11th month of my goal of maintaining sobriety. Looking in the mirror I had a decent tan, I hadn’t left anything behind, and I certainly felt rested after a week of sun and relaxation. My family went back to the place we have been approximately 15 times since 2000 when Donna took me there for my 40th birthday. We have never traveled to Turks without Laura and Mary Kate in tow and this year was no exception. In the kitchen of Flower Hill standing at the bay window my eyes squinted from the bright white reflection of the sun hitting the snow. It was Sunday morning, but not for much longer. As bright and shiny as the late morning sun was there no hiding the fact that winter had arrived.

From the tranquility of a still winter’s morning, my mind jolted back to our recent vacation. It was a scream I was familiar with. It was more of a screech, the kind of sound you hear when fingernails are dragged across a chalkboard. Throughout the years when any one of the three girls could be heard letting out blood curdling yells anytime a bug of any genre entered their space. That noise, heard over the entirety of the island of Providenciales, caused me to jump up from a relaxing before dinner read. Not only was Donna screaming like a banshee, but she was also running with hands wailing towards the ocean. My wife had looked to the sandy beach to see Nick, (Our daughter’s boyfriend the last several years) down on his knee, ring in hand, pleading my daughter for her hand in marriage. On the same Caribbean beach, she learned to swim Laura Nicole Siegel was accepting a proposal to spend the rest of her life as Mrs. Laura Carvalho. I didn’t move from my perch where I saw my other daughter, and her friend, also crashing the proposal party. I put my book down for a moment and gazed out to the vastness before me. In 2000 I made my first visit to Providenciales marveling at the dirt highways and sterile beaches. The island seemed so much bigger now, her braces were gone, and she smiled back at me like a woman who knew her way around. Our little girl, who ran these beaches chasing Sesame street characters, was back on the beach gleefully admiring her new piece of jewelry.

Two days after my oldest daughter accepted a marriage proposal, I dove into my travel gear to retrieve a pen and writing pad. Before the excitement created by Laura and Nick I was determined to block out the news from home and around the world. No matter how hard I tried there was no hiding from the noise this whacky world is putting out now days. I sat by the pool, already buried into my second book of the week. Over the backdrop of the lapping ocean waves, I couldn’t help but listen to the background clamor
that surrounded me. “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain; I’ve seen lonely days when I could not find a friend,” familiar words from James Taylor no matter the country you inhabit. The women on the other side of the pool were in full gossip mode. “Britney Griner is coming home, straight up trade for a Russian Arms dealer,” my head dived deep back into the pages of the ‘Alchemist.’ “Thank God for Elon Musk, he invented the electric car, now he is on his way to saving democracy,” I could hear the older gentleman with the German accent announce to his travel companions. For the first time all week I felt like I was back in New York, I was hearing all of the babble I had gone so far to avoid. It was time to head back to my room put the headphones in, get in a chair facing the abyss and start writing down the words of the voices whispering to me over the waves. Another Christmas was on the way despite the screams that our planet is on its last leg. For today I will dream of a future with my back turned towards the sun with a hoard of grandchildren following me down the beach. 

The second floor of the Providenciales airport was overflowing, not an empty seat to be found. The once tiny airstrip looked like a major U.S. hub on an active Sunday afternoon. The weary travelers, with their fresh tans and Coronas hanging out of their hands were headed to the outside deck for that last shot of vitamin C before they ventured back to the long winter that was awaiting them. For all the strife that echoes in our ears everyday this Caribbean airport gave one the appearance that there are still plenty of
people in the world who have the means and the time to pack up and get away from it all. This was my family’s first adventure back to the island since 2019. On our maiden voyages to Turks there was only one or two planes arriving on any given day. Now as I gazed out at the huge birds positioned against the blue of the ocean they were coming and going in 20-minute intervals. My daughters and boyfriends were already in the air; one headed to Atlanta and one to Providence. For myself, the family vacation had been a respite, but this old man was ready to get back to the grind of my ordinary life. “Delta Flight 62444 to JFK is ready for boarding,” was the announcement coming across the loudspeaker. I took one last inhale, slung my carry bag over my shoulder, stuffed away my pad and pen , and headed for the gate. There were no baby strollers, or diaper bags for us to haul as Donna and I stepped out onto the tarmac hand and hand heading for home.

The airplane pushed its way through the organy sky. The customers in first class had already downed their first cocktail and were attempting an early evening nap. There is a certain stillness on a return trip after an extended time away from the normal routine. Your mind shifts away from the sunscreen and directly on to the things that await you. “To realize one’s destiny is a person’s obligation.” The back cover of the book ‘the Alchemist’ was staring at me as I straightened up my stuff preparing for take-off. The book is the story of a young Spanish Shepard and his soul-searching excursions to the pyramids of Egypt after having dreams of buried treasure. It turns out the young man discovers that after years of crossing oceans and desserts seeking the glories of the world, he discovers his tressure was in his backyard all along. As the Delta jet glided north, I was alone with my thoughts of the future. I could see lots of family vacations in the sun, I could picture grandchildren approaching the ocean for the first time. In the quiet moments up in air I can find a clarity that I cannot find on the ground. It is the perfect atmosphere to do some serious personal inventory: Family, health, money, career, personal growth. There were now more than 11 months that separated me from my last sip of alcohol. I haven’t played serious golf in over two years. Whatever money I have has been on the sidelines since Covid hit.
The unfasten your seatbelt sign was flashing. For now, I was on way back to New York. I was coming away from this trip with a clearer picture of my personal legend. And I was coming home with a new son.

Back home it was evident that the first snow had arrived, and it looked as though the virgin white flakes had plans to stick around for a while. Already the weather man was predicting another coat for the weekend. Old man winter was settling in and despite all the banter about global warming winter in the northeast is still nothing to sneeze at. Last week, we went back to the place my family had come annually during the kids formulative years. Things were different, gone were the days of cocktails and stogies deep into the night. Gone were the days of sneaking over to the casino for a little action. Gone were the days of me calling back to my office everyday to check on clients. There were books to read, books to write, edges that needed trimming. I maneuvered my car carefully up Lucas Avenue through the freshly fallen powder. It was the second snow this week and already New Yorkers were in their full “scrooge mode.” “Hey, slow the fuck down,” screamed the flag woman as she wiped the snowflakes from her eyes. ‘No worries, Miss, I am definitely not in a hurry.’ I was heading to my office without a specific plan to check out what the week had left behind.. The last three years has changed me in ways I never expected to happen. I could not have imagined that I would still be in playing a conventional game well
into my 60′. Back from a week of sun and reflection I did figure a couple of things out. It is going to turn to 2023 in just a few days. I head into the new year with an attitude that has been three years in development. I got lots to say, and I got a wedding to prepare for. Congratulations Laura and Nick!

The squeaky screeching wheels of the gurney was the only sound that could be heard. The slab made to carry human flesh was being pushed down a hallway as long as a football field. There was only one word to describe the environment of the entire area: sterile. The corridors and the interior rooms were plastered with a shiny silver metal aluminum texture. There were a throng of worker bees all dressed in matching light blue scrubs, gloves, and hair netting. On adjacent sides of the hallways there were large glass windows that allowed a view into the operating rooms as the gurney continued on the path to its destination. If not for the bright lighting one might have deducted the setting was all part of a scene in another sequel to the horror movie ‘Hostel’. Unconscious human bodies lay in the center of each room surrounded by regiments of the light blue army hovering over them passing carving knives back and forth. Finally the ride stopped in front of a heavy steel door that was being held open for arrival. The table the work was to be done on felt cold and firm. At least seven people stood, with hands raised, in complete silence waiting to do what they had trained their entire lives to do. “What if I don’t wake up?” I whispered through the quiet. “Don’t worry, you’ll never know,” replied the woman with a large needle in her hand.

Fifteen minutes earlier the doctor who was going  to perform the surgery, his 4th of the day, was standing in front of myself and my wife. “You ready to go, someone should be down to get you in a few minutes, they’re preparing your station right now.” I gave a simple nod as Donna asked where she could secure a cup of Java. We were in the bullpen (holding tank) before being wheeled off to the cutting fields. As soon as the doctor had ended his brief visit it was time for Donna to make her exit. “There’s a Starbucks across the street, I’ll see you on the other side,” were her words of departure. ‘Easy for her to say,’ I muttered to the now empty area.

In a stable state of mind I was positive I would be seeing my wife in about three hours. Another check mark would be put down towards the ledger on the long road to a recovery I had been chasing since deciding not to give up. But left alone to wander, my mind is anything but stable. Since my dad had passed two and a half years ago this was the end of the line to what I have described to myself  as, “a time to heal.”  The death of my closest confidant, followed by the passing of my college roommate from pancreatic cancer had motivated me to rethink my priorities. Never before had I taken more than a day or two to recover from anything. But at the time of the deaths of these two critical people in my life I knew it was time to make exceptions.

Sitting alone on my gurney, waiting for my chauffeur, I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had enough recovery, if this next step goes well it is time that I start enjoying any and all options that remain.’  Therein lies my next challenge.  I haven’t made any decisions beyond fixing myself. Figuring out what steps I needed to take to increase my options going forward was relatively easy. After my dad died I lost all ambition to do anymore heavy lifting in terms of self improvement. I had spent my life always attempting to impress my father, and now he was gone. My body was literally falling apart. I wasn’t giving my business endeavors anywhere near the energy they needed. My always intense passion for golf had waned, and I felt like I wasn’t making the commitment to my family in the way I had in the past. To add injury to all of the above, I was consuming far too much alcohol on a daily bases in an effort to escape my next move. I looked into the mirror at beginning of the Covid Pandemic and was appalled at what I saw. Staring at me was a pasty bloated guy I barely recognized. My weight was up to 215, (I weighed 160 when I graduated from college), red and brown sun spots covered my face, and I was walking with a noticeable limp. ‘Look at yourself. It’s no wonder you can’t break 85 on a bet.’ As I had climbed the ladder of this life I had a motto for myself: “This life is about the climb, keep moving, never backup.”  In the spring of 2020 I was barely hanging on to the ladder and from my perspective had fallen several prongs.

The old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” is starting to make a lot of sense to me. I was mired in the “woe is me complex,” which can take you over if you’re not careful. I was physically breaking down, more than one of my closest friends had passed, my athletic abilities had dissipated, and my drive to do something about any of it was lacking. All of my self pity was in regard to the inevitable circumstances that anyone who makes it safely into their 60’s will face. If I am real with one person in this life it is myself more than anyone else. There comes a time for everybody who has does any sort of self introspection to understand that youth is fleeting, that Peter Pan is a fictitious character. The dreamers who don’t know when to let go usually end up looking more foolish than youthful. 

There comes a time for all us sun chasers when the chickens come home to roost. “If you burn the candle at both ends the candle won’t last long, sometimes the ferris wheel would be a better choice for you Richard,”  were some of my moms words of wisdom to me when I would complain about the years catching up to me. I knew the piper would come to get paid some day, it was the acceptance part that I couldn’t get past. The moment had arrived where there were two very clear choices in front of me. One was to kick back and purchase a pipe: ‘I had a good run and I’m tired of fighting. Get me a nice rocking chair and I’ll tell stories of the glory days. Or, quit all the immature whining, get off my ass and devise a plan to find an older more vulnerable version of Peter Pan.

It was obvious to myself there were certain areas that needed immediate recovery, or I’d face the rest of my days with limited capacities. Sometimes we know we need to take action but our exact plan for reformation is not precise. I gave plenty of contemplation as to whether or not I wanted to implement any plan at all. I did realize that the formula that had gotten me into the late innings standing tall was going to need major alterations. Every step I took was a reminder my body needed repair, my priorities had to change, and my attitude needed an overhaul. The guy who prided himself in making life look easy, “it’s all about the presentation, not the work”, needed to get his nose to the grind stone.

It has been two long years of doctor appointments (cardiologists, gastroenterologists, dermatologists), cat scans, and surgeons’ scopes. Not to mention two 15 round bouts with covid 19. There has been no golf, no hanging out at the usual joints, and no extended dalliances. I have not medicated myself with a drop of alcohol in nine months in an effort to give the entire recovery process a clean look. I’ve been through different recoveries before but nothing as dramatic and life altering as the last 24 months. We are recovering from the day we come out of our mother’s womb. The demons and the impediments, both physical and mental, don’t ever stop coming. They do not dissipate, only escalate as we head into the winter of our existence. It is our option to pursue a continual strategy to combat them, or to allow them to let us die a slow death.

When I awoke in a recovery room I was both drained and relieved. I was now the proud owner of “Frankenstein like” twin scars. My second full hip replacement within a two year period was complete. One more battle in my personal war against throwing in the “proverbial towel” had been won. There is a delicate balance between accepting the aging process and holding on to a weak impersonation of Peter Pan. Lying flat on a gurney and still oozy from my anesthesia induced slumber I could make out a pretty lady leering at me clinging tightly to a cup of coffee. “I guess you woke up. The doctor said you can get out of here in an hour.”

In the front seat of a taxi cab my eyes were shut and I let out a silent sigh of relief. Prior to this moment I had believed the wild roller coaster ride that had been my life had come to a permanent halt three years ago. Now, all of a sudden Peter Pan was back sitting on my shoulder. I could see myself, hands flailing, hair flying in every direction, racing through the air. I was screaming with a huge smile on my face, ‘faster, faster!!’ No one could hear me and I didn’t care. It was necessary for me to spend an extended amount of time on the Ferris Wheel so I could put myself back together.

But I was born in the fast lane. I know I can’t go all the way back to youthful days and youthful ways. I have spent the last several years in the repair shop, fixing myself, preparing to get back out on the open highway. In the recesses of my mind I want to go all the way back to days of playing competitive golf, working hard, partying hard, and sprinting to whatever I thought was next. The recovery process has convinced me that I can never again bathe in the fountain of youth, but it has allowed an opportunity to go back for a few sips.