Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A while back I was in Houston working with a group of professionals who wanted to improve their presentation and speaking skills. I was able to interview each of the attendees via phone prior to the event and was especially impressed with one young woman who explained that she was new in the company and was looking forward to developing her career. As she put it, she knew she was the “low girl on the totem pole” so to speak, but that was fine with her. The more we talked, the more I knew that she was focused on her success. In fact, her words were so bold I wrote them down. She said she asks colleagues questions like, “What do you need help with? Let me help you.” Or “Where are you going? Let me go too!” In summary, she used these words, “I don’t want to be replaceable!”

“Wow,” I thought to myself. That is someone who is going to achieve her professional goals. Someday I expect she will be the President of a very successful company.

As her words noodled around in my brain, I was caused to think about a recent experience and learning opportunity. I visited one of my college friends, Greg, and his wife, Linda, at their home on the Gulf Coast. Greg grew up in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi and is a bona fide Cajun. That means he talks funny and puts hot sauce on everything. They invited some of the college gang down to fix a big ole pot of Gumbo. And when I say, “big,” I mean really big. 

On Friday, Greg gathered all the ingredients, prepared the outdoor propane burner, and when nobody was looking made the roux. Because we weren’t putting the concoction together until Saturday, we went out for dinner that night at a local restaurant named “Goat Feathers.” 

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what goat feathers were. The term was so new to me that I mistakenly referred to the restaurant as the Feathered Goat. My friends of 40 plus years laughingly corrected me as I entered the establishment with a curious mind about the curious name.

While at the restaurant, I discovered that the term was coined by Ellis Parker Butler in 1918. The definition was screened on a t-shirt and read, “Goat-feathers are the distractions, sidelines and deflections that take a man’s attention from his own business and keep him from getting ahead.” I immediately decided that the term applied to women too. 

The following day we made 15 gallons of gumbo and reminisced around the kitchen table. I headed back to Georgia and on to Texas, missing out on all the excitement of snow!

While on my trip I pondered the goat-feather quote and did a little research on this Butler guy. Imagine my surprise when I discovered he was a writer – penning columns and article for publications at the turn of the century as well as writing a humorous classic, “Pigs Is Pigs.” 

In an article written in 1918, Butler lamented that he should have been a world famous author, joining the likes of his contemporaries Mark Twain or S. Scott Fitzgerald. He went on to say that the problem was that his life was filled with collecting goat-feathers. In other words, he was easily distracted from being a successful writer by other tasks like cleaning the letters “a” and “o” on his typewriter with a toothpick, serving on boards or assisting in fund-raisers.

I chuckled as I read the article, recognizing my own side-track tendencies. My penchant for gathering goat-feathers is a deflection that takes my attention from my own business and keeps me from getting ahead. At least ahead in the more traditional business definition of the word.

Instead of finishing the manuscript for a new book, I’ll get side-tracked by thumbing through old family photos. Instead of working on a desperately out-of-date web site, I will meet a friend for breakfast. Instead of writing a few columns ahead of time, I’ll jump at the chance to keep little Peyton Leigh for the afternoon. The goat-feathers are just too, too tempting.

I envy the people who seem to have been inoculated from the need to collect goat-feathers. I wonder if they took an anti-virus for that. 

Such seems to be the case of my new young friend. I had a chance to talk and work with her for a couple days this week. I am convinced she is going to achieve her business goals. She’s not going to stumble over goat-feathers and probably won’t even notice them vying for her attention. She’s headed down the path to success with a clear focus on her goals and future.

I, on the other hand, will take a 6 hour trip to make gumbo, reminisce with old friends, and eat a meal at a crazy place called Goat-feathers. Maybe collecting a few goat feathers is not such a bad thing!

Competition from a howling wind and the rapid rhythm of hard crashing waves were making it difficult to hear the solemn vows of matrimony. In its’ own words, Gaspirilla Island was stamping her mark on this first day of November. The attendees of Al Matthews and Gretchen Krieg’s wedding ceremony had traveled from 21 different states of the Union to be in this spectacular setting right on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. As I sat attempting to listen to the rituals that consummate a marriage, I was confident that no one had come from as far away as I had.

I peered between the throng of heads seated in front of me and got a glimpse of the large wedding party standing at attention. A few inches above everyone was Todd Krieg, and next to him was his wife Liz, both of whom I had not seen since their own wedding day. For the first time I saw the couple’s daughters, Gretchen and her bridesmaid sister, Katherine. With ease I was able to pick out Todd and Liz’s son Sam. He was a spitting image of the young man who’s wedding party I was a member of 30 years ago. I craned my neck to the right to watch the ocean water slap the sandy beach. Now, much like the waves, the present moment and the future were coming at me.

I had not come to this island in Paradise chasing a ghost. I had not come looking for answers. I would not allow myself any kind of regret or remorse. This wedding weekend was about celebrating moving ahead. Since arriving late Thursday, I had enjoyed a round of golf with three of Todd’s best golfing buds from Milwaukee. Four lone wolves without their wives for the weekend exchanging tales of ancient lore while competitively battling on the links. We played at the Gaspirilla Country Club where Todd has been a member and club champion for several years. I saw the beach house where Todd and Liz live nine months of the year. Right next to it was the house Todd bought for his parents 10 years ago. Todd’s sister, Stacey, and I were in the same high school class, a year older than Todd. Stacey and I talked and reminisced like only two friends from adolescence can. We drank ,danced, and laughed Halloween night away to the wee hours of the morning. It was clear to see Todd had come so far from our little town in New Paltz. It was more than apparent he was loved by longtime loyal friends and family. He had made a life for himself that I remember him imagining as a teenager.

All weekend I enjoyed the role of pseudo celebrity author. Everyone close to Todd wanted to discuss “You Can’t Do Both”, especially the chapter about Todd. I reveled as the questions went on and on: “Were you really jealous of Todd? I have a copy in my room, will you sign it? Is the part about Courtney really true?” How can I get a copy?” Mostly they asked me questions about my old friend they all knew and admired. They had only discovered him after he came of age and peppered me with inquiries about his youth. I gave them the answers they wanted to hear . I always love the attention but the truth was I was beyond talking about the past. On this night I worked hard at staying in the present.

It was deep into the unusually cool Florida night as the band was blasting the early 70’s hit ‘American Pie’. I slid off the dance floor, sweat pouring off me, looking for a drink. The bartender saw me coming. “Another Stoli and tonic sir?” As I nodded my approval, he handed me my 6th drink of the night. My old buddy had been busy performing the role of the perfect host. We had seen each other only briefly the day before at the golf course and at the pre-wedding reception. We had hugged and shook hands but had exchanged very few words. Now I turned away from the bar and bumped directly into a ghost. At that moment, the past and the gap of years in between were gone and we could feel the present.

“Still drinking Stoli and tonics”, Todd said with a laugh. “Actually before tonight I hadn’t drank one in years.” He shook his head. “Now I know why Stolichnaya stock has dropped significantly over the past 20 years.” We slapped each other on the back and traded a few good natured one liners. As the party danced on we grabbed a seat next to each other. I had not come 1,000 miles looking for a private audience ,but now I had one. We probably had no more than 5 minutes alone.

Just enough of our exchange was direct, but much of it consisted of words unspoken. Through the distance of time, the love and respect was still there. It was surreal that we were in the same room together and that room held his daughter’s wedding reception. We hinted at playing a strong back nine together. As Todd got ready to head back to his numerous duties, he leaned in closer. “Remember drinking in the Thesis? We would sit there for hours discussing everything. You loved to sit and look out the big picture windows. You said we were on the inside looking out. You told me to watch the street light for a while. No matter the weather, who dies, who wins or loses the light keeps changing, it never stops. You asked me to never forget life is short- live it that way. I have always tried to follow your simple advice. I loved you then and I love you now.” He stood up, put his hand my shoulder and said ‘Thank you.’ I knew exactly what he meant. We were so different. We were so much the same.

Todd disappeared amongst the party guests. I was left to hurry to the beach and be alone by the soothing sound of the sea. The ocean mist that ran down my face could not cover the trace of tears I had wasted over the years. I thought about the street light in New Paltz and how it was still rotating colors. Just like the waves that continuously turn over. It had been way too long, but I was sure that my pain and my tears were at last carried out by the waves.

Twilight on a quiet airplane, thousands of feet in the sky, is a perfect time for reflection. I was up in the atmosphere again headed for the sunshine state for the eighth time this year. My life has become so rushed and blurry of late I need to remind myself as to why I am going back. The flatbeds of gray clouds sit below me with an orangey sky on the horizon letting me know the sun was done for the day. I make it a habit whenever flying in to have an aisle seat and never look out the window. In my younger years I would always occupy a window seat and stare over the puffy ice cream castles in the air and dream. Dream about where I had just been, and where I want to go next. As marriage , kids and career take over our lives, most of us stop dreaming, me included. But on this day, as my chariot of flight hummed through the night, I was ready to dream again.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the autumn of 1984, flying back from Milwaukee, Wisconsin with the world and a lifetime in front of me. I had just been a groomsman in my best friend’s wedding and was heading back to the small, sheltered world I still live in. Even though it was half a lifetime ago, I can clearly see that young man. He was just a boy staring into the clouds. Below the surface he was a scared, lonely, and angry young man without a plan. Outwardly he appeared confident, happy, outgoing, and cocky. This young and immature boy had already met the love of his life but wouldn’t realize that for years. He would go on to leave teaching, coaching, and become an insurance broker. He would eventually get married and raise two amazing daughters. Through ingenuity and hustle he would create more monetary wealth then he could have expected.

Opening my eyes I was gazing at the gray desert of clouds that lay below me. Soon I was going to be reunited with the only person I had shared all my childhood dreams with. The person whom I had the courage to tell what I was going to become, where I was going to live, and all the wonderful things I was going to accomplish. I knew this had much to do with why I hadn’t seen him in 30 years. I was convinced I could never measure up to all those dreams I shared with him. A great novelist, too busy traveling the world, people hanging on my every word, too occupied to have time for a wife and a family. A mysterious jet setter living life large. A man attacking life everyday hard and fast. Writing books and developing characters based on himself and his bawdy adventures.

Now it was completely dark except for a bright strip of fiery sky that lay on the horizon. The airplane was making its’ final descent into Fort Myers . I felt the circle closing . I was coming around to beginning for sure. My childhood best friend, who I have not seen in 30 years has a daughter, Gretchen, and she was getting married and I was going to be there. I had stopped looking back long ago. You cannot change what happened before, you can only learn from it. In so many ways our pasts haunt us. I have always believed, and still do, you can’t go all the way home. But now in the pure darkness, as the plane touched down, I was getting closer. I am nearing peace with who I was and what I have become. As much as my own father, I had wanted Todd to respect me and to be proud me. I step out of the plane into the windy Florida night and finally, I am ready to see my friend again.

“Can I see your license and registration?” are not exactly the words you want to hear on a Saturday night at 10:30. In my close to 40 years of driving an automobile I have been asked that question at least 100 times. Most every time I have a very clear idea as to why the police officer is requesting my pertinent driving and vehicle records. My propensity for owning a heavy foot usually makes these stops related to speeding, or I see the red lights flashing behind me as I quickly unglue the phone from my ear. The results of these unwelcomed stops vary, the only for sure thing is that they are always entertaining.

Last Saturday, after a long day of touring colleges in New Hampshire and on my way home from my nightly run to Hannaford, I innocently looked into my rear view mirror and saw the dreaded calling card of the gendarme. I had barely made the turn out of the supermarket’s exit, I was not driving fast, my phone was resting on the passenger seat, my 2014 Cadillac had just completed an inspection, and I was sure I had my lights on. I admittedly was headed for a drink but had not consumed any alcohol so far on this day. I pulled into a nearby parking lot confident Mr. or Mrs. trooper had profiled me erroneously.

As the young officer approached my car, flashlight in hand, I became very aware that it was indeed me he was after. Looking back, I contend it was too conscious a decision on my part that if this neophyte did not tread lightly, he was going to see the darker side of my Sybil-like personality. Officer Beetle started the exchange, “Can I see your driver’s license and registration?” “No problem, can I ask why you’re pulling me over?” ” License and Registration” he regurgitated. Oh really I thought to myself. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, I will give it to you when you tell me what I did wrong.” “ You failed to signal when you turned out of Frog Alley and you failed to signal turning into this parking lot.”

As I listened to his explanation of my crimes, the little guy I work hard at never letting out of his box had already escaped and began his verbal tirade. ” I just drove back from Rindge, New Hampshire today with my daughter after visiting colleges. When I arrived home my wife sent me to the store for some milk. I am on my way to have a drink and you are pulling me over for not signaling?!” At this point Officer Beetle’s vain started to pop out of his neck. “Little Rich” had not been out in a while and he was only warming up. ” What’s the matter, son? Have you never seen a Cadillac before? You must have something more productive to do than pull over an old man on his way home with milk for failure to signal. How old are you young man? You put a badge on and now you’re a big man? Someday when you’ve grown up you’ll realize what a jerk you’re being right now.” With my license and registration in hand, Officer Beetle went back to his patrol car and was ready to dole out some moving violations.

I have always possessed a tendancy to defy authority. There have been only a few authoritarian figures in my life who have garnished my respect. Certainly just being an educator, police officer, or politician did not get the job done for me. Fairly or not they always had to earn my respect before they got any from me. My wife is amazed that I haven’t done any time in jail, and takes sides in my disputes with “superiors”. (Usually theirs)

For 45 minutes I sat in my car not regretting my outburst but instead anxious to spew more venom. To my disbelief, Officer Beetle arrived back at my car window and was not alone. He had called in for back-up. Now two state troopers were busy apprehending the non-signaling, menace to society. As the newly arrived trooper circled my car looking for other indications of my criminality, Officer Beetle handed me two separate traffic tickets for failing to signal. “It took two of you boys to finally catch up with me. You guys better hurry along, I’m sure there are a lot of people out riding around tonight not signaling.” Ignoring my words, the officers of the law walked away into the night. Once they were out of sight I crumpled up the evidence of my crime and flicked it out the window.

Left alone to ponder my actions I picked up the phone to call my friend and attorney. I gave him the sorted details of the whole escapade. “Can you imagine this kid with a badge busting my balls ?” There was silence on the other end. “What year did you graduate from High School?” “1978, why?” “How old are you?” “54.” I knew where he was going. I had heard enough reprimands for one day. I stepped out into a cold October drizzle. I reached down to pick up the wet, crumpled paper. My friend’s questions were echoing in my head. I’ve been thinking lately about how I’ve come so far in the attempt to calm my demons. As the rain hit my face walking to Snuggers for a few beers I knew the authorities had responded to my self-proclaimed progress, “not so fast.”