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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.”

“No matter how many copies it sells, no matter how bad the reviews are, writing this book is going to change your life.” Those were the words my writing coach, Dr. Shirley Garrett, uttered to me last April. At the time I didn’t think much of them. Now  as I sit here on this first Sunday of October, with the fall foliage in full swing, I am haunted by her prophecy. I have never been comfortable being a cliché or fitting into a category, but if there is such a thing as “mid-life crisis” I am experiencing it. I have spent the last five months walking around completely confused as to my sense of purpose, or just ignoring it. What used to be a keen focus and an ability to compartmentalize has slipped through the gap that separates my middle left finger and pinky. I am lost, possibly clear on what I want to accomplish yet limp when it comes to execution. For the first time I go back to Dr. Garrett’s words and wonder what is the connection to my cloudiness  and  publishing a book? “You Can’t Do both” was released May 1, 2014. A little over 500 hard copies of the book have been sold to this point and another 400 on Amazon. It’s certainly not threatening the New York Times’ best seller list. It hasn’t been any kind of life-altering whirlwind, yet Dr. Garrett was exactly right, my life as I knew it is upside down. What changed? And what does any of it have to do with the book? Where  am I headed? The publishers of the book insisted that I get myself on Facebook. I had proclaimed many times that I would never be found on that type of social media. My propensity of running from my past, the fear of rekindling any old spark, and a narcissistic  need to be mysterious kept me from any reconnections. On May 15, 2014 I joined the world of “here is my business and welcome to it.” All the years of hiding, avoiding, and being an enigma were over. I was now conversing, sharing, and catching up with high school classmates, college classmates , frat brothers and former students I had taught back in the 1980’s. To my surprise, I was very much like everyone else. I was a kid in a candy store, asking myself why I had waited so long to open this door. I think I have always walked that fine line between self pride and insecurity. I have reasoned that my insecurities prevented me from sharing portions of my life. But writing a book and jumping on Facebook was an indication to myself that I had reached a level of comfort in regard to who I had become. Writing a book  made me realize I want to write. It is strictly an inner need that I believe has always been inside me. When it comes to  my writings I have one goal: to publish a second book. It is hard and tedious work.  It’s ironic because the guy who thought he was happiest with nothing left to accomplish, now pushes everyday for results. As much as I desire to pursue my passion for writing, of late,  I have found myself floundering with a complete  lack of focus. I feel like I have finished something and am resting in an intellectual abyss. Since ‘You Can’t do Both’ was released in May, there are specific things I can point to that have changed for me. For the first time since I was 18, I have allowed myself to head down the road towards home. I have spent my life  determined to not look back, to only see what is ahead. While writing the book I was forced into my past. I realize most of my current angst relates to that. I have revisited and reconnected to people and places that I have hidden from for the last 35 years.  People like my childhood friend Todd Krieg,  my college roommate Steve Digregorio,  my college basketball teammate Chris Kahn, ex students Carol Haywood and Scott Hughes,  and my brother Gary. I went home to Muhlenberg, to New Paltz, to Allentown, to the old yearbooks and newspaper clippings. I got back some of the things I lost and it has brought me great joy. I have discovered things that I missed, opportunities squandered, and it has caused me pain. Writing an introspective book and traveling backwards has  brought me to the proverbial fork in the road .  Timing is everything in life and recently the trail I have been riding on has ended and I am standing still. For five months I have been “on the go” yet my personal growth is stagnant.   I have processed much about my past, along with consideration for my current situation in life. Although little is  clear I feel the change coming on like never before. I am not sure if it all has to do with the book, but Dr. Garrett was right on.  My life is  in major transition. Since  May, I could describe the last five months as my research. How do I want to spend the next 30 years?  What people do I want to spend my time with?  Where do I want to spend it? What do I want to accomplish? I don’t have  the answers but I do know it is time for me to start searching for them.

Last Friday, October 11th I had the Pleasure of being a guest at Woodland Ponds in New Paltz. I was invited by Author Garnette Arledge who hosts her weekly series of contemporary artists. We had a great time, it was well attended. We rediscovered some old friends and made some new ones. Here is a clip of one of the readings.

My daughters were not the only ones who were displeased with some of the  specific content of “You Can’t do Both”. One particular chapter drew more ire than I would have liked or could have anticipated . The story (The Junk Man) was about a local family, who, over three generations have garnered wealth by being successful in the recycling business. Later in my life I became friendly with the family patriarch “George Sanford”. We formed a unique bond that was something in between father-son and brothers. Or as I use to kid George old man to older man.

As time passed, and  George and I shared many  meals and even more libations, our wives (Laura and Donna) also became friendly. ( They claim bumping into each other looking for us). On top of that, George ‘s son, Nick and I went from being very casual acquaintances to good friends. Over time I learned that George and Laura had lost a child to a rare disease at the age of 27.  Just  prior to George passing due to complications surrounding cancer I had started to write the first few chapters of “You Can’t Do Both ( George knew nothing about it). My book was turning into a story about families, the pangs of growing up,  parenting , and plenty of emphasis on father-son relationships including my own. It was shortly after George’s funeral that I decided there was a story I wanted to tell regarding George and the Sanford’s family.

I saw in the Sanford’s family all of the elements I was writing about at the time: coming of age, wealth, ambition, loss, addiction, marriage, love, and mostly father son relationships. Admittedly so, I wrote the story having known George for only seven of his 72 years. I wrote it relying primarily on interviews with Laura and George’s friend since childhood Judge Finley. Purposefully, and quite possibly not correctly,  I wrote it with zero input from Nick.  It was clear before I wrote any words that nothing would be published without Laura’s approval. That was a hand shake deal between two friends. The names were changed at the bequest of Laura and to protect myself against any inaccuracies. To confuse my critics some of inaccuracies were purposeful.

In the end my finished story was turned into a painful tale that many felt shouldn’t have been told. When it was complete I asked myself, “What is this story about  and how does  it fit into the rest of the book?” I have the same answer today as I did then. 1. It is about a close family trying to live life after losing a child and sibling. 2. It is about a man who loved his family and his business with equal passion. 3. It is about a father and son who loved each other as intensely as any father and son could yet struggled to find common ground. 4. It is about an intelligent young man who had all the material things you could ever want in life but battled addiction and finding his place. 5. It is about a mother who dealt with her loss by assuring herself she would never let herself feel that kind of pain again.

The day the hard copies of my book came to my office I called Nick and asked him come see me. I made an unrealistic request to Nick to read the whole book and gain some context before he reacted. Nick left my office with book in hand. Within ten minutes Nick returned to my office. “Your book is way off. I thought you were my friend. You can go fuck yourself.”  I understood why Nick said what he said and wanted to ponder my own intentions. Not totally surprised it was the first shot of a barrage of people who wanted to know who I thought I was to write this. Some of the heat I found very credible, some not so much so.” How well did you know the Sanford’s?”” It wasn’t necessary to talk about Nick’s problems.” “All your other writings have been positive and non-judgmental this story you were nasty and sanctimonious.” “George would have hated this story. George was never disappointed in Nick.” ” Who do you think you are?”How many times did you have dinner at the Sanford’s house?” ” You should have talked to Nick before publishing and not after.

As I look back I do have regret in regards to this story. There is more than just an inkling of credibility to what is said above. As I tediously reread a story I have  read 1,000 times, I do hear a tinge of the mean and judgmental voice that I call out others for displaying. With a do over I would have talked to Nick first – not after. I would have been more sympathetic to Nick’s struggle’s, the same ones I myself continue to fight.  I stand behind the message of this story, however I do wished I had let Nick know about the story before it was published.

I have not seen Nick since that day in May when he told me to go fuck myself. At the time I told him I understood and that I wanted to write a story about someone who turned their life around  and that it is never too late. I told him that in a few years I would write it about him. I have heard that he is turning his life around. He is recently married and sincerely  fighting his demons harder than ever before.  Most importantly I heard his relationship with his mother is stronger than ever. If it means anything, that offer I made that day in my office is always out there.