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Catskill New York, a sleepy little village 120 miles north of Manhattan is known for Rip Van Winkle, its spectacular mountain range, and in recent years, as the place  “Iron” Mike Tyson was bred.

Last Saturday, November 1, 2025 Tyson came home to Catskill. He was there to pay tribute to Cus D’Amato, his trainer and his mentor.

It is now called the “Cus D’Amato Gym”. 

It is located above the Catskill Main Street Police Precinct. 

On a gray November morning the boxing greats from past and present were there to pay tribute to Cus. To remember the past and to echo in the future.

It was Halloween night. I was standing on my front porch handing out candy and trolling my endless stream of Facebook algorithms. These days my algorithms are filled with old film clips of Germany in the 1930’s, songs of the seventies, and heavyweight boxers.  

    CUS D’AMATO DAY : CATSKILL NEW YORK NOVEMBER 1, 2025

    HOSTED BY FORMER CATSKILL RESIDENT MIKE TYSON

It grabbed my attention, but it had fake news written all over it. Nevertheless, I found myself heading north Saturday morning along New York State 87, on what I am fond of calling an adventure. The police station in Catskill is located at the North end of ‘Main Street’. A large crowd was gathered 100 yards south of the entrance to the Catskill Police precinct. I walked in the front entrance way and was greeted by the morning dispatcher.

    ’Is this where the Cus D’Amato/Mike Tyson event is being held today,” I asked tentatively.

The  young female officer looked at me with a friendly smile.

    ”I do not know anything about it. But I do know the entrance to the gym is in the back of the building. Exit the building and walk south to the next block and you’ll see it,” said the officer taking a sip from her java as she nodded and wished me luck.

I walked south on Main Street, and then through a back alleyway, around some nooks and crannies on what seemed like a very long journey  for “around the back”. 

There it was.  A large mural of Cus D’Amato entirely in the open, yet curiously hidden. There was no doubt the painting covering most of the large brick back wall was where the ceremony would eventually be held. I noticed a crack in the lone door under D’Amato’s picture. All of a sudden, I knew this wasn’t fake news. All of D’Amato’s children  and all the   fighters he trained were returning to honor the legend of Cus D’Amato, including his most famous pupil Mike Tyson.

Cus D’Amato had been a promising young fighter who ironically injured his eye in a street brawl that hampered any potential professional career. As time went on it turned out D’Amato had a keen eye for talented young boxers. The old man whose face was staring at me from a brick wall had trained two young men who would go on to win boxing’s most coveted belt: the heavyweight champion of the world. The first big time fighter D’Amato took into his corner was Floyd Patterson. D’Amato discovered Patterson as a wayward kid from Bed-Stuy Brooklyn with lightening quick hands. As the years passed it became apparent in the boxing community that greatness came through Cus D’Amato’s gym in Catskill New York.

It was in 1980 that D’Amato watched a 12-year-old Mike Tyson spar for five minutes and was immediately convinced the kid had the makings of a champion. A year later D’Amato took the young boy home to Catskill NY where he became Mike’s mentor, father figure, and creator of one of the greatest boxing legends in the history of organized fighting.

The legend of “Iron Mike” is already written into lore. The blood, sweat, and ears that Tyson left in the ring in the 1980’s and 90’s, the wrecking ball of the fighter Tyson became was put together in this small gym at the end of the Main Street in Catskill New York.

It was about 1:30 pm in the afternoon on a cool November day. Mike Tyson was on the street signing for the kids who had come from all parts of the Hudson Valley to see the champ. Upstairs in the quiet gymnasium,  a small gathering of former boxing greats and dignitaries were mingling waiting to honor the memory of Cus D’Amato, waiting for his greatest protégée. Yes, they were there to see Tyson. The buzz I could hear “there would not have been a Mike Tyson without Cus D’Amato”. From my corner seat looking through the dangling ropes, I could see Gerry Cooney, Tony Marshall, Tom Patti, Andy Schott and Bobby Stewart; the man who brought D’Amato and Tyson together. By 1:45 Tyson and his entourage were making their way up the stairs to entertain an intimate group of confidantes and longtime supporters of the D’Amato/Tyson connection. As Mike made his rounds I anchored down in my ring side seat and took in the show.

Surrounding me were walls filled with pictures of the warriors who had fought in so many battles. They were gathered today to pay respect to the man who trained them. All of the photos had one thing in common; they were of all the protegees of the late Cus D ‘Amato standing behind a big punching bag, like a Yoda master casting his spell over the young men he trained. Today the old student was honoring the mentor. Mike Tyson had come all the way back to where his dream was fostered. Tyson, the kid from the hard streets of Brooklyn, was sent upstate to a boys’ detention facility where destiny was calling him. A man named Bobby Stewart, already legendary in the boxing Community, was a trainer at a Boys Detention Prison in Connecticut and close confidant to the wizard performing  his work in Catskill New York: Cus D’Amato. Stewart saw the hand speed and “peek-a-boo” style that reminded him of Flolyd Patterson. The rest is history.

As the gathering of about 100 people waited for the tribute speeches to begin I couldn’t help but notice a young man inside the ring. He was not  more than nine or ten years old ready to spar in front of “Iron” Mike Tyson.

    ’Who is that,’ I asked to the person seated adjacent to me.

    ”That’s my son.”

    ’You’re kidding?’ was my only retort, laced with serendipity.

    ”I’m not kidding, he said with a noble smile. His name is Jack Kendrick, he is nine years old, and his plan is to someday be the Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World.    

    ’How did you end up in Catskill New York on the day the champ was in town? Was today premeditated?’ I asked like a reporter who just found his story.

    ”We are from across the pond. This was a planned trip in coordination with Mike Tyson’s camp. We have been in Catskill New York for two weeks training in the gym and preparing to meet with Mike after the ceremonies are over.” 

Wow., ‘of course’ I said to the air in front of me. I sat there watching a young boy “peek-a-boo and pop” like a young Floyd Patterson under the watchful eye of Mike Tyson in the gym named after Cus D’Amato.

The full circle of Cus D’Amato’s legacy was closing on this early November day in Catskill, New York. It was the day after Halloween, the day before daylight savings , and on the day that later on we’d all get to watch a game seven of  Baseball’s World Series. But this afternoon the great boxers, past, present, and future were there to pay honor to Cus D’Amato.

D’Amato has been deceased nearly 40 years. Last Saturday he was brought back to life by the men who he had guided to a purposeful journey. Men, who at the turning points in their adolescence were guiding inside the confines of a boxing ring above a police station.  Cus D’Amato’s legacy continues: From Floyd Patterson to Jose Torres to Iron Mike Tyson to Jack Kendrick, a new fresh breath of brawler in the making.

    ”My son is modeling his style around Cus’ peek-a-boo and defend,” Ian Kendrick was talking with the pride of a father whose mission was guiding his son to his dream. The kid with the quick hands was making the alluring smacking of glove to glove right in front of Tyson’s onlooking gaze. 

The future champ auditioned in front of the old champ, while Cus D’Amato took it all in from above.

The train was almost to the end of the line of a journey that began in Munich. The long tram was preparing to pull into the small German village of Achim located in the north part of today’s Germany.  The village is located 500 miles north of Munich and is 300 miles east of Berlin. Touring Germany’s two most renowned cities was the main motivation that had taken me across the pond in search of “a how does it look now” moment. I was ambiguous in regard to any expectations, or answers I might find in the landscape, or in the people’s faces. It had come to the time in my travails to visit the cousins from my dad’s side. The part of my excursion that was the make-or-break period for achieving the purpose of this long search. I was with my brother looking into an ancestral past that haunted me.  

I had come to Das Vaterland for one main reason; to research the project I am currently committed to. My brother Gary, who has traveled the entire world a few times over, had convinced me that my stubbornness in rejecting all of his offers to show me the places he had lived in at various times had to come to a halt. (Munich, Manchester, Dubai, Hamburg etc…. ). My brother Gary insisted that I must go to Germany if my work in progress was to have credibility. But I knew his top-of-mind goal was to for him to get me to a place I had told him many times prior, ‘I will never go.’.

After three days of walking the Munich Streets, in a city that physically shows very little signs of the devastation inflicted on it during the two world wars, Gary and I were headed towards Berlin as the next stop in helping me put together the puzzle which I was half way through.

In between our excursions in Munich and Berlin Gary arranged for a five-hour train ride from Munich To Achim. We were headed north to visit the residence of the only member of my extended family that I had any recollection of hearing about, or recall being in their presence during my youth.

Throughout my life I have felt a strange reluctancy to go back into my ancestry for reasons that psychologists could possibly describe as deep seeded guilt. I looked into the German countryside to see the cornfields, the graffiti that clustered the sound wall barriers, and of course the throngs of forever windmills. (Germany has the most windmills of any country in the world). There was no more a sign than the unsightly windmills as the latest symbol that reminded me that the wars in Germany may have taken a hiatus. These green new deal monstrosities confused an already battered landscape.  I had not come to Germany to comment on the green new scam or the mood of Germany in 2025. I was there to go back in time. All the way back to Germany before the Great Wars.

Gary stepped off the train in front of me. “Alfred,” my brother’s one word brought me back to 1967, Halsey Street in Brooklyn New York, I was a seven-year-old taking in the big apple for the first time at my dad’s parents (my grandparents) one bedroom flat. I loved going to Halsey Street as a kid. The ice cream truck came singing daily in the midafternoon. I watched the older kids drop their broom handle stickball bats to the pavement and begin a race towards that alluring sound. I remember the Strategos games, sleeping on the pullout in the sitting area, and listening to all the sounds the city makes when the streetlights come on. But most of all I could remember Uncle Alfred. The young man with a big smile, a bit of a German accent and the bluest pair of eyes I had seen or seen since. Alfred was 10 years younger than my dad and he lived one floor above my grandmother with his mother Anna and his siblings. Tanta Anna was my grandmother’s sister making Alfred and my father’s first cousins

For myself stepping off the train in Achim Germany marked 60 years since having any contact with a relative of my extended family.. At first glance I recognized my Uncle Alfred. “This is Richard. The one who’d stick his fingers in my beer and then lick his fingers,” Alfred was pointing his cane directly at me while letting out a laugh like he used to when he would catch me in the act all those years ago.

I had been in Alfred Grashoff presence as a boy on several occasions. Alfred’s Mother, Anna, left Germany shortly after the end of the second world war. In the winter of 1944 Anna Grashoff became a widow and her three children were fatherless. Anna’s husband Yan was shot and killed as he advanced towards Moscow as part of the Nazi army. Many Germans, who could find the means had escaped their war tattered country that was on the verge of repeating its mistake. Alfred’s mother booked passage to America along with her sons Alfred and Freidel and their sister, Ingrid. They settled in Brooklyn New York, on Halsey Street, in an apartment directly above Margaret Siegel, Alice’s sister who had come to America in the early 1920’s. It was a time between the world wars, and the beginning of the Great Depression.

I gingerly stepped off the train, then peered around my big brother’s shoulder and immediately recognized the only extended relative my father had paid any mind to. Alfred Grashoff had not changed one dimple in my 60-year-old eyes. His round jovial face may have had a few bumps and curves running through it but that wide smile still handsomely accented his broad cheek bones.

    ”Alfred.” Was the extent of my greeting. “Richard.” Alfred responded extending his hand in a kind of a half handshake half embrace. (Germans are not big huggers) Alfred repeated the story of my fingers in his suds.

This was my brother Gary’s third visit to Achim to see Alfred and his wife of 36 years, Margaret. The four of us hopped into Alfred and Margaret’s American utility vehicle heading home to a place I was as sure as I had been before as I was I hadn’t.

“Are we on the Autobahn.”? I asked Margret who was locked in on the road traveling at what felt like the speed of light.

    ”Yah,” she said with a sly smile. “I am only doing 120 kilometers per hour.” (80 miles per hour).

I made sure my seatbelt was secured and stared out the window as Margaret kept driving deeper and deeper into the past. 

Margaret slowed the car onto a back road somewhere in the farmlands of Northern Germany. 

    ”That is where your great grandmother spent her childhood.,” Alfred spoke up. I looked out to the tan stucco house where a woman was tending to her laundry in the wind. I took a long breath, felt all that might have been flash before my eyes. This was the place I saw in my dreams. This was the spot I spent my entire life looking for.

After about 30 minutes of cruising the old neighborhood Margaret was slowing the car down on a small residential street not that dissimilar from the one, I grew up on in back in the states.

Over the years my brother had invited me to go with him and visit our German roots several times . Each time I said ‘no way.’

But being in Germany was not the first thing I had said I would say “never” to, and yet there I was.

I got out of the back seat of Alfred and Margaret’s rustic colored 4-wheel sport ranger and put my foot down on the soil of my father’s ancestors.

After meeting Yan Grashoff (Alfred and Maragret’s son’s ), Yán’s wife Gina, and their three children who ranged from age four through nine, we got the full tour of the old farmhouse that Alfred’s father, and his father before him, claimed as the Grashoff estate.

    

    We walked by a swimming pool where Alfred’s grandson splashed with a friend after just completing their first day of school. We walked past a garden filled with ripe tomatoes that were on the other side of a fence that separated the Grashoff backyard from thousands of rows of corn stalks.

“I still was doing lots of gardening up until last summer. This knee had enough, and it was time,” My Uncle Alfred said leaning on his cane and pointing to the brace on his knee. 

The living room area was decorated with a German butter cake and an assortment of fresh baked cookies. 

“Alfred may not drive any more but every morning he is the first one up. He takes his bike to the bakery about half a mile away each morning and comes back with our breakfast and breads for the day,” Margaret explained in clear English. 

It did not take long before we were sharing the stories that I had spent a lifetime avoiding. Why had my father been so subtlety ,or according to Alfred not so subtlety, reluctant to embrace his German ancestry? Maybe this was what connected to my own self putting my head in the sand when it came to my hidden guilt. When I was a child, I remember extended relatives talking only in German about the bright days back in Das Vaterland before the wars.

    ”Randolph, (My dad) didn’t want much to do with his German roots,” said the only relative who my father spoke about in affectionate tones. “I don’t know all his reasoning, but your father was a determined American,” by now Alfred was smiling, and his German blues eyes had a twinkle. I had the beginning of the answers I had subconsciously come looking for. Alfred’s story was one gene, a half a generation from being my story. A fatherless boy at birth brought to America as s baby, Alfred attended public schools in America up until he was 16. In 1969 Alfred’s mother Anna decided to return to Germany and the home he and her husband had inherited from his deceased father Yan Grashoff.

Alfred found his way back to the fatherland becoming a tram driver in Bremen. In the capacity of his work, he met his bride of 36 years (Maragret). Their one son Yan, (works for the current German Army) and his wife Gina provided Alfred and Maragret  with three grandchildren. Somewhere in the ruins of a full century Maragret and Alfred found each other in the post war, post-depression era of Germany. Alfred had spent his adolescence on Brooklyn’s Hallsey street learning the ways of the American city street from his older cousin Randolph. Alfred chose his words carefully as he spoke of our father in a way I had not heard before.

    ”I looked up to Randolph. He was a picture of the American dream. I understood why he shied away from his family’s history. He was fortunate to escape the pain caused by the wars and to the German people. I think he felt it and wanted to hide from it. Randolph was always too busy chasing the American dream to find time for old German relatives,” Alfred said it all with a smile filled with the kind of wisdom that is earned. I am not the best listener, but as Alfred spoke his stoic words I fell into a trance.  He was answering questions I hadn’t thought to ask.

    ”Alright that is enough of this deep talk let’s go have some good German food at our favorite restaurant in the village.

After a night filled with stories from a time, I had left tucked away in my subconscious. It  was time to board the train to Berlin. Alfred told stories of my father coming of age in America during the great depression and the world war that followed. Stories of Alfred torn between two countries who through it all continued to live life with a glass half full every time despite all the obstacles that came. A story of returning to Germany and rebuilding what had been destroyed, no fault of himself.

Margaret and Alfred were at our hotel first thing in the morning to take myself and my brother to the train station. The car ride was much less boisterous than the night before.

    ”Have you guys been to Berlin?,” I asked about our next destination. 

    ”Once or twice they collectively answered without enthusiasm .” ‘Oh, I get it,’ I said only to myself.

We all exchanged more passionate hugs then the fragile embraces from the day before as me and Gary dragged our processions through a Friday morning train station

    ”Tell them what you saw Richard. And come back with the story,”

    ’I will Alfred. I will.’

I was on the train pressing my face to the tram’s oversized windows and waving my open right palm.

Alfred and Margaret were by now out of sight.

We had promised to meet again.

I will forever see my Uncle Alfred’s blue eyes.

The bees were swarming me hoping to get a taste of my Pepsi-Cola and hog dog as I maneuvered past the throngs of other kids surrounding the concession. It was an Indian summer Saturday in October of 1973. I was running solo looking to find a good spot on the grassy hill to watch the local high school gladiators, the heroes of my youth. The leaves were straining to hang on to their perfect complexion that was one-week past peak. There had been plenty of rain, cold, and muddy Saturday afternoons watching and playing football in my adolescence.  I traveled as far as Liberty to watch my hometown New Paltz High Huguenot football team. But it was an autumn day that came racing back into my mind after scrolling through the obituary feed on my Facebook page while away on vacation with my family. As I walked the beach line staring into the blue Caribbean the pictures of that day came in clear, if not entirely accurate.

My brother, who at the time was a junior at the High School, would drive his 13-year-old brother to away football games along with a crowd of his friends. The rules were simple for his little bro., “you can sit in the trunk, and once we get there you are on your own.” After I got myself a soda and a dog I went to lock in on the action on the gridiron. Standing high on a hill looking down from afar I imagined myself in the arena, hopefully in the very near future.  I was on the modified grade school football team at the time dreaming of my days in the sun.

This golden fall day the sky was giving winter a sign to slow its’ arrival. The New Paltz Huguenot High School football team were visiting our archrival, Highland. The boys of Highland and their vaunted Coach Lem Atkins had won the last several matchups against their crosstown foes. But this year with the Monroe Brothers (Perry and Ronnie) finally achieving graduation status, Highland was reloading leaving the Huguenots a chance to make up some ground.

As the afternoon sun lowered itself into position the Big Blue scoreboard said the score was tied with four minutes remaining in the game. New Paltz’s field general, John Ford and his Huguenots had the ball on their own 25-yard line. Coach Ford was not known for his attack through the air. His game plan usually called for a lot of ground and pound. If the Huggies were going to find paydirt it would have to be off tackle behind Al Bonagura or John Toscani. In what turned out to be the final drive of the day Junior quarterback Pete Sciascia never attempted a pass. He kept handing the ball to a either Ed Siani (13) or the other player in the backfield wearing number 32. It was eight straight running off tackle with an occasional misdirection before it was third and goal at the two-yard line with 46 seconds left. After a time out, Sciascia handed the ball to number 32 who ran over Bonagura’s block and into endzone for the victory over our hated rivals.

On the way home, pressed up against the hatched back exit, I listened to the story of the kid who leaped into the north end of the Highland end zone to forever be remembered as a hero of the autumn. His name was David Haight, and it turned out he fit my model of what it looked like to be the Big Man on Campus.

When we are young, we observe the kids who have a few years on us. The younger kids like to emulate the kinds of behaviors and styles that we will look to match somewhere down the road.. It’s having much to do with envy and wanting to be like the athlete, or actor, or singer or writer that you hope to become.

That Saturday afternoon Dave Haight, his long brown hair flowing out of the helmet covering up his movie star good looks, ran through Lem Atkins stingy Big Blue defense into the fables of the Saturday idols who ran to glory. The story ends with him walking off the field with the game winning pigskin in one hand while the other hand is reaching itself out to embrace victory kisses from the cheerleaders.

David Haight’s family moved To New Paltz from Connecticut in the summer of 1971. His father was a preacher man who uprooted his family and moved when Dave was ready to begin his sophomore year of high school. It is never easy when you are the new kid town even if your natural grace made it look easy. At the age of 15 Dave Haight left the life he had known growing up amongst a community that understood him and treated him as one of their own. In a new town the clicks have been formed, the titles designated, and a pecking order established that doesn’t include new kids. From my view Dave Haight could not complain about the hand he had been dealt. He was six foot three with brown hair stringing down from his handsome profile. But at the same time, I am sure he was scorned with the type of high school pettiness that exists everywhere. Dave Haight looked the part of the big man on campus, so it is difficult to find him as a victim, yet being on the other end of jealousy, envy, and juvenile gossip hurts.

I was not witness to anything Dave Haight experienced except to see him on the Football field, and one time in a green tuxedo marching down Main Street on Saint Patrick’s Day with a bunch of permanent townies. I remember thinking ‘that’s David Haight, I wonder what he’s doing these days’ (That was 1979}. I am sure I never spoke a word to Dave Haight, but at an impressionable time of my life I admired his calm unaffected style. From the outside looking in it appeared really cool to be Dave Haight, who I would doubt had trouble finding anything he wanted in New Paltz. He experienced and understood what it was like to be the stranger in a new environment. A “new kid” who interrupted the dreams of the local royals who lost their spot in the backfield, or the boys whose girlfriends yearned for something new. 

It probably is fair to speculate that David Haight looks back at his three years at New Paltz High with many fond memories. My observations indicated he didn’t come back to New Paltz often, only to visit family or a few close confidants. I did have one David Haight indirect contact in the years I was in Pennsylvania attending college. My father at the time was the principal of the school in the adjacent village of Wallkill. It was the late 1970’s and one day on a phone call back home my dad asked me a question about somebody besides myself. “Hey, I got this kid student teaching for me, says he went to New Paltz High School. I was surprised I had never heard of him.,”  My father was never much impressed by anything or anybody. “Did you know him?” my dad asked me. I recall being interested, because like me he was pursuing a career in education and coaching.

“Well, I’ve never had a bigger hit with the students, they follow This guy around like a puppy dog.” At the time I made very little of my dad’s inquiry. The year was right around 1980 and that would the last time I thought of. or heard Dave Haight’s name mentioned until…….

45 years later

As it turned out Dave attended, Springfield College where he played football before pursuing a coaching career at Arizona State University. From the dribble I have heard in the past few days, the Dave Haight I recognized as number 32 went on to live a very private and productive life. He has lived in Connecticut, New York, Arizona, Georgia, California and most recently Florida. I am not 100% sure of any of above are facts, so it goes.

In recent days I am making a strong effort to avoid my phone or social media contact. This concept, combined with being out of the country with limited services left me deep in the  “the out of the loop zone” It was the third day of a beach vacation, (July 7th) I opened my Facebook feed for the first time since I had been there (three days). The first thing I viewed was an obituary with a picture of David Haight of Ulster Park. I scanned the post quickly for confirmation, David Haight 71. The photograph looked like a dead ringer for the stranger who came in and out of New Paltz in the early 1970’s. It was enough affirmation for me before I descended on my daily walk alongside the ocean. I was sure of it, convinced the man in the photo was #32, the kid with his hair flopping out of his helmet running for glory. It was the David Haight who Facebook had me convinced me had passed. 

After completing my stroll, I found my pad and wrote my reflections of a long-ago day that was still floating around in the echoes of autumn section of my brain.  Sometimes the sunny days of our past are blurred, our perceptions and recollections of the exact same event are very different depending on who is telling the story. I wrote what my memory said my eyes saw over 50 years ago. A tribute to the stranger who vanished,  one I thought had run out of opportunities. After writing the piece I sent out one text message for local approval. The facts are in in; # 32 David Haight of Huguenot fame is alive somewhere in Florida. He has not yet reached his 70th birthday, unlike his namesake who passed at 71. Not one to let a good story go to waste ‘what the heck,” just a feel-good story regarding a person still breathing. David Haight, the reluctant big man on campus, the one I remember cascading into the end zone when the autumn was glistening in its prime.

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“There’s always a chance a tiny spark remains, and sparks turn into flames,”…….  The words of the Spinners, back in 1972, were talking about love and a particular relationship which had seen better days. I found myself humming the tune after I noticed a post on a local community’s historical page (Historic New Paltz) of the eleven members of the 1972 men’s varsity basketball team. Through all the deafening, crippling noises out of social media and a widening cultural hysteria came a flickering of light. At the time, I had ditched all expectations, from out of nowhere , in a moment like when you’re visiting the chiropractor,  you feel the snap of the adjustment you needed. The team inside the posted photograph had played their last game over 50 years ago (a defeat by their local rivals in the Ulster County Athletic League Championship game}. There they were gathered one last time for the end of the season photo. As a 12-year-old, aspiring to be a varsity athlete, I saw every home game of that 1971-72 campaign. It was unusual for a small high school team to have five or six frontline bangers in the six-foot four range. The team’s size was their biggest strategic advantage, but their glue came from the team’s feisty floor general (Rick Pesavento). It was obvious he was the son of a coach (who himself would go on to be a great coach in his own right), directing the flow of the game the way it was drawn up by Dr. Naismith. For myself, that team characterized everything that I loved about growing up in small town America. There was nothing better than a Friday night in January when Wallkill, or Highland pulled their busses into the Larry Johnson gymnasium parking lot and tried to take what was ours.

The Hugies (sometimes erroneously spelled Huggies lol) were our nickname derived from the French religious sect of Huguenots who settled in the area along the Wallkill River. One the streets the Huguenots built their homes is today one of country’s earliest established thoroughfares. After watching the games in person, I would go home to my lighted basket in our driveway and pretend to lead the Huguenots to glory. Growing up within a tightly spun hamlet everything revolved around the public school and your classmates. It has been 53 years since the picture of the gladiators of my youth was taken. Since then, there has been lots of water running under the Carmine Liberta bridge that connects Huguenot street to the Wallkill View farm. Still, the tightest bonds I forged in this life have remained in the place I grew up. I ended up marrying a local girl,  came back to teach and coach at my alma mater, and even after leaving education have remained in the Hudson Valley. As a young man I swore I was going to abandon this one-horse valley, but no mattered how determined I seemed to leave it all behind I kept coming back. No matter the ups and downs, the infighting, the backstabbing, and the petty small-town gossip mill we can never escape the town from which we came of age.

I found myself staring at the picture, considering all the garbage that comes through my Facebook feed these days, I didn’t pay much attention to the old team until I went in for a deeper look. ‘Let’s see how many of these guys I can name. Wow, I think I got all eleven.’  Despite a couple of spelling errors, I was confident I hadn’t left anybody behind. Without intent, the process of identifying these heroes of my past brought with it a flood of recent memories in reference to the peers of my adolescence. It was only a few minutes after identifying the individuals that the comments started. Sixty and seventy-year-old Facebook warriors, who spend far too much time attacking each other politically online were now inundating this post with a passion stemming from the early summers of our lives together. The picture had triggered the intense pang of wonderful innocence that can only be harnessed in the small hamlets across these United States. All the cherished recollections of our shared past that we come to understand is at the very root of who we are. Living in the present dystopian society is something none of us had experienced before in our very independent journeys along life’s byways. Somewhere on the way to the last dance we got into a big political donnybrook. The picture served as a spark to conjure up the bittersweet memories of the youth we had shared in the height of our tribalism.

In recent years we have seen a political divide create cracks in our once seemingly unbreakable bonds. Sure, we battled in the 60’s over Vietnam, but we did it while we were hitting a joint or having a beer. The counterculture’s clash with the establishment back in the day pales in comparison to the political gap in ideology in 2025 that has this country teetering on civil war. Lifetime little leaguers and the girl scout friendship are blocking each other on FB over ideologies that neither truly ever understood. As easy as it is to play the blame game in terms of the who and the whys, it quickly escalates into a vicious cycle of name calling and hate. It is never too late for healing while pausing to remember we all came from the same place. We all have a bit of a different perspective of how things looked back then, but we cannot deny when looking at the picture from our past was that through all the recent storms, we could see the light of yesterday. We sat through the same classes with the same teachers. We saved a seat on the bus for a friend and shared a tube with our lab partners. We were in the band; we were up on the stage playing star. We uncompromisingly rooted each other on through whatever endeavor it might have been. We argued about Vietnam, and we lived through the resignation of a president. We went to the prom, spun the bottle under the streetlights, and sat in the hot June heat sweating through state exams. We spent the burning hot summer nights under the dashboard light searching for lust. We had strong individual families and one great big family of community. How lucky we all are that when we look back it is with an overall fondness of the experience we shared together as we came of age.

When the picture of the 1972 basketball team was posted we were sent back to a time when our whole world was centered around what happened to us that day at school. I was a small fish dreaming big, watching in awe at the heroes of my youth and projecting that maybe someday I would get my turn in the arena. At some point along the way I believe we fall in love with the town we grow up in. We have the choice to embrace its’ love or run from its sometimes-suffocating grip.. We leave, or remain, but the unconditional love we receive never leaves our heart. Our hometown takes us in, without an interview, and it is up to everyone to figure how they fit in. Some of us were always convinced we would leave our little town blues behind the second we got our sheepskin.  Some of us knew we would never leave New York. There are some still in the local watering holes talking about what how they almost left, or what could have been. No matter which way it was we all shared the common ground of being classmates, Huguenots, teammates, and in many cases soul mates. Looking at the picture, during these culturally fractured times, the familiar faces of an eleven-man basketball team provided a spark to help reconnect what has become a fractioned split in our love affair with our tribesmen. In the past couple of years, the comments amongst old friends took a dramatic turn for the worse. Friends who had been communicating one way or the other since high school were blocking each other out of their feeds and their lives over political discourse. Now this picture was conjuring up the bonds that tied us so tightly shining a light on that special spot in our hearts. The comments were centered around a common theme of pride in a community we still are all proud to represent.

I can see that team running out the door of the visitors’ locker room as the cheerleaders rhythmically chanted: Coach, coach, open up the door, open up the door and let the Hugies on the floor.” There they were sprinting out of the tunnel led by the captains, Jay Ackert, and Rick Pesavento prepared to the take on the Monroe brothers of archrival Highland High. I sat with my dad in the Huguenot section fantasizing of being on the court in a game like this one someday. The Huguenots came up short in that championship game, but the lessons learned from observing them were far more important than the outcome that night. The 1972 Huguenot men’s basketball team taught a selfish young man everything about community and being part of something bigger than yourself. They were my team. They were our team. Fifty-three winters have passed. Social media has both brought us back together and torn us apart at the very same time. In recent years we became more divided than ever, calling each other names and insulting childhood playmates and sweet hearts over political jargon. There are signs of coalescence all around us, we just have to look harder. A simple still picture from the past reminded myself of where I came from and who I really am. There were some shared stories about the young men from a cherished time in our lives, stories of men now starting their eighth decade on earth. There were innocently shared tales of puppy crushes that pass us by. There were jokes about the dominance of the Monroe brothers. I couldn’t help but smile. For myself, a tiny spark still remains.  The post of a long ago sporting team turned that spark into flames. And my love burned once again.

The wildfire was making its way down the pacific Palisades steep terrain. The fires were nothing out of the ordinary for this strip of land that has always been considered the most valued acreage in the city of angels. But this time the wind was blowing opposite of it’s normal pattern and it was carrying the roaring beast straight into the mansions that had somehow survived the fires through the decades and had lived for years hanging between the Hollywood Hills and the Pacific Ocean. For Southern Californians the wildfires have become a way of life that is part of the baggage that goes along with being a west coaster. It had only been four weeks prior that a similar fire was ignited in the same location only to have the prevailing wind blow it out of harm’s way. Yes, the powers to be in gov’t knew the potential for disaster that was in front of them, the kind of tragic proportions that were becoming a realization. Yes, the residents of this picturesque Shangri-la were aware of the risk of fire one day destroying everything they held dear. The fact inconveniently is that the threat of this catastrophe was predictable and preventable with competent management. But as the fire raged through property after property in a blaze that the television reporters described as zero percent contained was now on its way to becoming the most destructive fire in American history. By day three there were no signs of containment along with the discovery of an empty reservoir and several dry fire hydrants. The pictures coming over the television screen were not some new frazzled apocalyptic dooms day movie, this wasn’t Artificial intelligence, or some Mad Max scenario, this was of the Golden State of California’s coastline burning up in the flames from hell.

The Governor of the state was seen squirming around his squadron of SUVs in his Tom Cruise aviator looking up at the “end of times” right before his eyes. Gavin Newsome had blood all over his guilt stained hands, but that was for another day’s jury. Today, he stood like Nero watching his empire burn to the ground. He had the look on his face of the Wizard after the curtain is pulled back and there is nothing there but for his lies. “Governor” shouted a young woman who noticed the slick pol sneaking around between vehicles in order not to be noticed,  “Governor, what are you going to do?”  she pleaded to his face. My daughter’s school is gone, houses in my neighborhood are burning to the ground and there is no water in the hydrants. I’m also hearing the nearby reservoir is dry, Governor, what are you going to do. Why is there no water?” The head person in charge of America’s most populated state, and arguably our most beautiful, was at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Still in his role as the slick sales guy Newsome waved his arms around, and with his glib smile gleaming on his bright red face he spun his tale of incompetence, “I’m doing everything in my power to fix this situation,” the man whose political future was officially going up in smoke said. “Why wasn’t anything done preparing for this day,” asked the mother of three, whose own house was now nothing but smoldering ashes. “I’m on the phone with the President Biden right now.” was the lie the embarrassed pol could fabricate as the flames flew high into the sky. The woman grabbed the phone from the president, and it was clear to see he was on the line with no one. The Governor was caught red handed at the scene of the crime with his pants hanging at his ankles. Gavin Newsome legacy of being the face of the most woke and incompetent leader amongst us was firmly secured.

The year was 2017 and Venice Beach was hopping. The drive along the Pacific Palisades was breath taking, an out of world experience.  The sunshine hit you cruising on Ventura Highway with the kind of energy that was just right, not overly intense. As my wife and youngest daughter were heading east towards L.A. the right side was a sea of beautiful blue that seemed to go on forever. On the left were a series of fabulous structures cut out of the side of the mountain. ‘Man, I could get use to this view,’ I said to my wife as we pulled into a small café aside the ocean. ‘The water, the lifestyle, even the people aren’t that bad, I kind like the vibes.’  My wife who knows me better than anyone in this world shook her head with that smug look I’ve grown to respect. “You would absolutely hate it here.” Despite her negative spin I recall thinking to myself. ‘I’d like it here just fine’. Since 2017 there have been close to 100,000 wildfires reported in the state of California. Fortunately, there had never been one of the sorts that went in a different direction on January the 7^th 2025. It was only a matter of time that one of these fires would ignite at a period of not only high winds but in a change in direction of the gale that forced the flames to the most populated areas. In the matter of the next few days the residents of the sprawling City of Los Angles were going to feel the cumulative pain of years and years of incompetence and mismanagement of their leaders at the highest of levels. In the saddest of ways Los Angeles’s Mayor, Karen Bass, and the state’s Governor Gavin Newsome’s chickens were home to roost.

As this human tragedy unfolds before the world’s eyes there will be ample time to dole out responsibility and accountability for a catastrophic event that could of and should have been prevented. For now, Californians must begin the long rebuild that will change the landscape of California well into the next century. There is always a time frame for accountability, but for now it should be about what can be done moving forward.  The litany of mistakes and miscalculations that were made by so many corrupted politicians for so many years will be left for the voters to decide in future elections. The questions are being raised with the same intensity carried by the fiery inferno of destruction. Why were so many fire hydrants empty? Why has the underbrush not been cleared over the years by the department of forestry? Why has water that flows from the north continued to be redirected into the ocean and not into the populated areas of Los Angeles Counties? Was there an emergency evacuation plan for what local officials knew was inevitable? Five days after the spark that set the city of angels on fire there were still no answers and no relief in sight. Over the past several decades the people of Pacific Palisades California know that when the wind is having its way the potential for wildfire turning fatally on the residents was simply a matter of time. The residents are not to blame, but every one of them was aware of the risk-reward for living in this paradise built on weak and crusted sands. The residents, mostly wealthy celebrities, are now finding out the very hard way that the taxes they were paying were not being spent to protect them in any kind of efficient way.

There are the angry conspiracist theorists who believe this is a holy message that the city of angels had been taken over by leaders who had long ago made deals with the devil for secret underground travel and water shortages being created on purpose. The reality is the horrific fire that is now being labeled the mostly deadly and destructive fire in American history (So far 25 are dead and economic losses pegged at over 150 Billion). Today there is empathy for the thousands who lost everything, who stand in the black smoke in a knowing state of shock and dismay. They feared a day like this would arrive. The beast has hit with its full wrath and now money is needed, water is needed, and the preparations for the long road of recovery will begin. There will be decades of clean up to put in preventative measures that will assure that water supplies will not be depleted or empty ever again. The questions that have fallen upon deaf ears will now have to be answered. Why was water re-routed from northern California to the Pacific ocean? Why was a reservoir one mile from the height of the fires dry as a bone?  Why had the Los Angeles Fire department cut 170,000,000 from their budget last year when the threat of wildfire was at the highest of levels in history? Why had there been such continual negligent mismanagement from state and local jurisdictions?  In the meantime the facts are staggering, hundreds of thousands of individuals are misplaced without homes, thousands of commercial and residential properties are razed, and neighborhoods have 100% vanquished. The Pacific Palisades, that had been established by the Rothschild’s back in the 1920’s, and other deep seated American elitists’ families, as paradise for the angels amongst us, was burning hotter than the flames of hell.

Looking down the rows of houses you were eerily reminded of Berlin, Germany after the bombing that ended World War II. There were no colors to be seen, no bodies moving, the topography was in ashes, not a living creature was stirring for miles. It is said that out of fire there is a rebirth.  “From the ashes come miracles.” With the devastation and death there will come a yearning for rebirth, of reincarnation to the land that had been raped and abused. There is never good timing for the type of calamity that Californians are facing. The world is already upside down with America coming off several national weather-related disasters in Asheville, North Carolina and the hurricanes suffered in Louisiana. But the wealthy elite (Rothchild’s, Kardashians, etc.….) don’t live in places like Asheville, North Carolina and East Palestine, Ohio, they live in those high rolling hills overlooking the blue Pacific. Of course, the victims of these demonic fires are in no way to blame, at the same time they were aware of the risks that they were taking to live in paradise that was always one strong wind blowing in the wrong way from being the end of Paradise. “The finest steel has to go through the hottest fire,” said a disgraced President Richard Nixon on his way out as being the first President to resign the office. For rebirth and reconciliation to take place there must first be truth. Good luck getting that at of Los Angles Mayor Karen Bass or the slick sheister that the citizens of the city of angels spawned as their own.

The Superintendent of Schools had summoned him to the district offices as soon as the bell rang, ending another day of higher learning. He’d been called there before in other districts where he had worked, often to discuss the most recent controversy he had entangled himself in. While he had a reputation as a good classroom teacher, he wasn’t much for following the latest directives from the new, trendy curriculum administrators. “You ready for me to help you get out of this mess you put yourself in?” He was taken off guard and, in that moment, felt most vulnerable. “Your probationary five-year teaching certificate for earning your mandatory master’s degree has expired. Officially, you’ve been teaching here for two years without the proper accreditation.” The young man squirmed in his chair, knowing the gig was up and it was past decision time. He was confident, however, that the Superintendent was his ally. “You’re an excellent teacher, but a better coach. I’m proposing you leave your current coaching position in the other district and come here as our head basketball coach. I’ll get you out of the classroom; your main responsibility will be to win basketball games. As for this master’s degree business, I’ll help you with a plan at the college to get the necessary credits over the next couple of years. I’ve heard through the grapevine that where you’re coaching now will not be renewing your contract next year, so this is the perfect escape hatch.”

There it was—one of the most important decisions of his life staring directly at him. These are the moments that can turn everything around, one way or the other. “Should I stay or should I go?” If he wanted to stay in his chosen career, here was the chance: make a change, compromise, settle into the cushy life of education and an easy retirement. Or take the ball, walk out the door, and see where destiny would lead.

Destiny hunts us, but we can control our destiny. There are times in our life when we must make decisions that will have large ramifications on the rest of our journey. “Regrets, I’ve had a few,” as Mr. Sinatra would say. “I should have stayed in education. I really am a teacher. I need to make a lot of money. I want to be rich and famous. I just want to be happy.” Sometimes we walk away without even knowing what we are looking for on the other side. We ask ourselves, “What could have been? What should have been? What might have been?” Nobody wins when we start wandering down “could-have-been” lane.

We have so many choices in this life. We make them, and then new questions and concerns immediately arrive. In the end, we know this life is no dress rehearsal. You get one shot. If you’re lucky, you’ll get many years to either thrive or continue searching. Some will say they have no regrets, no matter their circumstances, that regrets are a waste of time. But those are the souls that rarely change or evolve, because regret can be a powerful catalyst for growth. If we are honest with ourselves, it’s doubtful anyone wouldn’t want to go back and do some things differently.

Nobody wants to come to a point where their plan needs to be blown up. Yet, we move on, thinking we can go back and correct whatever outcomes we’ve become disgruntled with—until a day comes when we run out of time and options. Do you regret your career choices? Did you miss your true calling? Thirty-five years later, the young man wasn’t so young. He appreciated the offer that had been put before him back then. But he didn’t know at the time that when he walked out of that door with a, “Give me a week to think on it,” he would never step foot in a classroom or basketball court again. This is what was meant to be?

During these formative years when we are also  contemplating  a romantic partner, we have to figure out what is it we want out of love. For those determined to only do marriage once this can be an area of regret. He was only 25, already a tenured schoolteacher and varsity basketball coach. He had come all the way home to the place he’d swore to never return. The balls were being cleared and the players were headed for the showers. The young coach was working on posts moves with one of the big men when she came through the gym doors. He recognized her right away, the same girl he had seen pass by a few years back. Happenstance , or fate had put the young lady’s brother on the new coach’s team. “Hey, it’s been a longtime, how’ve you’ve been?” , the coach said with his chest stuck out proudly behind his whistle. “I’m good, I’m home for Christmas break and came to pick up my brother,” the senior co-ed said to her brother’s coach. The neophyte golden boy had so far not been very good in the girlfriend category. In his mind he had some subtle regrets as to the way things worked out with a couple of co-eds back in the day. He was firmly entrenched in the “I am forever a bachelor world. “My life is pretty filled these days, but I’d love to find time catch-up. How’s Friday night? The same girl that had rejected him in the past was now on a mission to discover what had become of the returning conquering hero. “Yeah, that sounds good, I’ll see you Friday.”  Four years later, that once-rising star would walk away from everything related to teaching. At the time he believed that destiny would take care of it all. In his wildest imagination he could not have imagined that he would walk out the classroom forever and down the aisle to a 35-year-old marriage. He had let go, or been let go by so many good catches from the past. It turned out his destiny was with a girl from the place they were both spawned.

The thing to remember is that sometimes our regret in the moment turns out to be the opportunity we had been looking for the whole time. When Napoleon was pouting on the island of Elba after meeting his destiny at the Battle of Waterloo, he surely had to ponder regret. The National Democratic Party must have deep regret over their investment in Kamala Harris. The New York Football Giants can’t help but question their fatal decision to ship Saquon Barkley to Philadelphia, choosing instead to spend their money on a franchise quarterback. In hindsight, there is always room for doubt when the results come in. Of course, dwelling on the wrong turns taken at the fork in the road long ago is left for the miserable, non-evolving persons among us. There is little doubt that if Napoleon, the Democrats, or the Giants’ leadership could turn back time, they would. But we all know there is no reversing the clocks of time; there is only making the best of what already is.

The funny thing is we can’t change history, but boy, can we learn from it. “I should have, would have” is the jargon of losers. If you are one who believes in the hands of fate, it is easy to sit back and simply react to the cards the machine keeps dealing you. Or, you can throw your current hand in and patiently wait for the next deal. The latter often seems to be a surrender to your present situation, even if there isn’t an alternative plan immediately at hand. We can look through the years and dwell on what could have been, what might have happened, if only… 

As life progresses, we set out on an ambitious path of collection: houses, partners, money, reputation, and position. Then come the days we start losing things: youth, innocence, friends, loved ones, and—in the lowest of times—our self-worth. It is questioned by the imaginary voices that come from our own doubts. The word regret, according to Webster or Google, means feeling sad or disappointed over something that has happened or been done. So, regret is a very personal thing. It has less to do with destiny and more with the solo pain you feel over the roads you opted to take—or not take. By this definition, regret is a place that can only be recognized by those who have made it far enough up the mountain to see where they’ve been.

At some point, we all stand on our own mountains. We look around at the view, and we can’t help but look up. We see there is still so far to go. We think about whether this is as high as we are going to get. In our quiet moments, we stand still and look down. We are startled at how far we have come. We are also filled with that voice inside our head that keeps pushing us to catch up. This is the place where we contemplate regret. Most of us say we have no regret, that every decision we made was our best effort at the time and that it makes no sense to dwell on what can’t be changed. Some face a few bumps in the road and let regret take over. It is hard not to feel sorry for ourselves and act the part of the victim.

Sometimes, we just need to look back, and we will realize that all regret and disappointment are just opportunities in disguise.

Thirty-five years have passed since the day the young man walked out of his boss’s office with the decision of a lifetime hanging over his head. “Wow, now what?” he remembered saying sheepishly to himself as he walked out the door. It was the last day of the school year in 1989, and decision day had arrived. “This isn’t easy for me, boss, so I’ll say it fast. I’m resigning my teaching position and am going to try to weather the storm with my coaching job in the other district.” Without knowing it, this was the turning point in his destiny. He had been dealt a great hand and played it way too loosely. He was 100% responsible for the position he found himself in.

This was the opportunity to change direction. Who could tell if there would ever be another? At the age of 30, the picture was bleak for a young man who would soon be without a classroom or basketball court to showcase his talents. He was aware he was playing chicken with his life’s legacy. It is possible to become numb to our situation, so we keep moving forward, relying on a brave confidence that comes from pure terror. While it may be painful to look back, it doesn’t have to be.

This New Year’s, the resolution is to get a perspective on regret and disappointment. Do what you have to do to find opportunity in the obstacles that confront you. If you were given the chance to start over a thousand miles away. Do you think you could find yourself? Resolve to turn all regrets into opportunities.

The look on George Bailey’s face says is all, he has come to understand he has lived a wonderful life. His friends and family are dumping money on the dining room table, his brother, the war hero, bursts through the door making a toast “to my brother George, the richest man in town.” ‘It’s A wonderful Life’, (1946) arguably the greatest Christmas movie of all time brings tears to my eyes every deep and dark December. It is the time of season when we get to have the fun conversations about the best movies to watch with family and friends during the Christmas season.  I was 10 years old when my father introduced myself and my brother to Charles Dicken’s original ‘A Christmas Carol’. I was perplexed at the sinister,  yet poignantly real way Dickens interpreted the season of giving. Like most things in my life, it was my father who shed the classics to light for me. It was especially around Christmas time that we would go through the list. “Did you watch the ‘Grinch’ yet,” my dad would ask me sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas.” The Grinch had a way of making me laugh and cry during the same 30-minute span. “Go back to bed my dear little Mary Lou Sue Who, Santa’s here to take the tree for repairs.”  The next thing you know the evil Grinch is at the head of the table carving the roast beast. Most of the seasonal sagas send the universal message of the longing to love, and to be loved, to give without getting back, to receive without asking in return. It is in the Christmas classics we find the lessons we fight so hard to internally reject. We get a perspective of meaning when Frank Capra tells a story of a wonderful life, or Irwin Berlin writes a melody for ‘White Christmas’. Which are the Christmas movies you watch every year? What are the ones that tug the hardest at your heart? What are the ones that make you hysterically laugh right before your hysterically cry.

The 1947 version of ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ is near the top of all lists when it comes to touchy feely tales of the holiday season. A cynical young attorney struggles to find the faith within himself to defend a man’s right to identify as the one and only Santa Claus in a Manhattan courtroom while the whole world looks on. Natalie Wood plays little Suzy, a preteen girl who is unconvinced regarding the existence of a true St. Nick. Maureen O’Hara plays Suzy’s mom, who happens to work for Macy’s as the chief organizer of the Macy’s Day Parade. The lawyer and the Macy’s executive are making the in roads to a love story as the counselor attempts the impossible: to prove that Kris Kringle, the man O’Hara just hired is really Santa Claus. The movie’s heart tugging theme is all about the spirit of Christmas. Is Santa Claus real, or simply a commercially created salesman for Toys R Us? The climax of the movie occurs on Christmas Eve where a judge must rule as to the legitimacy of the man in his courtroom insisting, he is the deliverer of our Christmas fantasies. Several courtroom security guards come marching through the doors with crates filled with letters addressed to Kris Kringle. Gazing through the pile of letters from children that contained their Christmas wish list the judge had the evidence to make his much-anticipated ruling: “If the United States Postal Service recognizes this man Kris Kringle as the one true Santa who I am to say they are wrong.” In the end it is determined that Kris Kringle is the Santa who delivers presents to children throughout the world. The last scene shows little Suzy in the back of a car after the trial. Suzy was pouting wearing her permanent face of disappointment. Although a court had ruled Kris was Santa, he hadn’t delivered to her the only item she had on her Christmas wish list. “Wait, stop the car Uncle Fred,” Suzy gets out of the car sprinting towards the house with the for sale sign on it. Suzy runs into the back yard, “the swing, the swing, just like the one I asked Kris for. Oh mommy, it is true, there is a Santa Claus!”

Most of the old school Christmas lovers dream of a white Christmas and the way all things used to be. In the 1954 movie ‘White Christmas’ the snow is finally streaming down on Christmas Eve at a quaint Vermont winter resort. The old hotel is the setting for this post-World War II sentimental Christmas time tearjerker. The resort, owned by former army Major General Waverly (Dean Jagger), has fallen upon lean times; business is down, and Thanksgiving has past without any white powder falling. A couple of General Waverly’s platoon grunts Bob Wallace (Bing Crosby), and Phil Davis (Danny Kaye), hook up, in more ways than one, with sister act Betty (Rosemary Clooney), and Judy Haynes (Vera-Ellen) to put together a Christmas extravaganza at their former commander’s Pine Tree Vermont resort. The movie is set during the booming fifties when Americans were trying to find their lane after the emotional scars left by two world wars in three decades. Bob, Phil, and the girls bring their vaudeville act to Pine Tree and organize a Christmas Eve which included inviting the old gang that fought together on D-day. The group had survived the beaches of Normandy but ordering snow to be delivered for Christmas was a little bit different. To a full house of Army vets and holiday travelers Bing and Danny Kaye swing open the doors to the patio as the snow begins to fall from the sky as they croon in a White Christmas. General Waverly’s resort would soon be deep into the black. In the years of our innocence every holiday was bright, and all our Christmas’ were white.

“God bless us, everyone,” Tiny Tim belts out before his father carves the roast goose, courtesy of his dad’s boss Ebeneezer Scrooge. In the indelible Christmas tale  ‘A Christmas Carol’ Charles Dickens examines the meaning of Christmas and its correlation to our own lives. Tim Cratchit is the son of Bob Cratchit, a middle-class working man, employed by the accounting firm of Marley and Scrooge. Mr. Scrooge, the childless old curmudgeon with a reputation of having short arms and deep pockets, and who every time he heard the word Christmas let out a “bah humbug”. Mr. Scrooge had no use for anything but working and counting money. On Christmas Eve night Scrooge has three dreams revealing where he has been and where he is headed. The ghosts of Christmas’ past, present, and future take the old geezer on the journey of his life and the portray the bleak forecast ahead if he is unable to release his selfish stubborn attitudes. The ghost of the Christmas past reminds Scrooge of the joy he did have in his innocent youth. The ghost of Christmas present displayed the darkness that had become synonymous of the way of his day-to-day existence. Finally, the ghost of Christmas future paints a picture of the gloom and despair that lies ahead if he does not change immediately. As the sun rose on Jesus’ birthday Ebenezer Scrooge had an epiphany. His dreams the night before had convinced him that his priorities had been misguided his entire life. That Christmas day Scrooge’s heart grows ten times its size. He walks into Bob Cratchit’s house with a bountiful goose and a promise to do what ever it takes for Tiny Tim to rid himself of his crutches and walk again. Ebenezer Scrooge learns before it is too late the meaning of giving.

”You can’t have a Red Ryder air-rifle Ralphie you’ll shot your eye out.” My father was 60 when ‘A Christmas Story’ was released into theaters in 1983 and he immediately declared it his second favorite movie of all time, only trailing the ‘Godfather’.  Believe me my father was no fan of Christmas comedies but  ‘A Christmas Story’ took him back to the isolated happy memories of his youth. For 30 years there wasn’t a Christmas season that my father didn’t call me up and ask if I had watched  ‘A Christmas Story’ yet. Then he would recall a funny scene in the movie that he had watched hundreds of times. I asked him one year why this story touched him so much. “There was one Christmas, I was ten, it was during the depression, and we didn’t have any money,  I begged for six months for a new Red Ryer air-rifle. My father (my grandfather) who had no use for guns put his foot down only to be overruled by my mother (my grandmother). When I saw that Red Ryder under the tree Christmas morning it was the happiest moment of my childhood.”  The movie is set in 1939 the winter after Hitler had marched into Poland to officially begin World War II. The world was on edge and back here in America we were battling our own anxieties and  my dad’s new gun was a bigger reason for a young boy to find joy rather than then have any fear of Fascism. “Ralphie reminds me of the last time in my life when I felt the innocence and the pure joy of Christmas.” My father was more of a Bah Humbug guy when it came to the holidays, but he loved a good ‘Christmas Story’.

“And so, this is Christmas, and what have you done, another year over and a new one has begun.”  I am still stuck in the old-fashioned holiday tales of finding meaning in a time of year we can’t help but be introspective. The classic tales that I go back to each year for sweet memories and recollections of the battles won and lost: ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’, ‘A Christmas Carol’, ‘Miracle on 34thStreet’, ‘A Christmas Story’, and ‘White Christmas’ are my seasonal favorites. I will watch them each year and am reminded of what the human spirit is capable of. These movies send the message that life is worth living, and that just maybe all our day-to-day struggles have value. My favorite amongst my favorites has always been the ending scene in ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) is standing in his living room on Christmas Eve as the bank examiners are preparing to take him to jail for bank fraud. Before they can get George into handcuffs his entire extended community and family show up with their hard-earned cash to bail their friend out. As they throw their money on the table, they breakout into a chorus of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing.’ This year right after Thanksgiving I asked my immediate family for a Christmas present: Pick out a movie from my Christmas list of favorites that we can all watch together on Christmas Eve. Their answer was an abrupt unanimous “none”. No big surprise here. ‘OK Scrooges what sophomoric garbage do you want to watch: ‘Elf’?, ‘The Grinch’? ‘Home Alone’?, ‘The Holiday’?  to name a few of feel good, yet nauseating holiday stories. Finally, we settled on the Christmas Classic ‘Die Hard’, an explosive story of family coming together at a Holiday party. For me, it’s not going to be “God bless us everyone”, or  “Geroge is the richest man in Bedford Falls”, or “you’ll shoot your eye out,”…. It’s “yippee-ki-yay mother fucker”, and Merry Christmas!