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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!

2024…….Thanksgiving was only a few days away. The driver was wearing down the car radio band trying to escape the far too early “chestnuts roasting on an open fire,”. Old Saint Nick has for years tried to jump ahead in the holiday order. I have been balancing a mission to think of others while at the same time recounting all I have had to appreciate in my 64 years on this earth. Yes, I need to be concerned for others less fortunate across the globe. Yes, I should be worried about the missiles currently flying through the sky in the Middle East and Europe. For sure my heart should bleed for children dying of starvation in Gaza, and the little ones being sex trafficked at our southern border. It’s important for us all to recognize the reality of the world we live in and to empathize with the plight of the unfortunate amongst us who didn’t receive all of the blessings bestowed upon ourselves. Thanksgiving presents us with the opportunity to reflect on all we do have to be thankful for in our individual lives. The search continued: ‘It Came Upon A Midnight Clear,  ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing,’ ‘Deck the Halls’, it was November 25^th, yet the Christmas songs were ruling the day on FM radio. Finally, I gave into my resistance to all the new technological advancements and found my way to “Spotify”. Neil Young, who once refused to allow his music to air on these open airwaves, was howling about a Harvest Moon. That turned out to be the motivation I needed to get to where I wanted to go. I was heading deep into the past and all the memorable past Thanksgivings,  especially the people that I have grown to be so thankful for.

1978- My Brother…….I was literally the last student remaining on campus the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving 1978. I was in Allentown Pennsylvania in the basement of a college recreation hall pounding the flippers waiting for my ride. Out of the light in the student union building stepped a guy with his hands in his pocket wearing a big grin. “What’s up little bro.?  You ready to roll or does the machine owe you some freebies.”  Still locked in on the silver ball, the young freshman didn’t blink. ‘I got one more after this, I’m breaking records tonight bro.’  About 30 minutes later the two of us hopped into the families 1970 Ford Pinto and started the four-hour trek back to our childhood home in New York. Three years separated the two of us but the distance in both demeanor and personality were visible. Despite this distance we were each other’s only sibling and I was confident he had my back. I was never sure he felt the same towards me. In fairness, it was my responsibility that there was the room for doubt. That night the car ride was a learning lesson for a lost and depressed soul away from the comforts of home fighting to make his mark in a new town. “So, how’s it going kid?” asked the 21-year-old Ivy League Senior. There was no way I was going to let on to him the eternal pain I was feeling at that moment in my life. There was so much I wanted to say but all I could muster was ‘I’m surviving.’  “Don’t worry my man, you just made it through the hardest stretch. Mark my words, it’s all downhill from here.” We didn’t have many long conversations, but I knew there was one person in my life, beyond my parents, that was there to remind me to stay the course, that the cream would rise. Thankful to my brother of 64 years.

1981-My future Bride……..”But now it’s getting late, and the moon is climbing high, come a little bit closer, hear what I have to say,”  It was 1981, the Wednesday before the big holiday, I was a senior in college still doing my best to be invisible in the town that had raised me. I was sitting in a college bar that the locals avoided. Appropriately named “Thesis” it was my regular hang out when I snuck back into town. From my perch at the corner windows, I could view all the comings and goings of my haunted past. There was my best friend, attending a prestigious college a couple hours north, who would sit with me at the corner booth and indulge me as I commented on all that passed me out in the open sanctuary. ‘Who is that?’ I asked my lone remaining pal in a village that had worn me down by the time I reached 18. “I have no idea”, replied my stoic comrade who, by this time, had less interest in the community that built him then I did. The young lady I was referring to was entering a popular high school hangout joint across the street. She was wearing a high school jock jacket that announced your accomplishments of small-town victory. Her hair was long and blond. She was tall and lean. ‘There she is the girl I’m going to marry.’ The young man sitting besides me couldn’t help but let out a hardy sarcastic chuckle. “You haven’t been laid yet, and now you’re talking of marriage.” Eight years in the future, the premonition I had in the “Thesis”, came to fruition.  The unknown girl would eventually save my life. So thankful for my partner of 35 years.

1982- My Parents…….  For what seemed like decades, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving was filled with the kind of bawdy behavior that could get the weaker part of me in trouble, In 1982, I was a senior in college still chasing my basketball dreams. I was in the mist of finishing a four-year career on the hoop courts. There was a new ambitious coach in Allentown, (Steve Moore) who would go on to win 867 games (17^th all-time). Our young, focused coach demanded each of his charges to sign a contract of decorum, including no drinking. Our team had won its first game of the season the night before and was scheduled to play Lafayette in Easton on Saturday. By now I had my own vehicle and was home for only one night. I walked through the old homestead around eight pm Wednesday night. ‘Hey mom, hey dad, I’m going to take a shower before I head out into the night.’  In those days the parties the night before Thanksgiving, especially in New Paltz, were legendary. I was anxious to get out and “make some front-page drive-in news,” as Bob Seeger so famously said. By the time it got to be fashionably late I was ready to hunt. ‘My keys aren’t where I left them,’ I shouted to no one in particular. My parents were in the family room with the television on louder than usual. The two people who were my rocks, my most trusted advisors, the ones who had given me the room to grow into a continually evolving conundrum were prepared to make a stand. “Didn’t you make a commitment to something bigger than yourself?” my fathered questioned in a rare humble tone. “I’ll tell you where the keys are if you promise me not to drink tonight.” I stood frozen. ‘You’re kidding right?’ I stayed home that night, I got a chance to enjoy my turkey, and the rest of the basketball season, sober. So thankful to my parents for helping me to understand commitment and accountability.

2013- My Daughters…… A blizzard was on its way. The east coast was about to get 24 inches of snow dumped in what turned out to be the biggest pre-Thanksgiving storm of this century. As the snow was beginning to fall, my two daughters and I were lifting off from JFK headed to Palm Springs, California. My younger child was a junior in high school, and the other was a senior. We were going to the opposite coast for a women’s field hockey exhibition that was a scouting ground for collegiate coaches to make their purchases. It would be the first holiday my girls were without their mom and grandparents. “We should definitely move here,” suggested my elder daughter, who the following year would be making her way to the heart of the sunshine state never to return north. ‘I’m not sure I could take 75 degrees and nothing but clear blue skies every day.’ I said with a sly smile. My younger daughter, whose performance on the green fields of Palm Springs got her attention from the coach of New York’s Ithaca College where she ended up getting her degree had a different take: “Nothing but a bunch of old people and boring weather,” said the tough-skinned kid with her huge smile. As the sun was setting on the desert mountain range I took a deep breath. ‘How many Novembers had passed? How lucky was I to survive it all and make it to this amazing Thanksgiving in the sun.’ After the games were over we went back to our hotel. We had our turkey feast on the veranda overlooking the golf course and pool complex as the sun went down on the Thanksgiving night. ‘I miss being home guys, but I got to rank this as my most thankful Thanksgiving yet.’ So thankful for my two amazing daughters.

2024-Thanksgiving day- …….. The snow was coming down hard in the Berkshire Mountain range. I was clutching the steering wheel with both hands as my car made its’ way to the zenith. We were on our way to Boston to be hosted by my brother-in-law and his beautiful family. The good news was the snow was piling up fast enough that the cars were driving at extreme slow speeds. There were many cars sliding off the highway, but no one appeared to be getting injured. It was Thanksgiving day 2024. Even though the world was on fire, and the day was storming, there was a brightness that was creeping its way through it all. By the time we reached Springfield, Massachusetts the turbulence had subsided. For the first time in the past several hours I felt secure. Within a few hours we were ready to carve some turkey and do a YMCA dance led by my brother in law’s mother-in-law. We swapped a bunch of fabled stories of past glories of family members present and of those who couldn’t be with us. It has taken me too many years to express my gratitude. To be grateful for what I am, and for what I have. Henry David Thoreau summed it up better than I ever could. “My Thanksgiving is perpetual.”  

The United 747 airliner was pushing hard into a strong head wind of the friendly skies preparing to make its landing in the turbulent Florida night. Tomorrow was being dubbed as America’s most decisive election since the days of “Honest Abe” making his reputation as the country’s greatest unifier. For the last several years political division amongst family, friends , and partners is at a level that was not recognizable in past generations. We’ve always had our heated and violent political disagreements,  but nothing like the hate and labeling we have experienced in these past three presidential cycles. Through the storm clouds and howling winds an eerie quiet fell upon the tube in the air as its passengers braced for the landing. In less than 24 hours Americans were going to decide on something they had the chance to do 60 times prior, who was going to lead this nation forward in possibly its darkest time and become the 47^th President of the United States. America’s decrypted two-party political system is waging Civil War with an intensity in politics that has reached unprecedented levels.  Each side was predicting “the end of democracy” if the other side prevailed. Both leading candidates were convinced that if their opponents won it would be America’s last election. The polls were opening in 12 hours and the mood aboard the deplaning jetliner was the kind of anxiousness that you get when you know tomorrow the results of your final exam are going to read for all to hear.  The pollsters, once again, were selling a very close race that was unlikely to be wrapped up on election night.

The political landscape in America the last ten years has been raging a war filled with division, chaos, and hate. Both sides of the American divide are expert at projecting onto each other the sins of themselves. The two-party system, that has both been the glue and the grease of our political make-up is now dangling on the ropes. Republicans and Democrats are unrecognizable from the pictures drawn in the history books. The Republicans who support former President Donald Trump have been labeled by their opponents as racists, misogynists, and even Nazis. In kind, the Republicans have donned their donkey foes as big government globalists, warmongers, and even communists. The divide runs deep and dark. The major issues of the day haven’t changed only the heightened accusations by the evil forces of the opposing sides. The specific issues are no different then they have been throughout the jaded history of the United States: Inflation, Immigration, Isolationism vs Intervention, Globalism vs Nationalism. Do you support the Green New Deal, or do you call it the Green New Scam? The current administration is just completing its four-year run as leader of the free world by calculatingly allowing over 10,000,000 undocumented and unvetted illegal immigrants across a wide-open border.  Their main opposition party promised immediate mass deportation if they get back the keys to the country. As the plane touched down in South Florida the day before the most important election of the last two centuries, the air was unsettling, like the calm before the first shot is fired.

On election day 2024, West Palm Beach Florida was breezy and cloudy with an occasional mist carried by the gusts of a pesky wind. It is way past time for America to start healing its wounds that are now hemorrhaging. The results of today’s election were going to send a clear signal, or possibly make the waters even mirkier. After today America was going to have to find a way to accept the results no matter which lever they pulled. It will have to be a time of reconciliation and reconstruction, or the great experiment that has been so successful the last 250 years will die. The voices on social media were busy making their predictions and their idle threats: “If Trump wins, I am leaving the country.” screamed Hollywood’s elite. “If Harris wins America will be changing her name to China,” exalted the extreme Magas. The two candidates are opposites, maybe more so then any two candidates in presidential history. One was the former President, who after losing his first bid to retain the White House, led what seemed likely to be his political funeral in Washington D.C. on Jan 6^th, 2021. His opponent is the current Vice President of the United States who was anointed to the ticket without receiving a single vote in a state primary. One was supposedly a convicted felon, election denier, he was impeached twice and has been hit by an assassin’s bullet. It was not until mid-July that the Dems decided to replace the top of the ticket. Vice President Kamala Harris picked up the mantle for the cognitively failing President Biden. Trump’s opponent had already positioned herself as a failed pol who was obviously was a puppet of an already failed DNC agenda. These were the two choices America faced on a day when Americans would decide which way the world’s axis was going to turn.

The roller coaster ride that is American politics reached its zenith nine years ago when Donald Trump glided down the long elevator in his Manhattan fortress, announcing: “I am a candidate for President of the United States.” He shocked the world immediately, although not securing the popular vote, he was able to pass the 270 threshold for electoral votes to become the 45^th President of the United States. From the day Trump slid down from atop Trump Tower he was under nonstop siege from all angles. “He’s a Russian agent, he’s a dictator, he’s a criminal,” cried the entire mainstream media. He was burdened during his first term with two impeachments, a pandemic, and an institutional deep state that didn’t want him at the party. Trump would eventually lose his attempt at re-election to a long time Washington D.C. insider. His opponent in that 2020 election was President Joe Biden, who barely campaigned and had already started into a personal cognitive decline for those who cared to look. It became more and more evident throughout his Presidency that Biden was an empty vessel controlled by the far-left globalists at the command of Barrack Obama and Nancy Pelosi. The real estate magnate, and reality T.V. star had dipped his feet into the swamp of politics and nearly was drowned in the quicksand. Trump was the dark knight of a populist movement that was calling out the CIA, the FBI, and the Department of Justice as inefficient and corrupt. As the 2024 election approached Trump had survived the constant assaults and decisively was handed victory in the 2024 Republican primary. The democrats on the other hand went into full coup d’etat mode after Biden was exposed as a feeble old man in the June Presidential debate. Without a primary or garnishing a single vote Kamala Harris was picked, by who knows, probably the Obama’s to be the democrats “to save Democracy from the Nazi that is Donald Trump.”

In the early returns on election night Kamala Harris seemed to be leading in all seven swing states. This would turn out to be the last grasp for a democratic party that was soon going to be read a verdict that was going to leave a deeper wound in their belly then the dagger Trump plunged into them in 2016. By the time morning came, the day after all the ballots were closed, Donald Trump had emerged as America’s new Caesar. The man his enemies tried to pigeonhole as Adolf Hitler secured the most dramatic comeback victory ever in American politics. By the time the counting was done he had secured 312 electoral votes, he won the popular vote by over three million and won all seven of the critical swing states ( Nevada, Arizona, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin, North Carolina, and Georgia). The people had spoken loud and clear. They overwhelmingly elected the man with all the felony convictions, the man who was impeached twice, the man who has been labeled a Russian asset, and the man who the mainstream media said would name himself dictator for life. What all this says about the American electorate is something that will be studied for as long as there are political scientists. No matter which side of the fight you were on the facts and the results are in. Donald Trump was decisively elected the 47^th President of the United States of America leaving no doubt that the far-left mantras of a woke and weak government were going to get some trimming and body work done. The good news for the country’s sake is the fact the vote was clean and decided within 24 hours of the voting booths closing.

The United Jet was lifting into the Fort Lauderdale night heading back to New York. The election was almost a week behind and the calm in the air was palpable. For the past several decades we have heard cries of despair from all corners of America in reference to our institutions. There has been plenty of “wanting” from the two once powerful machines that are the democratic and republican parties . Two diametrically polarized meteors have had their biggest collision in all their years of battle. The democrats spent over one billion dollars in a hope that they could finally have the big gov’t control they have been foaming over for so long.  The new populist Magas (new republicans) wanted a return to family values, and a more nationalized constitutional republic on the top of their wish list. The New York skyline was in the direct sight of the passengers as the big bird gently touched down. All the wanting was over,  a decision had been made. The American electorate has had enough of the “Big Machine”  helping others before helping ourselves. Five days earlier Donald Trump secured the greatest comeback victory in American political history. To the victors go the spoils, which will include a major power shift from the federal bureaucracy to the individual state and local jurisdictions. As the plane’s wheels hit the ground at the John F. Kennedy Long Island Airport the young lady seated in the middle seat opened her eyes. “We’re already on the ground?” she asked. The older gentleman, now standing in the aisle, paused soaking in the moment. ‘We’re back in New York, where hopefully the healing begins.’