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If you live long enough, and you keep your eyes open, the circle of life and the bonds that hold that circle together will eventually converge. There are times the journey is painful, even unbearable, but if you keep moving forward, fighting for those small inches of minor victories, do the right thing enough times, you can make some sense of this adventure we call our lives. This past weekend I took a trip back in time to a place I had left behind 38 years ago. I was going back via a different route this trip, as I sped along 78 West headed for the Wind Creek Hotel and Casino in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. I had booked a room one exit away from my tomorrow’s destination of Allentown.

In the morning there would be the annual golf outing sponsored by the Muhlenberg College Athletic Association and I needed a good night’s rest before reuniting with my old friends and fraternity brothers in the area we had come of age together. As I sat alone at my table in Emeril’s Chop House it was easy to see I was among the remnants of the once mighty Bethlehem Steel and Ship Building company. Ironically Bethlehem Steel had played a big part in my personal destiny. Upon graduation from Muhlenberg College in 1982 I tried desperately to get a teaching job in the Allentown School District, but because Bethlehem Steel had started the slow process of going out of business, the bordering city of Allentown was feeling an economic depression as a result. Enrollment in the local school districts were decreasing dramatically and their was a freeze on hiring new teachers forcing me to return home to New York. In the middle of the city of Bethlehem these once proud buildings of industry were now occupied as a casino hotel. It was easy to see the beams of steel that used to represent power and the bonds of iron. The waitress came by “would you like another cosmo sir,” without turning my head I gave a slight nod and continued to stare into the past.

The rain was pounding down the morning of the tournament making it hard to be excited about playing golf. But, it had been too long and I had come to far to turn around now. Most of my life I had been absent from a past that had helped shape me into everything I am today. Walter O’Brien was one of the first people I met at Muhlenberg in the fall of 1978. I hadn’t had any contact with Walt since the day of my wedding in 1989. He reached out to me this spring and said something simple “Rich, would like to play in a golf tournament with some of the TKE guys from our class?” He had been one of the few people in my younger days who made the effort and found a way to understand me as I went through my childish angry young man act through my late teens and 20’s. The clouds were lifting as I pulled my car into the Brookside Country Club on the outskirts of Allentown.

Approximately 125 Muhlenberg alumni were mulling around putting their rain gear away and Bermuda shorts on. So many seasons and years had pasted since I had seen any of my college mates, yet even hiding behind  masks, the faces and the names were coming back to me. I stood on the registration line with Brian Clark a TKE frat brother, a Jersey guy who is in the banking business. I turned around and there was Ron Romano, who had been in education and history classes with me at Muhlenberg. I learned he was a retired educator who spent 35 years teaching history and being a school administrator. Under my breath I mumbled “I should have stayed in education.” By 10:00 am Walter had located me and off we drove to the 13th hole to play some golf and catch up on a nearly 40 year gap in time.

Eight  brothers on the edge of 60, all who graduated in 1982 or 1983 gathered on the 13th tee of Brookside Country Club as the sun was now shining brightly on us. For me it was the first time in 35 years I had seen any of them in person. I couldn’t help but think back of the perception they had of me back in those days at the ‘berg. I started my fraternity career by having the dubious distinction of being ranked the worst pledge the TKE chapter had ever seen. I was looked at by my own brothers as a loner, arrogant, aloof, abrasive, and mostly a contrarian.

They were right, and certainly didn’t want to spend too much mind to a selfish brother who was never going to commit to the team. I was watching my brothers in the bond interact as if it was just another day because they have stayed in touch socially over the years. I had to smile understanding sometimes the choices we make in our youth aren’t always the wisest. All of a sudden all of that crap in my head didn’t matter anymore, we were brothers who had bonded at the most vulnerable times in our lives and now 38 years later we all out on the golf course laughing, reminiscing and finding out about each others families. I went to this outing determined to listen and not do to much talking. It was apparent before I hit my first golf shot that I was going to fail miserably at that goal.

Ken Rubin who was the president of our fraternity class was there beardless and looking unusally relaxed from the way I remembered him. “Hey Siegs, you look great, good to see you,” said the man who back then I thought was so different from me. “You too Kenny, you know looks can be deceiving,” I laughed. We stood there together and watched Kerry Wentling lash his drive over 300 yards. “Oh shit, I am definitely going to embarrass myelf now with my horrible golf swing and weak hip,” I thought to myself. Ken sensing my anxiety put his arm on my shoulder, “come on man its time to stop being so competitive.” Yeah, I said with a wink, I wish that was possible. It was difficult not to start looking around and see how your peers had come through the years. Of course seeing my old bud Mitch Seidman brought out the worse in me. In college Mitch possessed a head of flaming red curly hair that now had all disappeared. “Hey Mitch, you haven’t changed one bit, still complaining and making plans you’ll never follow through on.” Of course me picking on him the whole day prompted him to say after the game was over. “Siegs, you’re the one who hasn’t changed, you’re still a huge asshole.”

We laughed and gave each other a brotherly hug. After we were done and eating dinner on a beautiful fall evening in the Lehigh Valley I asked the group of the eight of us to vote on who has aged the most gracefully. To my disappointment I didn’t get a single vote, it came out a tie between Doug Henke and Steve Kowalski.

After the awards were handed out and people had said their goodbyes, four of us ended up in the men’s grill sharing a libation. Four people who randomly ended up going to the same college and joining the same fraternity some 40 years ago. The conversation was about family and a mutual respect of where we all came from and how we ended up that Friday afternoon at this table at the Brookside Country Club. Walter O’brien was still partners in the same accounting firm that he started his career at in 1982. He is married to our classmate Dr. Linda Jaye and they raised three children who are now in their 20’s.  Ken Rubin just sold his law practice and was what he called “totally retired”. He was spending his days auditing history classes at Princeton University, sampling wines, traveling the world and spending quality time with his college sweetheart Lisa and their two sons. He said he owed most of his success to his accountant Walter. Kerry Wentling is on second marraiage after having two kids with his first wife. We laughed about all the decisions we had made in our lives that got us back to this day. We talked about what we had lost and what we had gained, about our own parents, our mistakes and our accomplishments. For me time seemed to stand still, at the Brookside Country Club. These three brothers in the bond were the same guys I remembered from all those years ago. We drank a toast to the past, we drank a toast to where we ended up, and we drank a toast to old friends finding each other again. We pledged to see more of each other, we hugged and walked into the Pennsylvania night with lots of moisture in our eyes.

That night I drove back to Bethlehem to my hotel. I was alone once again eating at Emeril’s. I thought about Jay Mattola, Kemble Matter, Ken Moyer, the people who helped me find my way to Allentown Pennsylvania back in 1978. I thought about that lost 18 year kid driving his convertible with all his possessions blowing in the breeze heading to his future. I was an immature pampered boy from a small town, unprepared to take on the challenges of creating a new life far away from New Paltz. At that time I couldn’t figure out the opportunity that was in front of me and that my four years at Muhlenberg was where I would get the lessons that would carry me to the present. Looking back I didn’t make it easy on myself. I was fortunate that the brothers of the TKE fraternity found a way to accept a confused, reluctant and sometimes belligerent 19 year old freshman into their house. I continued to stare out at old steel manufacturing plant that had bonded the cities of Bethlehem, Easton, and Allentown together for all those years, not unlike the bonds of a fraternity.  Certainly I harbor regret for my apathetic performance as a TKE brother all those years ago. Today none of it mattered, I was a brother in the bond and I felt strong.

The sunlight was coming through the tunnel that led to the field. For a nine year old at his first major league baseball game it felt as if heaven was waiting to take me in. I left my dad and my brother behind and sprinted through a passage way to the Gods. The promise land was right in front of me now as my eyes darted fiercely searching this majestic palace for my idol who was somewhere out there in that pasture of green. The glorious noise of the arena where the gladiators of my dreams resided included the literal crack of a bat and baseballs connecting with gloves. It was early September in the year of 1969 and the New York Mets were finishing their eighth year of existence. For seven years in a row the Metties had been the laughing stocks of the National League, finishing in last place each year. But this year, late into the season, led by a 24 year old right-handed pitcher from Fresno, California, named George Thomas Seaver. The Mets were battling the Chicago Cubs for first place in their division. That night Jerry Koosman pitched for the Mets as they beat the Montreal Expos 3-1, and with a Cub loss that same night the New York Mets moved into first place for the first time in their history. Tom Seaver, who went on to have a 25-3 record that year and win the Cy Young award  didn’t throw a pitch that game. Still a third grade boy from New Paltz, New York could not take his eyes off of the player wearing number 41. The whole game Seaver was on the top step of the dugout, cheering, conjoling teammates, living and dying on every pitch. I already understood what an amazing pitcher he was, but on my first trip to a major league ballpark I got a glimpse of how the leader of a professional sports team was suppose to act. 

Tom Seaver was “Tom Terrific” well before that quarterback from New England. He was also known around New York as “The Franchise”. He was the face of the 1969 Miracle Mets who went from the cellar straight to the top of the world cumulating with a four games to one World Series triumph over the Baltimore Orioles. Before Al Michaels was asking, “do you believe in miracles?” in reference to the USA hockey team’s gold medal triumph in Lake Placid in 1980, the Mets had already performed a true miracle. As a kid my love affair with the Mets had everything to do with Tom Seaver and what he represented to a young ballplayer who was looking for an athlete to mimic. Seaver was a handsome kid from the the far west, who played his college ball at USC under legendary coach Rod Dedeaux. Tom “Terrific’s” 5’10  stocky frame didn’t make him look like the power pitcher he was when the Mets drafted him in 1966 (actually drafted by the Braves). His first two years with the Mets his record were 16-12 and 16-13 respectfully and the best the Mets could finish was in a solid last place. There was no indication to think that 1969 was going to be a miracle year and that Tom Seaver was going to become the darling of the town. That season the Mets won a 100 games, beat the Braves in the playoff, and then the Orioles in the World Series to be Champions of the baseball world. New York had never seen anything like it, and hasn’t since.

After that fall night in 1969 it was Tom Seaver who I wanted to be like when I became an adult. I worshipped the dirt he would get on his right knee as he dragged along the ground in his pitching motion.  Unfortunately my skills as a pitcher made it easy to recognize that the majors were not going to be for me by the time I was 12. Despite falling short on the talent side it didn’t mean that I gave up my love affair with my hero. The thing that I admired so much about Seaver was what a consummate professional he was. His wife Nancy was a beautiful Californian blond that appeared to be the old fashioned style supportive wife. The glamour couple stayed married for over 50 years and had two daughters that went on to be productive adults. Off the field Seaver didn’t comment on politics, or the current events of the day. Not once was he ever in the newspapers for nefarious behavior. He went to work everyday with an amazing preparedness, passion and focus. He was a strikeout pitcher who went on to win 311 games and in 12 seasons with the Mets pitched 171 complete games. In his 12 years with the Mets I rarely missed a game he was on the mound. I was either glued to the television in my family’s basement, or listening to my transistor radio walking home from school. There are four particular games that still stand out in my consciousness today, days and nights that Seaver gave me unforgettable thrills:

1.) On a summer night in July of 1969 my whole family sat intensely by the boob tube watching the Mets taking on the Cubs, two teams engaged in a heated pennant race. Seaver was at his best that night and he carried a perfect game into the ninth. The Cubs 26th batter that night, Jimmy Qualls, broke both myself, and my idol’s heart with a soft liner up the middle for a base hit. I recall how disappointed I was until I saw Seaver with his wife Nancey on the post game show (Kiner’s Korner) laughing and giggling talking about what a big win it was for the team.

2.) Then there was the time in April of 1970: I was walking from the Campus School to the reformed church for choir practice. (lol.) I had the transister radio on outside the church as Seaver and the Mets were taking on the San Diego Padres at Shea Stadium. I listened as “Tom Terrific” struck out the last 10 Padres to give him a total of 19 for the game, breaking the record for consecutive strikeouts and tying the record for strikeouts in one game. Needless to say my voice got a rest that day.

3.) The third game that is etched in my mind was October 15, 1969, game four of the World Series at Shea Stadium. It was the game of the famous Ron Swoboda catch that saved the Mets from falling behind the Orioles in the ninth.

The Mets went on to win the game in the 10th and Tom Seaver had his only career World Series career win in a 2-1 (10 inning) complete game victory. I can still see J.C. Martin’s bunt (he was pinch hitting for Seaver in the 10th) a Baltimore mis-throw, and Rod Gaspar sprinted home into arms of the jubilant Mets ace.

As years went on my interest in baseball weaned but I never stopped following Seaver’s every move. I cried June 15th 1977 the day the Mets sold “The Franchise ” to Cincinnati. Elvis Presley died that same summer Tom Seaver put on a Reds uniform, but we all knew he never stopped bleeding blue.

4.) It was in 1985 that fate brought me to Yankee Stadium to see the Yanks take on the Chicago White Sox. I hadn’t been to a professional baseball game in several years but I knew Seaver was on the White Sox and I knew he had reached 299 victories and would be pitching that Sunday afternoon. A friend of mine who worked for Pepsi had gotten me seats right behind the White Sox dugout two rows above where Nancy Seaver and her daughters were sitting. It was Phil “Holy Cow” Rizzuto day at the house that Ruth built and I was right there when the Scooter got knocked on his ass by a heifer. I was traveling with an old college girlfriend who had a hard time understanding when I explained to her that this was some sort of justice with destiny between me the man I still admired so much. I was going to have the opportunity to watch one of greatest pitchers of all time, my childhood idol, reach the highest milestone a major league hurler can obtain; win 300 games. Don Baylor came up in the ninth for the Yanks with two outs and two men on and Seaver’s team leading 4-1. When Baylor hit the pitch I thought for sure it was out of the park and my voyage with destiny was to be lost. But Mike Nichols settled under the ball deep in left field and made the catch securing win number 300. About five minutes later Seaver made his way in my direction to hug his wife. I yelled to my boyhood idol, who was now 40, ‘thanks for the memories Tom’. I still like to think I saw him glance in my direction and give me a wink. A signal to myself and my hero that fate had won a victory.

I hadn’t given my boyhood idol much thought in recent years. I knew that he had been a baseball commentator after his playing days and that his passion later in life was owning and operating a winery in the Napa Valley. This past fall as I was scanning through the sports section I noticed a headline: “Tom Terrific” is not well.” The article went on to say that Seaver was not going out in public anymore because he was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. That story prompted me to write a piece on the summer of 1969. Of all the amazing events that summer Tom Seaver and the Miracle Mets is still the one most prominently seeded in my memory. Last night I was walking through the bottom floor of my house after having just heard the news that the favorite warrior of my youth had passed. I swung open a door to a room we always keep closed (it use to be Ricky the rabbit’s room). I hadn’t entered that room in over 20 years, but it didn’t surprise me to see the two pictures hiding on the wall behind the door. One was of a team picture of the 1969 World Champion Miracle Mets, the other was of a 25 year old kid in a baseball uniform showing off the form of one of the best pitchers of all time.

I stood motionless, and dug deep to send myself back one more time.  It wasn’t until I closed my eyes that I could  the light. I was a boy again running through a tunnel leading to a field of my dreams. For a moment it was all in front of me again. The deep green, a perfectly groomed surface, the hill in the middle, the odor of beer and peanuts, and the electric sound of a ballgame getting ready to begin. Bud Harrelson, Cleon Jones, Jerry Grote and of course Tom Seaver preparing for the battle ahead. I took a deep breath and they were gone.

The Don Henley song ‘The Boys of Summer’ was  on the radio: “Nobody on road, nobody on the beach, I feel it in the air the summer is out of reach.” My car was passing the newly constructed soccer field that has been empty and ungroomed since the fall of 2019. The sky was a majestic blue and orange as the sun was setting on a late August night. The vibe felt normal and still everything was different. There was a familiarity to the peacefulness and yet sadness of leaving another summer behind. The emptiness that sometimes goes along with the continuing circle of life on the edge of another season change in upstate New York.

Tonight there was an unearthly strangeness in the air that nothing was the same, or would be again. “I never will forget those nights, I wonder if it was a dream,” the volume was up as the Eagles drummer, frontman and songwriter continued to speak to me.  The world is always ever changing and complicated but this summer there is a dramatic agent of change that is in plain view.

As I kept driving I thought about where my head was at a year ago and the entirely different place it was now. The sites, the weather, the sky, and the temperatures hadn’t changed but the eerie feeling of the calm before the storm was the oscillation. The coronavirus invaded the earth this past winter and  the overall impact has been devastating to all of the people on this planet. According to the numbers, of which I am leery in regard to their authenticity, the United States has been hit the hardest, and my home state of New York by far has the most cases and deaths. Children have been out of school since March and are not returning to the classroom until October.

There will be limited football at the scholastic and collegian level, if any, this fall. Whenever I do go out for a drink or dinner I have to check my mask, my distance, and my breathing. By eight o’clock the city I live in is a ghost town, so if you do venture out you better go early. On the streets there is an underlying paranoia that is uncomfortable to say the least. When you go clothes shopping you better know your size, which vary brand to brand, because there is no one allowed in the dressing rooms. Church is closed, professional sports are off limits, and when you go to get food or drink one of the citizen corona police will find a reason to bark an order at you, “get back in the circle.” The local newspapers speak glowingly of our Governor as he tries to control our every movement. I don’t totally blame the coronavirus on my dad’s death but it was the final cause of his passing. As I pull my car into the driveway, still in the summer light, I look down at the three masks in my car and say to myself: “I’ve had enough of this crap.”

Once I get inside my house I go immediately to the spot I like to write and I open up my lap top. In this environment I keep the television on without the sound. The CNN headline says: Kenosha Wisconsin Mayor announces 7pm-7am curfew. In the background are images of Kenosha on fire. In our cities throughout the country there is a burning rage in regard to social injustice and racism.

The latest incident was a black man running from white police officers getting shot seven times in the back. There are two very different sides to these stories that are happening far too often. The one is that many white cops are racist and are not afraid to pull the trigger or choke someone to death if the suspect is black. The other is that it has nothing to do with race but it is rogue cops who are bad actors. The fact is these incidents have help build movements like ‘Black Lives Matters’ that cry for reforming and defunding the police. I live in a small city where there have been several shootings this summer and that has a Mayor who promotes a sanctuary city, bail reform, and has a police department under him who who does not support him. I live in a town where peaceful protest of hundreds are allowed but going to school or church is not.

Like all things in life, who the president is, the stock market, world affairs, local politics, need to be looked at through each individual’s lense as to how it effects them and their family. The coronavirus has affected each individual in a different ways and I can assure that the timing of it had a large impact on me. I was driving to Stewart Airport on the night of March 15th when only three days earlier I had been laid up for two weeks with what doctors called a bad flu. The signs on the New York Thruway had just been put up warning travelers to “Stay Home to Save Lives”. I chuckled to myself and went on to have a strange four day stay in Hollywood Florida at a practically deserted Hard Rock Casino. While I was there I got a call from my partner saying that New York State was shut down for two weeks and our staff had been instructed to work from home. My intuition told me that this event was going to change our way of life for a very long time. I remember thinking at the time: ‘Thank God my two daughters have finished all their schooling and that I owned a business (Insurance) that could survive this Pandemic.”

The only thing I was worried about was the week before my dad had been moved into a nursing home suffering from several ailments that go along with old age. There were three other people on my plane ride back to New York. The airport parking lot was empty and on the ride home I saw less then  20 cars on the thruway. It was March 19th and I was being welcomed home to this new world.

I have always said to my myself that life is about adapting, changing, and evolving. Each individual looks at a situation and should say “what does it mean to me in two aspects: short term effect and long term effect”? In my case there were plenty of consequences that were obvious in regard to this Pandemic. Since my employees were working from home it was important for me to be in my office to hold down the fort. I also realized immediately that my days of having a cocktail and dinner after work were over and I would be eating at home and spending more time than I have in the past six years being home.

This sudden domestication was at first a shock to my system but life is all about building habits and it was easy for me to see I had built some bad ones. For the first time since our two daughter had moved on to their own independent lives myself and my wife Donna were eating home most nights and spending more time  with each other than we had in years. I had been been doing lots of traveling at the spur of the moment, not being able to do so was smothering change. 

My wife who has been a dedicated Physician Assistant for 35 years was for the first I can remember rattled about the stress of her career. For the first time in decades we had  time to talk about our individual goals and what we wanted to with our future together. My daughter Laura, who lives in Atlanta was able to work from home (still is) was spending most of her time at her boyfriend’s home on the beach in Hilton Head South Carolina. Our other daughter Mary Kate, who had her internship with the PGA cancelled due to the virus, was spending more time than ever at our house cooking, writing and bonding. Everything in life that you survive is an opportunity. So while I lost my dad to this hideous disease I was given the opportunity to find my family again.

It was a few days later and I had gone to one of my regular haunts to get lunch. It was just recently this establishment was letting people inside to dine. I was feeling like one of the herded sheep as I stood in the long line making sure both of my feet were inside the circle on the ground. It is six month into this virus and here I was. A sheep moving circle to circle in complete silence sweating in my mask. It was during this 30 minute hopscotch game that I had time reflect on the state of our state and country. I noticed, that in general terms, people are sullen and on edge. I was thinking about the times in the last months that one of self designated  corona police had told me: “‘pull up  your mask”, “back up”, “sit down”, “you can’t sit there”, “move over”, “we’re closed early.” I have played along and dutifully protected others as best I can. But unlike most of the sheep, now that the door and  is open I have thought about some changes I am going to make that I had never thought of before.

I am completely done with professional sports. Do these obnoxious unintelligent, uneducated kids think I care one hoot about their protests. “I don’t like the news, so I won’t go to work.” What a joke. I now have to think about staffing after seeing three months of nobody working in the office. I am contemplating moving from the state I have loved all of my life. We have the most cases, the deaths and the most regulations. The Governor killed my dad by ordering coronavirus patients into the same room as him in the nursing home. I will never be a sheep, they do what they are told and keep baaahing. Change has everything to do with growing, evolving and being independent.  Sometimes late at night, alone in the moonlight I make threats to myself, usually after a few libations. So far I have been able to handle the seasons of my life. Autumn is creeping in and I can feel the change coming.

HAPPY 50 “HOKUS POKUS”

There used to be a ball field on Huguenot street along side Richard Hasbrock’s old stone house. At the time I was the star pitcher for the New Paltz Senators. Led by Manager Tom Roach we would go on to win the championship of the New Paltz Little League in the summer of 1972. As the crowd of relatives and friends began to gather that April Saturday afternoon I was on the mound taking my warm-ups. This was an important early season match-up with the rival Red Sox, and for a kid who never wanted to look nervous I was anxious. I kept looking at cars that were pulling into the parking lot to confirm that my father had arrived. So far in my athletic career he had not missed a game and I knew he planned on being on hand for this epic battle of undefeated teams. As I tossed in my final warm up pitch I noticed Mr. Roach making his way to the mound. “Rich you look a bit rattled, are you going to alright kid?” he asked with a concerned look on his face. “I am worried about my dad, he isn’t here, and he is never late.” Mr. Roach was a great man and in his own way he understood me better than most adults back in the day. “Do you want to see if I can get the umps to delay the game?” “No lets get going, as the tears started running down my cheeks.” The hardball came back from my catcher Wayne Elliot and for the first time I was about to go to war without my dad looking on. The Senators got a big win that day and I can recall after every pitch looking to the parking lot for my Dad. At the family dinner that night I was not buying any of my dad’s excuses for missing the game. He had gotten “tied up” at the golf course, and whether on purpose, or not, he taught me a valuable lesson. “Rich, they say a male doesn’t become a man officially until he no longer depends on his father. “Today you took your first step to being on your own.”

My dad had a unique way of teaching me lessons even while he came up short of being a perfect role model. “Being there is 95% of the battle.” “Don’t recreate where you educate.” “Remember, the students are the enemy.” “Alcohol is a false friend.” “Never make a putt you don’t need.” (I don’t think I ever had one of those.) “You can’t score points if you’re a good passer.” “Take what you need and leave the rest.” Of course all of his sayings were tongue in cheek funny lines that he used to poke at himself and to make sure I didn’t get confused between right and wrong. He did recreate where he educated. He never met a kid he didn’t try to help. Alcohol may have been his best friend. He use to tell me directly, “pass the ball once in a while.” Randy always took what he needed then some, especially at all you can eat buffets. The part about showing up was what my dad was the best at. Wherever I was in life I could usually find my dad looking on with a passionate eye. From Little league, to high school games, to my games at Muhlenberg, to caddying for me in golf tournaments, to my children’s birth, Randy was there. He usually had a cup in his hand and sometimes a friend he picked up along the way. There was a night in Bethleham Pa. we were playing our arch rivals Moravian in their gym my senior year. The place was packed and my dad had found a seat behind our bench. As we went out for the opening tap I took a glance up int the crowd and saw one of my dad’s Middle School teacher’s sitting alone in the back row. I forgave him for that indiscretion a long time ago, but I let him know I knew and we never discussed it again.

The last couple of years my dad struggled with his health. Whatever bad habits he embraced caught up with him and it was obvious he was tired of living. As good he had been at being there his whole life, in the last fews years he was a prisoner in his home. He had lost his appetite, (for both food and booze), he didn’t feel right and all he wanted to was watch sports on television and sleep. Still, on Sunday afternoons I would pull my car into the old homestead and wait in the driveway as he made his slow walk to the car. Once he got himself into the car it was our time. Being the opportunist that I am I took advantage of these outings to pick the old man’s brain. Randy was a creature of old habits and they died hard for him. Each time he entered the car I took a guess of how far we would get before the obnoxious ringing would make him realize he had to put on his seatbelt. Once he buckled up I was confident that the rest of the adventure would be fine. The last time we went out together it was to the Mountain Brauhaus and the conversation ended up to be about “forgiveness.” “Dad you needed to be forgiven a lot, but you definitely held grudges and seemed to struggle forgiving people,” I said with a wink. “Forgiveness is for the weak, when someone intentionally did me wrong I was not going to give them any second chances,” he responded firmly. “But dad you have been forgiven for the mistakes you made along the way?” I challenged him. “That’s different, family can get two or three chances, you really don’t have a choice.”

Most of his coarse exterior came out his days of growing up on the streets of Brooklyn during the depression. He never talked much of his youth, or his childhood days growing up in the city. It was when I was growing up in New Paltz and was an above average High School athlete that he would express some regret of not being attached to a community in his youth. “If my parents sent me up to New Paltz to live with my grandparents like they did with my sister I would have been a high school superstar.” It is a true fact my father was a great athlete. He was a natural at any sport he attempted. For a guy with a 6″4′ frame he could play a smooth shortstop, or hit the open 20 foot jump shot (not much jump shooting in his day), or shoot 69 on the golf course. Randy wasn’t always humble, but he was about his athletic prowess. “When I came up to New Paltz College I had so much fun, sports became a secondary thing. I was the best player on the basketball and baseball teams but I got thrown off both of them for breaking curfew numerous times.” “Did you ever feel bad about squandering your God given talents?” I asked him seriously one night and it brought a smirk to his face. “No not really, when you looked like I did at 19 athletics were ok, but never a priority.” That was my dad, a contradiction in every way. A guy from the rough part of town, who, with his size, talent, and good looks made life look easy.

Everyone has some type of relationship with their father. Myself and my dad were close, more like friends than father and son. There were times when we were best friends, and there were times we did not speak for weeks at a time. When I was an adolescent I looked up to by dad with both respect and fear. It was around the time I was in college that we were more like brothers then anything else. We played so much golf together that I started calling him Randy. I would compete with and against him like he was one of the guys. I received many a hard stare when me and my father were in the same foursome and once in a while in the heat of battle I would let out a sincere “Fuck You Dad,” or even “Fuck You Randy.” As the years moved on we probably became too close and it was me who struggled finding that balance between my father being my buddy and my dad. Later in my own life I realized I had become far too judgemental of my dad to be his friend. I badgered him about all kinds of things: he drank too much, he was too blue collar, his lifestyle habits, and mostly I harped on him about his lack of ambition. Within the last year I made an attempt to apologize for being hard on him regarding some of his decisions. It was begrudgingly that he accepted my apology and then in true Randy fashion he gave his 60 year old son a tongue lashing. “You were a pain in my ass. Ambition is for the young. I was a kid who came from nothing and did just fine in this world. I made my choices, I hope your daughters don’t judge you the way you did me.

My dad was always larger than life to me. Unlike myself, Randy was not introspective. He had a natural way of making life simple. He saw himself as a kid who didn’t have high expectations for his life but found a family, success, and happiness when he came to New Paltz in 1951. He built a life, that as a kid, he admitted he could not have imagined when he lived in a Brooklyn flat that didn’t have heat. He found a beautiful bride, had a long accomplished career in education, constructed a house on a Mountain Rest Road, played more golf and drank more gin than anyone I have ever known. But there was never a doubt that his pride and joy in this life were my brother Gary and myself. The fact that my dad attended graduation at Brown University and Muhlenberg College for his respective sons was in his words, “my best achievement.” My brother Gary and I knew we were loved and going to get the opportunities to make hay in this life. I never lose sight of my dad pitching golf balls behind the campus school little league field during my games. I hear him letting out a groan after I missed a short putt while leading the Ulster County Golf Championship. I see my dad in the grill room at Bay Hill sharing a cocktail with Arnold Palmer. I look back into the past when he was young and his nickname was “Sharkey” sauntering in Pat and Georges’s with his varsity jacket on. He was the only person I ever measured myself against. He was the person who was by my side the most and when he wasn’t I wished he was. I wanted him to be part of everything I experienced. Today I feel like that 12 year old boy on the pitchers mound checking the parking lot.

Sunday the movers were going to do the final clean out of the house I grew up in before it goes on the market. My brother and sister in law (Judy) had been busy all week going through the old boxes filled with memories. I am not a good griever, and I’ve never had much patience for looking through old diaries or my report cards from the Kindergarten. But on this Friday afternoon my wife (Donna) convinced me to drive down to my parents house for a final walk through and farewell. I called my daughter (Mary Kate), not expecting a yes, and said “I’m driving down to grandpa”s to maybe grab one last souvenir, want to come?” “OK, I’ll go with you,” she responded to my pleasant surprise. The circle of life was rotating right in front of my misty eyes. I looked at my daughter walking around the house taking a couple pictures off the wall, a painting she liked, and at last grandpa’s big television. There was my daughter, beautiful, smart, ambitious, with her whole life staring at her. Finally, the story line was obvious. My dad had come up being a gang member punk from the streets of Bushwick Brooklyn. He found his Shangri-La; a home in New Paltz and began to build a life, I am sure as a child he didn’t think was possible. He knew he a had given me and my brother a chance to climb the ladder. And Gary and myself knew our kids and their kids had been, and will continue to be afforded a foundation to chase whatever dream they dream. Myself and MK hopped back in the car and started back over the mountain in silence. It was the goodbye that I know brought a smile to the big guy’s face.

Easter Sunday – April 12 2020. As I turned off Emerson Street onto to Lucas Avenue the sun in my eyes was so bright I could not focus on the wonders of spring that were surrounding me. It was Easter weekend, Masters week, and in the northeast these two events marked the traditional end of winter and a welcoming to the beautiful rebirth of our tired souls. But these days nothing feels like the old days, or anything close to traditional. We are living in a new world that no one can recognize or figure out. The roadways of uptown Kingston are vacant with the exception of a few watchful eyes that I uniformly call the “social distancing police “. We are experiencing a lifestyle to which none of us could have imagined. Our society is built on hard work, ambition, going to our jobs, being productive, and climbing the proverbial ladder of life. Now we are delegated to being quarantined with our families, and our thoughts, for God only knows how long.

 

 

Back to my drive.  The radiant April sun is giving me a reminder that spring is here after what could be described as a mild northeast winter. Today Kingston was showing off the vivid colors of a region coming into full blossom. The yellow forsythias and the pure white blossoms of the cherry trees were having a proud moment.  Despite a beautiful feeling of calm and rebirth there was an underlying uneasiness that was evident as I turned my car into Flower Hill  and got my head straight for another evening of quarantining. We are smack in the middle of the biggest global pandemic that the earth has seen in over 100 years. I happen to be living in New York state where 35% of all the cases of  Coronavirus in the United States have appeared. Like most of the country, only essential workers are allowed out, and the county building, schools, along with all restaurants and bars are closed. Everything and everybody are moving at a slower pace. People are keeping their social distance and then some. Even automobiles seem to be distancing themselves from each other. I swung my car up the steep driveway, pulled into my garage and got ready for night 26 of hibernation.

My mind has been working overtime since February trying to establish what the landscape will look like after this work and social embargo are lifted. The balancing game between the health of our citizenship and the consequences  to our pocketbooks. After all this settles we will argue if we overreacted to this virus or we didn’t quarantine long enough. I find myself in a moment of time I could not have imagined. I have been practically alone in my office on the phone most of the last three weeks  with my accountant, lawyer, banker, employee or client. The thrust of my efforts have been directed to getting a small business loan (evolving into a grant) from the federal government. The once big bad self-proclaimed rugged individual was now turning to the government for a bailout. If proof was needed that I put money ahead of principal I am demonstrating it daily. lol. My application for the payout is legitimate and I should fit right into the category of businesses that are prime for assistance. I can’t help but recognize the irony of me taking a government handout. I will not be at all ashamed when I am waving around that big check courtesy of Uncle Sam.

The last couple of weeks I have been acting very much like a socialist. Approximately every 30 minutes I am on the phone with my accountant or banker checking on the status of my stimulus check. On the other hand the capitalist in me has been thinking about what the climate will be like after the country opens back up. Hopefully by May 1 we will be taking the first step to returning to some sort of normalcy. What will be the consequences of the lifestyle changes we are all enduring? How long will it take before consumers resume their pre Coronavirus spending? Will patrons flock back to what are now deserted restaurant? Will employees be able to return to their place of work and be efficient?  Will employers find less was more during the shutdown and downsize the space they occupy and keep on only “essential workers?” It is apparent to me that this virus will end up acting as a cleanser which will unfortunately wash away a portion of the weaker links in our society. The businesses that had been struggling before the shutdown will not re-open.  It is a time each individual should be evaluating their worth and re-committing to making sure their employer’s recognize their value. My mom use to say to me when I was a boy “Richard, when things gets tough the cream will rise to the top.”

With or without a pandemic, Sunday is a night for reflection. This particular Sunday is traditionally the last day of the Masters and this year it also happens to be Easter. In past years by 7:00 pm on this day I have played a round of golf, watched the green jacket slipped on to a new champion, and am walking my dad to the car after a great day of eating, drinking and watching the Masters. I pulled into my driveway Easter Sunday night after waiting two hours in a restaurant to take home my holiday ham dinner. My daughters have been safe and healthy in their respectful hide aways of Hilton Head, and downtown Kingston. My wife, who is a Physician Assistant, was at her home away from home (office). The Masters was cancelled and my dad was in a nursing home recovering from a long illness.  I plopped into my recliner, shut off the television and began to write a story about what I was making of this whole situation and try to find perspective. The truth is, as you can tell from the first four paragraphs, I was struggling to find the motivation for my story.  In the big scheme of history and our lifetime what was going to be the impact of this pandemic that has been the worst the world has seen in 100 years? As I sat alone searching for an angle, something different than what has already been said, Donna arrived home and walked up the stairs to the living room. “Your dad is gone,” was all she said.

Flashback to Monday, March 2. I finally got my butt off the bar stool at the Egg’s nest. I had run into an old high school friend and we enjoyed dinner and lots of reminiscing at the bar. I was coming from my dad’s house which  turned out to be the last time I would ever see him. He had not been well for a few years now, but still living alone in the house I grew up in. He was planning on a doctor’s visit the next day and then possibly going into the hospital for a series of tests. As I left my dad’s house and heading over the mountain to High Falls I could feel myself coming down with something. That didn’t stop me from having several libations and over staying my welcome . I ended up in bed the next day with a flu (not the coronavirus) that kept me laid up for the two weeks before the government shutdown was imposed on March 16. Meanwhile on March 3 my dad was checked into the hospital and diagnosed with congestive heart failure and shortly after sent to a nursing home for rehabilitation. My father was ill and I don’t believe the Coronavirus killed him but I do believe the circumstances escalated his death. I finally said goodbye to my friend at the bar and stepped out into the cold March air. I remember thinking ‘buckle up Rich, the road ahead was going to be very bumpy.’

 

I opened the back door to my office and stepped into the twilight of a world that , now more than ever, was uncertain of its’ future. New York State, earlier in the day, had officially shut down all non essential businesses and the Governor, Andrew Cuomo, was recommending that people quarantine themselves in their homes. As fate would have it I had planned a four day stay in Florida to get some Vitamin C and to recover from a long bout with the flu.  On a Monday, 5:30pm and my parking lot was barron with the exception of my ride. This new reality I was walking towards felt hauntingly still.  The night before I had made up my mind that a virus was not about to stop me from my meeting with a sun I hadn’t seen since August. Without hesitation I hopped in my already packed vehicle and headed for the open highway. How many people would be on this flight? Would the hotel even be opened  in Hollywood Florida? Would the pool and restaurants be opened? None of these questions caused me to lower my speed to the airport. After seeing maybe 20 other cars on the Thruway I arrived to a sparsely populated Stewart International Airport. The attendant checked my boarding pass before me the the 11 other passengers headed to the gate. I was uncertain how this potion of scarcity, distance, and quiet was going to mix in these totally different times we are now living in. The darker side of me felt like a road warrior heading out into the un-quarantined lands right before the end of days.

Stewart Airport in Newburgh is the smallest and least frequented terminal of any in my rotation of travels. On this particular March night it resembled a ghost town. ‘I guess this shit is real’ , I said under my breath making my way onto to Jet Blue flight 2882 to the twilight zone. It was evident the few people that were braving the storm were staying to themselves. There was an uneasiness that hovered in the air, ‘this is what life is going to look like, this is the new order,’ I was thinking. The coronavirus was in the beginning stages of bringing America to its knees. The word from our government was we should all stay at home, and only essential workers should report for duty. It was clear to me that our freedoms, our economic stability, and our livelihoods were in jeopardy. I stepped onto a plane filled with 12 tense and humorless travelers. I was determined to remain quiet and only speak if spoken to. It was apparent any attempts at humor or small talk would not be welcomed. “Did you hear the dow dropped 3,000 points today,” an older man whispered in my direction. I shook my head in feinted disgust and began the search for my own space. Two rows before I reach my seat a young lady barked across the aisle to the man in the adjoining aisle seat. “Stop trying to have a conversation with me, I am not interested in talking to you.” I settled into an isolated row near the back and was set to let the message come to me.

I settled in near the tail of the airliner and kicked back into full recline mode. I turned to my left and looked out to the dark sky and into the future. ‘What will things look like the next couple of weeks and how long will the recovery be?’ That seemed like a good place to start imagining what would be the most efficient way to handle this new set of circumstances. The landscape below was no longer just a sleepy Hudson Valley on a March Monday, it was now what I describe as the un-quarantined zone. Of course this virus, and all that goes along with it, is a major inconvenience and will suck every last drop of patience out of me. But still, I was searching for an adventure, a story, a story within the story. I was a traveler now, in the time of the coming apocalypse. ‘What if this is the end of days? Why was I moving away from my family in a time of crisis? Maybe I’ll be forced to stay in Florida for an extended period of time? I could be like Mel Gibson in the movie ‘Road Warrior’, surviving in a world where the weak perish.’ The higher we got in the air the more my imagination ran free. This was an adventure alright, and being on a plane and headed out into the un-quarantined land was a certain kind of naughty. And God knows I love a good opportunity to feel nice and naughty.

The Seminole Hard Rock Café and Casino in Hollywood Florida was at 15% of its capacity when I checked in on Tuesday morning. ‘Who was staying,’ I wondered as I negotiated an upgraded room and another night’s stay. It must be people like me who have had a trip planned for a long  time and refused to let a virus cancel their vacation. And the rest had to be sick gamblers seizing  the chance to have the entire casino to themselves. It didn’t take me long to figure out the next morning that people were on edge and were not interested at all in socializing. I headed to the pool seeking to reconnect with a sun that had left me alone since August. There might have been 75 people hanging by a fantastic pool setting that could accommodate probably 600 guests. I was sticking to my plan of surviving the apocalypse working on my tan all by myself. Though, I was not entirely disappointed when a mother and her college age daughter pulled up a lounge chair right next to mine. They were escaping Connecticut with a similar plan as me. I didn’t know it then but this was going to be the most interaction I was going to have with any body for the next three days. I listened closely as these two Connecticut yankees expounded on what a great job Trump was doing and that this pandemic we were experiencing was extremely over hyped. I overstayed my welcome on my first day poolside. By night fall I was bright lobster red. The rest of the trip was occupied with sun burn pain and isolation.

Despite being burnt to a crisp I was able to find way down from my 24th floor refuge each night to enjoy a cocktail and dinner. The many bars and restaurants inside the Hard Rock were open for business but there was a shortage of patrons. Seats at the bar had to be separated by three stools so any chance to engage people was limited. I strolled through the Casino floor only to find at least twice the amount of employees as there were gamblers. Down by the poker room was the only semblance I witnessed that things were still the same. Two men, who probably wouldn’t know the difference between the coronavirus and the chicken pox, sauntered out of the poker room recapping the last hand. “I see the two hearts, but there is no way he can call 135 dollars hoping to catch the flush,” said the man to his friend who continued to stare straight ahead contemplating his own problems. In the height of a pandemic these two card players were going about their business as if it was just another day. When hustling cards is your racket a simple global pandemic is not going to stand in your way. On my walk back to my room I stopped at the closest watering hole. For the first time in three days I could sense the resentment from the barmaid. If I could have read her mind I think she was saying, “what are these idiots doing out, possibly contaminating others, and potentially exposing me to this virus?” I was reading between the lines of her actual words: “Do you realize we may be the only bar opened in Florida?” ‘Oh really, please give my drink to go,’ I replied meekly.

By Friday it was time to leave the southern un-quarantined territory and fly back to my new reality. Speeding down I-595 east the confusion I experienced on the beginning of the trip was once again rearing its’ head. I was happy to be leaving Florida but what was I headed for in New York? “But my dreams they aren’t as empty as my conscience seems to be,” the ‘Who’ (Not The World Health Organization)  was bringing me to the airport with their provocative song ‘Behind Blue Eyes.’

Myself and seven other road warriors walked down the gate to board a Jet Blue Airliner bound for the big apple. I have a custom of being the last person to board the the aircraft. Standing at the cabin door the lone stewardess and one of the pilots were greeting the eight passengers to the flight. I attempted to look away but I could tell the two Jet Blue employees were staring at me. After I situated myself alone in the back of the plane, I noticed the pilot had followed me. “Excuse me sir, but it is necessary for us to take every precaution in the these uncertain times. I notice your skin is showing the signs of illness, I’d  like to have you checked out before take off.”

“It’s only sunburn,” I urged. “Oh that makes sense”, the pilot nodded and turned to the the head of the plane. We were in the air and I could see the deserted Fort Lauderdale beach below me. Yes, it was a beautiful day, yes it was the midst of the traditional college spring break. But the world is a different place now and I was headed home to reclaim my place in it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being stuck in bed for a week with the flu leaves ample opportunity for the mind to aimlessly wander. I was so sick I couldn’t muster up the focus it takes to read or write. After 24 hours of watching television I was left bleary eyed and bored. Laying in pain and having cold sweats I ended up talking with to myself, and somebody that I was calling God. Many times I begged for God to take me out of my misery, that continuing life in this state was definitely not worth it. “You can take me now, I am ready,” was my pathetic refrain. Fortunately for me God does not usually give you what you grovel for. Six days is way too much time to be alone with nothing but your thoughts. I reminisced about childhood friends, girls I dated before I was married, books I’ve read, and friends who have passed. I thought about the places I have traveled and locations I regretfully have missed. I listed people who had let me down, and those who I have disappointed. I made plans for the personal changes I was going to make if God didn’t answer my prayers and I somehow survived the devilish flu. I contemplated personal changes, that even on the edge of death, I knew were pipe dreams: give up alcohol, start going to bed by 10:00 pm every night, practice my golf game, and never tell another lie. As my mind jumped all over the place my headaches got worse from the continued pressure I was applying to my physche.

At last I got to a subject that came easy to me with and has always given me simple pleasure. I asked myself: ‘what are your favorite motion pictures?’ Immediately I was rattling off movies and quickly decided I wanted to narrow it down to: “My personal top 10 movies.”

It was a fun, yet difficult task to narrow down a lifetime of movie viewing to my 10 favorites. Putting them in order was even more challenging. But this was an uncomplicated and amusing mind game so I didn’t labor too hard, or too long. I was committed to not googling any lists, or deferring to anyone else’s opinion (that was easy). This is my list, with off the top of the head comments and overviews. I am sure I left some winners out, yet in the end most of my picks were conventional ones. I’ve been a movie fan since I was a kid. I started going to the movie theater with my dad since the age of nine. Once I finalized my list a few leanings jumped out at me. Out of the my top 10, two were black and white films, four were war pictures, and only one was a love story. I was surprised that in my top ten the most recent one was made in 2000 and the oldest in 1942. My list spoke to the generation I was raised in and I pondered what it said about me personally. It appears I like what most people like in a movie, something you as an individual can relate to, something with a historical basis, and great acting with a solid story line. The protagonists and the antagonists aren’t always clear in the movies I picked. It seems I am not big on comedies, or mysteries, or being scared. I enjoy seeing characters develop before my eyes and go along on the ride they experience. I don’t mind leaving the theater with a tear in my eye, or a question left unanswered. This is suppose to be fun, so that is enough analysis and here we go:

1. Casablanca (1942): The first time I saw this classic I was a senior in high school and immediately decided I wanted to grow up and develop the persona of Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart). I never imagined that it was possible to make such an amazing film that could captivate a cynical 18 year old like myself. The primary movie set was Rick’s Café the most popular night club in Nazi occupied Morocco during the height of WW II. Right from the start you believed Rick was the coolest dude in Casablanca, and quite possibly the world. He had the kind of contradicting personality of mystery and intrigue that got a grip on me and never let go. He was independent, but caring, he was cold, but affectionate, he was smug and still sincere, he was a loner, but a good friend, and he was both selfish and selfless at the same time. His lost love Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) walks into his café one night with her husband Victor Laszlo (Paul Heinreich), a leader of the French resistance. Within this love triangle Rick is exposed for who he truly is. Add in Nazi Major Strausser (Conrad Veidt), Rick’s piano playing best friend Sam (Dooley Wilson), Inspector Renault (Claude Rains, who won an Academy Reward for his part), the corrupt chief of the Casablanca police with a surprise ending and you have one of the best movies ever made.

Line I will remember: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”

2. The Godfather II (1974) : The original Godfather also made my top 10 list. The fact that a part II movie made it to the second spot on my billboard breaks many rules in regards to my view on part twos (I think most are terrible). Obviously The Godfather was great but in this case Part II was even better. The Godfather II takes the Corleone family out of New York and expanding their business dealings. In the second part of this saga the family is testing business opportunities in Las Vegas and Cuba as the war for control in New York rages on. In the sequel we see how the Corleone Family rose to power with fantastic flashbacks of a young Don Corleone (Robert DeNiro) intertwining scenes with the modern family with the Don’s youngest son Michael (Al Pacinio) at the helm. New characters such as Hyman Roth (Lee Strasberg), Johnny Olo (Dominick Chianese, later of the Sopranos fame), and Nevada Senator Pat Geary (G.D. Spradin) fit perfectly into a story that is already rich with memorable characters. My favorite scenes are the Senate hearings that attempt, to no avail, to bring down the Corleone family.

Line I will remember: “I know it was you Fredo.”

3. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966): A Sergio Leone spaghetti western that my dad told me I should check out. Clint Eastwood (the good, Blondie), Lee VanCleef (the bad, angel eyes), and Eli Wallach (the ugly, Tuco) compete to find their pot of gold and their best acting performances at the same time. The movie is set at the time of the Civil War and these three rugged individualists are loyal to no one but themselves as they play a high stakes cat and mouse game attempting to find the treasure buried in a battle field cemetery. I was mesmerized by the cinematography and the landscape that made me get an understanding of what The Civil War looked and felt like. This movie spoke to me as a war story, a mystery, and an epic tale that I appreciated more as I grew older and understood the complexities of this bloodbath between the North and South. The three carpet bagging street hustlers stood for rugged individualism before there was such a phrase.

Line I will remember: ” Don’t talk, just shoot.”

4. Almost Famous (2000): I like coming of age stories and this is my favorite. Based on director Cameron Crowe’s stint as a fifteen year old who finagles his way into doing a cover story for Rolling Stone Magazine about a band called Still Water (loosely based on Led Zepplin). Kate Hudson plays the role of Penny Lane, a classic band groupie who is in love with both Crowe’s character William Miller (Patrick Fugit), and the band’s lead guitarist Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup). A scene of the band and their hanger-ons singing along to Etlon John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’ on their tour bus reminded me of of the magic that only movies can create.

Line I will remember: “Hey I met you, and you are not cool.”

5. One flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975): Jack Nicholson is in his prime as Randle P. McMurhy who pretends to be crazy to keep himself out of jail. It takes McMurphy a while before he figures out the old cliché “be careful what you ask for.” I saw a lot of myself in Randle P. as the professional con who thinks he can get over on everybody. In the end institutions have a way of beating and wearing down free thinking independent individuals. But before he loses in the end McMurphy takes the crazies and the audience on a ride that reminds us all that it isn’t always easy to determine who the real nuts are. The poker games, Randle’s impromtu call of a World Series game, the outing on a boat, and getting the supposed muted Indian Chief (Will Sampson) to speak is so much fun you feel like being an inmate yourself all the way to the end.

Line I will remember: “Juicy Fruit”

6. Schindler’s List (1993): Steven Spielberg’s powerful look back at the real life story of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman who spends most of the World War II rescuing Jews from one particular concentration camp. The movie was filmed in black and white and is without question the most powerful film I ever viewed. At first Schindler’s character was merely looking for ways to profit from the war. He opened a factory that supplied war munitions to the Nazis using the labor of imprisoned Jews. It wasn’t long before Schindler witnessed first hand the atrocities being committed by the Nazi’s and made a decision to do something to help as many Jews as he could. Schindler befriended the commandant of the camp Amon Goeth (Ralph Fiennes) and provides him with a list of Jews, who Schindler calls essential workers, in the camp that he wanted to bring to his factory. It was Schindler’s way of giving Jews a refuge away from sure death. Spielberg made it a difficult movie to watch which was a big part of the message.

Line I will remember: “Whoever saves one life, saves the entire world”

7. A River Runs Through It (1992): Two brothers, Norman (Craig Sheffer) and Paul Maclean (Brad Pitt) born and raised in Montana are the sons of a hard driving Presbyterian minister who have very different outlooks on life. While one says he “will never leave Montana” (Paul), the other goes to college on the east coast and marries a well to do girl. What the two brothers do have in common is there love for fly fishing and for each other. I drew many comparisons in the relationship between Paul and Norman and my own brother. Paul is the free thinking non conformist while Norman lives life with regard to what is expected of him. The last scene of the movie finds Norman as an elderly man fishing alone in the waters of Montana’s Big Blackfoot River. As he reflects back on the loves of his life and his family I reached for the tissue box. It was five minutes after the credits had disappeared that I got up from my seat.

The line I will remember: “All things become one and a river runs through it.”

8. The Godfather (1972): What other movie can you recite so many lines from and everyone knows exactly what you are talking about? This 1972 Francis Ford Coppala classic is 100% about family and all that goes along with it. Marlon Brando plays Don Vito Corleone, the head of New York City’s most powerful crime family. The opening scene is of the Godfather’s daughter Connie’s (Taila Shire) wedding and introduces us to all the main characters. This scene sets up the story line for America’s greatest movie saga. I cannot think of another movie where the character development is handled better. From Sonny (James Caan) the hard driving oldest son, to Fredo (John Cazale) the weak but lovable middle son, to Michael the youngest son who is determined to go outside the family to accomplish bigger things in life then being part of the Mafia. Mix in characters such as Luca Brasi (Lenny Montana), Tom Hayden (Robert Duval), Johnny Fontaine (Al Martino), Jack Woltz (John Marley), Mo Green (Alex Rocco) and you have what many consider the best made American motion picture ever.

The line I will remember: “Never let anyone know what you’re thinking”

9. The Graduate (1967): This movie made my list for two main reasons: 1. The haunting Simon and Garfunkel soundtrack. 2. Katherine Ross (Elaine Robinson). The Graduate was a provocative and sexy movie for its time. Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) returns from college unsure of what he wants to do with his life. Shortly after his graduation party he is seduced by Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft) a friend of Ben’s parents. In a short amount of time Ben and Mrs. Robinson are sneaking off on their trists. One night while the Robinson’s are visiting Ben’s parents he is reconnected with Mrs. Robinson’s daughter Elaine and falls in love with her. Eventually Ben asks Elaine on a date to the fury of Mrs. Robinson. The struggle for Ben to get Elaine back once she knows that he was screwing her mother is both tragic and stimulating. I first saw this movie when I was 24 and in some dark way thought this plot was every young man’s dream.

The line I will remember: “Oh no Mrs. Robinson, I find you desirable. I think you’re the most desirable of all my parents’ friends.”

10. The Deer Hunter (1978): This movie had my full attention every moment. Three young men robert Michael (Robert DeNiro), Steven, (John Savage), and Nick (Christopher Walken) are leaving their small steel town in western Pennsylvania for the Vietnam War. Before going they attend Steven’s wedding and then go on a hunting trip where the events that are to follow are forshadowed. In a flash the movie takes us from the mountains of Pa. to the jungles of Vietnam. If you aren’t already on the edge of your seat you will be when the three men are captured and forced into a bizarre gambling game of Russian roulette with the enemy. The intensity doesn’t lighten up from there until Michael finds his way home after escaping and being separated from his two buddies. The story of these three men who were raised to be steel workers and hunters was as impactful on me as any movie I have ever seen. Like Casablanca you don’t have to like war films to love the Deer Hunter. I should not forget the magnificant performance by Meryl Steep (Linda) as part of a love triangle between herself, Nick, and Michael.

The line I will remember: “One shot”

ALSO:

Here is a list of 10 other movies that I considered for my top 10 and are certainly worthy: 1. Pulp Fiction. 2. The Best Years of our Lives. 3. The Usual Suspects. 4. The Good Wife. 5. Platoon. 6. Forrest Gump. 7. The Boxer. 8. No Country for Old Men. 9. The Wizard of Oz. 10. The Shawshank Redemption.