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My eyes slowly opened, and all I was sure of was that I was in a hospital bed. I couldn’t picture the figure that was hovering over my bed, but I could hear his words clearly and was conscious enough to respond. “I am alive?”  I asked the man trepidly. “You’re a very lucky young man, you ran a flashing red light and were T-boned on the driver’s side.  “I have seen  what little remains of your car.” A couple of days later I was told I by someone who had attending the same reception that I had consumed close to 20 vodka and tonics in the course of an afternoon. I don’t recall the accident, and worse, I didn’t know the name of the person who was in my passenger seat. It was the summer of 1983 and I had been spending time in Allentown Pennsylvania to attend the wedding of college friends. To this day I have not heard from my front seat companion. I am positive I arrived at the wedding alone. All I can can take solace from is the people at the hospital telling me she was not injured in the crash. The man standing over me continued his uninvited distracting conversation. “Rich you’re 23 years old, it is a miracle that you survived this accident. If you don’t change your behavior immediately you won’t be on this earth much longer.” Still groggy and my eyes filled with tears from hearing these true painful words, I looked up at the tall man and got emotional for the first time in my young life. “I’m sorry. I want to live, I want a family someday. I’ve got things that I was put on this earth to get done. I promise I will attempt to live a long life, maybe even make it to sixty.  After that all bets are off,”  I added for humor sake. The man was still in the room and his voice was sharp . “Time will tell Rich, it always does.”

Whoever originally said “age is just a number” was full of crap.  The people who travel in my circles, and repeat that line, (it happens often) are delusional.  Your age correlates to who you are, what you look like, and most accurately it indicates how much life experience you have, or don’t have. I don’t know much, but I know what a young person looks like, and I know what an old person looks like. More so, I don’t forget what it felt like to be young and strong, and to feel invincible. Recently I am getting schooled in what it is like to have survived the wounds of six decades. At the end of the month I will turn Sixty. There, I said it to myself, I wrote it, and if there is a Lord he knows I am kicking and screaming trying to accept it. The acceptance part is my biggest challenge. When you accept you no longer can perform as good as you did in your younger days it could easily be interpreted as giving up. Acceptance has always been associated with quitting by me. There is such a fine line in my brain between acceptance and giving up. The accumulation of years has weakened my ambition and my body routinely does not respond to simple requests such as standing up, or getting up. I am far less supple, my eye sight, hearing, and libido are to say the least, diminished. Is it time to surrender to my age? Surrendering is, after all, a step to acceptance.  Up until about six months ago I enjoyed viewing myself as the real life Benjamin Button. As years were moving on I was getting stronger, bigger, better looking, and wiser. I believed it was possible I was aging backwards. (lol) Was it possible I was the second coming of Dick Clark? This past year (2019) those fantastical hopes have been put to rest. The curtain has been pulled back and behind it is nothing more than a sixty year old man moving around a bunch of levers pretending to be a wizard.

What does turning sixty mean to me?  It means I have outlived 30% of the people in the United States who were also born in 1960. It means I can start taking money out of my 401K and IRA plans without penalty. It means I can can start collecting social security in two years. For me turning sixty, means I have to get a grip on how I can find a way to a happy and productive life for the next 25 years. I  need to find the grace and humility it takes it get out of the way for the next generation. Can I find serenity in the decisions I have made to get myself to today however good or bad I judge that to be?  I am an extremely introspective person, and this latest milestone is impacting me far more than any that came prior. The practicality of turning sixty, combined with the way my body is reacting to it, has left me faced with the biggest crossroad of my life. A friend of mine lifted me up recently by saying how blessed I am to have gotten where I have while maintaining  my health and successfully raising an accomplished family.  She is correct, and knowing my daughters’ formal education is bought and paid for and they are living independent lives will always be my favorite accomplishment.  I am thankful for the good fortunes bestowed upon me, but I am always looking forward, and for the first time I am frightened of what I see. I’m  spending far too much thinking about the things I can’t do anymore instead of accepting that there is a  price we pay for arriving at this pedestal.  I am at a different doctor everyday: Gastroenterologist, Dermatologist, Orthopedic Surgeon, blood work, Cardiologist, Dentist. Lately, I struggle pushing myself out of bed both mentally and physically.

How can I accept the passing away of that fearless young man who appeared to keep time on his side? How can I accept the simple human conditions of aging? Not only am I physically hindered, but I am experiencing the downward turn of confidence that goes along with this age that is supposedly just a number. I am consumed trying to decipher how I want to spend the rest of my life as the sand continues to pour down the hour glass. I do feel very fortunate for the life I have had so far but it doesn’t prevent me from going back to the dreams I dreamed in my adolescence. I spent most of my youth around golf courses, gambling, and playing golf with older men for money.

I have always been a keen observer of humans and how they react to their personal plights. In my travels around the Country Club circuit I saw a bunch of men my age now who were mostly content with their lives. They ate and drank too much, they often lied, and they mostly disrespected women. Many times in those days I whispered to myself “I will be different.”  I was resolute to stay forever young, and despite my commitment I wasn’t as determined about making it to 2020.  “Rich in 2020 you’ll be sixty, I won’t be around to see it, but I can’t picture you handling the aging process,” said a golfing pal of mine named Francis “Pint” Rohan. His words of acumen usually arrived after two VO Manhattans and several Budweisers. Pinto was around the age I am now, to me, back in the 80’s, he looked like an old retired IBMer. Pinto talked a big game but when the clock approached midnight Mrs. Rohan could be seen driving down the golf course road to drag her little “Pinto” out of the poker game. Those were days before I was married and I succinctly remember saying to myself . “Rich, if you make it to sixty don’t become a caricature of yourself. Do not allow the day to come where you need to be, or allow yourself to be, babysat.”

It has been said to me many times that turning sixty should be a time to look back with gratitude. That is easy, I am grateful for the hand I have had a chance to play in this life. Being a former educator I enjoy giving out grades even to myself. For my first sixty years I give myself a solid B. My shortcomings and failures in this life have had a lot to with living for the day, while at the same time planning for the future. I find this dichotomy to be one of the most challenging balances to negotiate. I want to live everyday fast while understanding there will eventually be consequences as you keep moving down the road. The fact turned out to be I made it to sixty relatively healthy, my family is in tact, and I have a few shekels in the bank. My wife tells me “Rich it is time to pay the piper.” To me directly she explains it clearer: “Rich, your deal with the devil has expired.”  Reality tells us the human body is built very much like an automobile. After a certain amount of mileage you can count on the machinery breaking down. I have spent a lifetime saying to myself that preparation is a top priority to my personal journey. Yet, preparing to be a graceful old man takes a special mentality that I am not ready to commit to, and possibly never will. Sixty years will have passed since I fell out of my mother’s womb on January 31, 1960. I can only hope this year the occasion will quietly pass and I am left alone to contemplate how I am going to write the final chapter. When I am out to dinner with my 85 year old dad we have deep conversations about how we have lived our lives and what the purpose to it all is. He usually brings everything back to family, and while I agree with him, I tell him, that even now I need to keep finding meaning in my own life as an individual. Without personal challenges, goals, and new adventures life is not worth living.

After all the blurred days and years that have past, the Thanksgivings , the birthdays, the Christmases, the weddings and the funerals, I’ve come to this moment. Certainly a milestone that in many ways I do see as a celebratory occasion. So after years of playing with life as if it is a foolish game I am preparing myself to play one more big game. I am not done, just the opposite. I am going back to the full basics which includes goals, plans and accountability. Three dreaded words to an independent free spirit. I am committed to fixing my body, redefining my ambitions, growing by business opportunities, and continuing to write. I am self aware enough to realize stagnation is not an option for me. I must keep growing, working, improving, forgiving, and evolving. I have discovered in life that if you are committed to those things great results will occur. It is true I am facing the consequences of a youth that left no wines untasted. My past strategies relied on good looks, personality, and youth, now I must turn to wisdom and substance. That vodka induced car accident was nearly four decades ago. I made a promise to a man standing over my hospital bed that night that I have thought about often over the years. With lots of self determination and some luck I was able keep my promise. I am sixty and although there are many empty spaces that have been created with the passing of the years I am standing strong and ready for one last run. Everyday I call the man who was standing over me that long ago night in the hospital room in Allentown Pennsylvania. “Hey Dad remember what I said to you that night I was in the accident?”  My dad, who can’t remember what he had for lunch responded, “not really.”  “I promised you I would use that night to motivate myself to work hard to survive and live a productive life, maybe make it all the way to sixty.” he gave a little chuckle. “I’m proud of you Rich and I have a feeling that you’ll never have enough.”

There have been many nights in the last 30 years that I have been awoken by a dream in regards to my days playing basketball. There is one that recently has haunted me. The game was tight with only seconds remaining. The lights were glaring and the capacity crowd  of approximately 2,000 rose to their feet in unison. I am running, drifting to the left side of the court, filling my lane with more purpose and energy than I ever had before. It is the winter of 1982 and my team (Muhlenberg) is trailing The Franklin and Marshall Diplomats 62-61 with nine seconds remaining . Dave (Popeye) Saylor had just stolen the ball in the Diplomat front court and the enemy fans let out a gasp. A quick glance at our bench saw my coach Steve Moore waving his arms frantically forward, “no time-outs, attack!!” he screamed.

I was already sprinting when I  heard a voice inside myself that was new to me, and one I would never hear again: ‘Sprint harder, turn it up, this is your moment.’  As I streaked across half court I was experiencing a new speed. Popeye, without once looking at me, threw a perfect pass hitting me in stride at the elbow of the opposition’s foul line. I exploded to the basket and with my right hand softly banking the ball off the glass as the buzzer went off. Muhlenberg 63, Franklin and Marshall 62. The game didn’t put us in the playoffs or push our record over .500, but it was the first time in 15 years the Mules had won in Lancaster Pennsylvania. The game winning shot is one of the few moments I had as an athlete that stuck with me as the glory years quickly faded away. Today, I still can hear the hush of the crowd as the buzzer beating runner went through the net. It happened, it was real, and though it was fleeting, the memory is vivid and lasting.

All the desire, ambition, sweat, pride and blood I had spilled on basketball courts in my young life all seemed worth it on that night in Lancaster. For the Mules, and their 29 year old first year coach it was the seventh win of the season. Coach Steve Moore, who today is in his last campaign, went on to win over 850 more games at Muhlenberg and Wooster colleges. He is 15th on the list for most wins for a men’s NCAA basketball coach counting all three divisions. The Franklin and Marshall coach at the time (Glenn Robinson) is the only Division III coach ever to record more wins (950). But that February night marked a changing of the guard, there were some new kids on the block coached by a young man who was going to turn into one of the greatest basketball coaches of all time. For me it marked the beginning of the end to a basketball playing career filled with mostly losing. Inspired by this young genius of a leader, I was more than ever convinced that I wanted to teach and coach basketball. When the Mules season ended in 1982 it was clear to the people of the Lehigh Valley that basketball was thriving at Muhlenberg.  I spent a significant amount of time that spring on the road with Coach Moore recruiting and trying to get the best local high school players to come and play for a winner.

The year after graduating from Muhlenberg I took a teaching job in Pine Bush, New York as a Social Studies teacher and the  J.V. basketball coach. The three years I spent coaching the Junior Varsity in Pine Bush were as fun and fulfilling as it gets. I learned under a great Varsity Coach (Jerry Leonardi) who gave me a good look at how a high school basketball program is put into place. At 22 years old I was sure I wanted  basketball to be an integral part of the rest of my life.

Pine Bush, in 1982, was blending into a diverse school district  mostly due  to the expansion and growth of the city of Middletown. It turned out I was far more proficient at coaching basketball than I was at playing it. My teams were disciplined, patient, and played great defense. Playing the game had always been such an intimate experience for me and coaching was even more invigorating. Young men in nothing but skimpy shorts running around a sunken stage under the bright hot lights with a large crowd of fans staring down. Every move you make evaluated by the wannabes in the cheap seats. As a coach, the games took on a different meaning than they did during my playing days. When I coached, the way my teams played, and the wins and losses were very personal. I had three of the best years of my life in Pine Bush, but my mind was constantly looking for the next move. In 1985 I was hired as the Varsity Basketball Coach at my alma mater, New Paltz High School.

Going back to the high school you graduated from to be a coach sounds very romantic. There is something sexy about returning to a place where you grew up, and coming back to make a difference. It did present unique challenges for me because I was so determined to make my own mark. At a young age it is hard to understand the past doesn’t always get out of the way. The Athletic Director at New Paltz was my old football coach and he  saw me as that punky kid back in high school that he treated like a child. And not like the determined, ambitious young 25 year old man that I had turned into. Instead of embracing my enthusiasm and vision, my old teacher felt threatened by an aggressive new young coach.

Of course, I had plenty of issues of my own. I was your typical angry young man with all the answers, especially when it came to coaching basketball. I wasn’t mature enough to listen to anyone but myself. My memories of the four years I spent as the Varsity Basketball Coach at New Paltz are mostly pleasant. There were many dramatic victories, and many painful setbacks. After four intense seasons of pouring myself into what I thought would be my lifetime career my contract was not renewed to come back for a fifth season. I had many opportunities to continue coaching, even at the higher level, but looking back, I had had enough. I took my firing as a message, my 20’s were behind me and it was time to move in an entirely new direction. In the fall of 1989 I got married, said good bye to the teaching and coaching profession and headed out into the private sector.

My motivation for finding my way to New Paltz college this past December to see a basketball game had more to do with friendship than any interest I had in see what a modern day basketball game looks like. New Paltz college was playing Plattsburgh, the coaches for the respective teams were old friends of mine. It had been close to 30 years since I had been back to New Paltz to see a game. I walked into the Elting Gymnasium with a sad thought of how I had lost touch of the game I at one time loved so much. There were shot clocks, three point lines, and some semi circle in the middle of the foul lane. The players were wearing long shorts and hovered far away from the basket. Players gave up lay ins to kick the ball out for a three point attempt.

I noticed on the fast break the players ran to certain spots on the court (mostly outside the three point line) which is now known as the numbered break. It was a totally different game then the one I knew in my youth. As I was thinking about if I could have survived a lifetime coaching this game a young man sat down next to me along with his son. “Coach?” I smiled and put out my hand. “It’s been along time Rhett,” we shared a laugh as Rhett Weires introduced me to the youngest of his 4 sons, Buck. Rhett is in his 50’s and looked as lean and mean as he did in his playing days. The smooth guard was a very good shooter in the day before the world fell in love with the three pointer. We sat reminiscing about the glory days, and one particular night when Rhett had a moment like I did in that game against Franklin and Marshall. Rhett was at the foul line against Wallkill with no time left and the game tied.

His first attempt was an airball, followed by a Wallkill timeout. Rhett came to the huddle and for the first and last time in my coaching career, I said absolutely nothing. Rhett took the lonely walk back to the foul line and sent a low liner through the bucket for 63-62 victory over the defending Ulster County Champs. We talked about that night and what had become of the players who participated in that game. I told Rhett I have not regretted leaving the coaching profession, nor do I regret one second I spent on the sidelines. By the half it was time for me to go. “Rhett is was great to see you, tell Buck to stay humble and make the defensive end his priority.” Rhett extended his hand and a smile, “Yeah coach, do as you say, not as you do.”

Basketball, and all of its modern nuances passed me by many years ago. Still, the things that were important to us in our youth never fade completely away. Even now I awake from dreams of past basketball glories. In some of the dreams I am the hero. And some of the dreams are filled with dramatic heartache and defeat. I see myself scoring 50 points in a single game, I see myself playing four years of basketball in college for one of the greatest coaches of all time. I see Rhett making that foul shot, I see Tom Morales splashing a corner jumper to beat Wallkill again at the buzzer, and I see a Pine Bush J.V. basketball team coming from 18 points behind with only four minutes left on the clock to defeat James O’Neil. I also see myself crying in the locker room after a tough loss, I see myself going to the foul stripe against Dickinson College down one, with one second left, and missing both, I see myself getting hit with flying coins during the lowest scoring basketball game in the history of college basketball.

In the end, after being fired as the coach at New Paltz High, I decided to say good-bye to my hoop career. Today, 30 years later I am trying to make sense of my basketball dreams. In another month I will travel to Wooster Ohio to attend a tribute for my former coach at Muhlenberg, Steve Moore. My former coach has the highest career winning percentage of any coach actively coaching college basketball. It was just announced that Moore has been named a candidate for induction into the National Basketball Hall of Fame this spring. My mentor is retiring following the current season with 23 consecutive 20 win seasons, 17 consecutive NCAA tournament appearances, a few courts named after him, and a legion of young men who have turned out to be accomplished adults. Next month I will be united with former teammates and fantastic memories from the past to celebrate a man who meant so much to so many. I hope I can finally make peace with my own personal basketball legacy. If I get an opportunity to say a few words I will go back to that February night 38 years ago in Lancaster Pennsylvania. I was running for my life when I remembered  that Coach Moore had taught me what it was like to reach inside myself for more than I thought I possessed.

Below is a video Story on Coach Moore:

My favorite movie scene is the last one in Frank Capra’s ‘It’s a Wonderful life’. George Bailey is in his home surrounded by the community that had raised him. As the snow is falling on Christmas Eve his friends and neighbors gathered at George’s home to help him out of a business jam. With dampness already building in everybody’s eyes, George’s brother, a WWII war hero, burst through the door and drops a blank check on the table and proposes a toast “To my brother George, the richest man in Bedford Falls.”

The friends and family in George Bailey’s home break out singing ‘Hark the Herald Angel Sing’ and all the people who have been a part of George’s story break down in hysterical sobbing. The crying has everything to do with what one man meant to a community. They are joyous, happy, sad, bittersweet tears. George Bailey discovered in a beautiful way that his life had meaning , that his life had value, that he had played a large role in others living a better life, because George had been a part of it. Last Thursday night I traveled south to Nutley, New Jersey for a benefit and tribute to my college suite mate Steve Digregorio. My old roomie is suffering from pancreatic cancer and the community of Nutley had prepared a celebratory fundraiser at the Franklin Steak House. My stomach was churning as I walked through the downstair bar and then up the stairs to the large open hall that was filled with friends, love, and a long view into the past. When I got to top of stairs I took a long deep breath and stepped into the night. A crowd of close to 500 had already gathered to shower their love and appreciation for one of Nutley’s favorite sons.

I met Steve in suite 102 of the Benfer dorms at Muhlenberg college in Allentown Pennsylvania on an August afternoon in the year 1979. I was returning for my sophomore year of college and Steve had been on campus for a couple weeks already having gone through freshman orientation and varsity football camp. The fact that myself and this big blond Italian kid from Nutley had been brought together was pure happenstance. If Steve had not been assigned to my suite it is probable we would not have not uttered a word to each other in our years at Muhlenberg. I could tell immediately Steve was not a fall in love at first sight type of guy. As I walked across a pizza box laden living room to shake hands with my new roomie I could sense any respect he was going to have for me was going to be earned. Even though I was arriving back on campus as a sophomore and Steve was a freshman I never felt like I had the upper hand. Steve was going to be a starter on the football team and he had many friends from Nutley who also attended Muhlenberg. It had bee predetermined which fraternity he would be pledging before he reached campus. Myself, on the other hand, was a member of a different fraternity and had a set friends that were totally diffferent then the bonds that Steve had already formed. That first day we shook hands “Hey I’m Steve Digregorio from Nutley New Jersey.” Hey I’m Rich Siegel from New Paltz New York.” Under my breath I mumbled sarcastically, “just great, I’m living with a Phi Tau football player.”

In the beginning Steve stuck with his crowd and I stuck with Rick Greenberg. Our relationship was slow in building with him busy with football in the fall and me busy with basketball in the winter. Once in a while that first year myself and Steve would sit in the living room of our suite and talk for hours. At first our chats centered around sports and coaching philosophies. I still insist privately that much of the credit for Steve’s amazing coaching success has to do with my influence but he has steadfastly refused to give me any credit. In turned out we both wanted to be history teachers and coach the respective sports we played in college.

It was slowly but surely that we begrudgingly we gave into each other. Yes, we were members of different frats, his friends weren’t my close friends and my friends weren’t his close friends, but somehow the two of us were developing an unbreakable connection. The truth is I felt like Steve was my big brother in college. The guy who subtly had my back, and looked after me, and at me, like a worried sibling. The guy standing by his bedroom, shaking his head as I was in the middle of some nefarious escapade. I could read his mind verbatim ” this asshole Siegel may never grow up.” Despite the pressures of frat brothers expected to live with each other, in the spring of 1980 when it came time to see which five of our suite members were going renew their lease in Benfer, 102 Steve and I were committed to each other.

It was in our second year together that I figured out Steve Digregorio and I would be connected throughout our life. We were both history majors. We were both determined we wanted to teach and coach. We would watch games together and talk about how the future teams we were going to coach were going to play with toughness, purpose, and discipline. When it came to sports we were on the same page and when we did disagree Steve usually won the argument. We gave grades to the mutual history professors we had in class and discussed strategies of the coaches we were playing under. Steve’s passion for teaching was contagious, it was easy to detect that my roommate was going to spend a lifetime positively impacting student athletes.

Outside of the suite we went our separate ways. He went to the football field, I went to the basketball court. He went to meetings and meals at Phi Kappa Tau House and I did the same at the TKE fraternity. My junior and senior years different borders, and a litany of co-eds came and went, but myself and Steve remained our ground . There was Wags, Ozzie, Grebby, Kurt Jack, walk-ins Marcus Pintavalle, and Brad Moore. After Wags father died suddenly in the summer of 1981 Freshman Brad Moore was dropped into the lions den. Two upper class football players, two upper class basketball players and the future minister. It was Steve alone who took this poor lamb aside and gave him a pep talk on how to survive his freshman year. Steve’s instructions to Brad included how to handle the loose canon that I had turned into “you won’t see him often but when you do ignore him,” Steve advised the future pastor. Thanks to Steve Brad was able to survive his freshman year in our suite. That’s what I heard anyway.

Steve Digregorio graduated from Muhlenberg college in 1983. He immediately hit the ground running getting football assistant coach stints at Hobart and Allegheny Colleges. In his late 80’s he was named the backfield coach at Division One Princeton University. At Princeton Steve made lifetime connections in the business, including coaching future Dallas Cowboys Head Coach Jason Garrett and legendary Princeton Tigers basketball coach Pete Carill. Steve also made his home in Princeton N.J. where he still lives with his wife Nadia and their three boys Aaron, Derek, and Zach. In 1997 while coaching at Princeton, our alma mater (Muhlenberg) offered Steve the head football coaching job which he regretfully turned down. Two years later the Head Football Coach at Princeton was let go and my college roomie was out of a job. He tried Wall Street for a few years before he found his way back to his true love, coaching football and teaching history. After a three year tour at Paramus Catholic High School as coach and athletic director the big guy got an opportunity to return home. In 2004 Steve took the job as the Head Football Coach and history teacher at his alma mater Nutley High. I do not believe everyone gets to meet their destiny. But in this case of Steve Digregorio and the town of Nutley always had the kind of connection that was forged in steel. The kind of steel that is born out of love and on occasion can lead to generational bonding.

I stood at the top of the stairs in the Franklin Steakhouse as the magic of the moment slammed into me. My old college roommate was very sick and a community was stepping out to show their love and appreciation for the man who meant so much to them. I could see Phil Simms having pictures taken with some guests. I saw some Hall of Fame members of the Muhlenberg 1981 ‘Cardiac Kulan’ football team of which Steve was a starting defensive end. The widow of Frank Marino, the coach of that team was seated in the far corner of the hall. There were many former players and coaches from all of Steve’s past coaching and teaching stops. And there was Steve’s immediate family scattered among the masses. The bar was open, the food was plentiful, and you could smell the sweet overflow of love.

How had all this time passed? How had the kid who I stumbled upon back in 1979 had this big of an impact on this many people? It was obvious Steve has lived a life of purpose and value, a life of integrity that was being celebrated for giving so much more than he ever received. As the speakers told their stories and paid tribute to a man who had touched so many I could only stare ahead and think about how fortunate I was to have been impacted so immensely by my roomie. When the speeches were over I headed to the back bar where some of the Muhlenberg gang had gathered. We shared some old war stories, and mostly laughed about our hair, our stomachs and our golf games. Steve moved around the room smiling, hugging, and shaking hands like the conquering hero home after the victory had been won. On my way out I got to spend a minute alone with the 18 year old I had met 40 years ago. From the first day I met Steve I looked up to him. His keen sense of right and wrong, and his ability to give others the benefit of the doubt impacted me tremendously. I put my arm around him and told him I loved him, and that I felt like the little kid who was so proud of his big brother. Steve Digregorio, the kid from Nutley New Jersey, with the sly gleam in his eyes gave me a long stare with his usual smirk. “Thanks for being here my brother.”

Daylight savings time has come and gone. The darkness arrives early and often as November moves towards Thanksgiving. Whatever peace I’ve made with myself about living in the Northeast is put to the test this time of year. The golf clubs are stored, undershirts and sweaters are getting broken in, and my car starts getting tucked in the garage. The physical rituals of a coming winter have not varied much over the years but my mindset has become much more accepting of what’s ahead.

As my 59th November goes flying by, I find myself in unusual territory. I am happy golf season is over. I am looking forward to the next five months of focusing on business and writing. I am examining a perpetuation plan for my business that could lead to an exit strategy for myself. The idea, one which I pontificated upon endlessly, of spending most of the winter in the south has receded and is no longer a priority. Instead, I am embracing my life in the Hudson Valley. A place that will always be my home. I am sure now, that no matter where this next leg of my journey takes me I will manage to return to my valley and bathe in its seasons, its diversity, and its beauty. My wife Donna and I have discovered the joy of our children becoming adults. In a year that has presented many unexpected challenges, it has been my family; Mary Kate, Laura and Donna who have helped me see ahead with a new prospective. As the cold November rain falls outside my window I realize I must go back to the basics. I will get up earlier, I will make new contacts, I will work harder, I will plan better and I will find a way to win the battle for peace and serenity into my,”golden years.” (lol)

Being on the golf course has been a major part of my existence. I grew up playing golf, and I currently live adjacent to a golf course of which I am a partial owner. Recently I have reflected about whether or not it was time well spent. Most of these doubts have arisen out of my inability to play the game competitively at this stage of my life. In the last two years my golf handicap has gone from a five to an 11. Worse than the drop off in my play is the fact that I am consistent loser in my matches even at a higher handicap. My back hurts, I am missing fingers, my knees hurt, and my once mental unflappable toughness has alluded me. It has gotten so bad I have lost desire to play a game that has been an integral part of my schedule three days a week for the last 50 years.

I am rational enough to understand losing your golf game is not the end of the world but it doesn’t change the fact that I am feeling the pain. I am aware of what golf has given in my life. Most every friend I have, and just about all my clients, come through some sort of connection to golf. A plethora of lessons came through long days of chasing that little white ball around. This winter I will force myself to make some decisions: Hip replacement? Knee replacements? Back surgery? Maybe even some practice in the indoor range. But the real challenge for me and my relationship with golf will be about acceptance. Can I accept that I simply can’t perform the way I use to?

Spending time partaking in activities you want to do, including your work , is essential for a happy life. As this November is moving into 2020, and I approach the seventh decade of my life, I am feeling for the first time the pangs of being annoyed with day to day responsibilities of business. I have said to myself many times that retirement is not a place I want to end up but things always keep changing and I am facing a crossroad.

The hunger I once felt in my belly to earn the order, to be a top salesman and business owner are fading. Having up to 15 people who count on me for health insurance and to feed their families takes its toll on an independent Libertarian such as myself. The fact that a person that I was loyal to and trusted in the business for nearly 20 years left me abruptly has added to my recent malaise and disillusionment. Fortunately, I have built a relationship in the business with a young man who makes me confident that we can come up with a fair perpetuation plan together. I am confident this will all work itself out, but it does mean I have to pay attention to business for at least two more years. In a good way all this means I need to get up and prepare myself for another challenge. Things in this life don’t always go according to plan, that is if you even have a plan. lol.

My father will turn 85 November 27th. His mind is as sharp as a tack but his body has been failing him for the last few years. I spend as much time as I can with him these days. I call him on the phone daily and we go to dinner together at least once a week. I am cognizant that it will not be long before I am eulogizing him and I am desperate to ask him all the questions that the answers to, had been swept under the table. Why do you think you are estranged from your sister? Did you accomplish what you wanted to in this life? Do you wish you had done some things differently?

The two of us get in long, deep conversations that usually bring a tear to both of our eyes. Then he will say, “Rich, how many times do I need to tell you, I really don’t give a fuck anymore?” He’s told me before that he does regret not being introspective and that he did let life happen to him instead of attacking it. I tell him I need his wisdom and energy to help me through my final run. I ask him why he doesn’t say much back to my lengthy diatribe and he smiles and tells me “because I am confident that you have life figured out a little better than I did.” I feel awkward telling him about my recent physical and mental struggles revolving around my own aging process. He shakes his head and tells me how proud he has been of me all through my life and to stop whining. “Enjoy your family, it’s OK to be selfish now, and appreciate the time you have with your daughters.” Yeah, father knows best.

This year as Thanksgiving and the holidays are approaching I find myself making adjustments in the plans I had believed I would carry into my future. Spending winters in the warm climate is going to be put on the back burner for a few years. I am spending much of my thinking hours evaluating who I want be for the next 20 years. I know I am not the ambitious young man I once was. I need to plan a business exit strategy that of course involves success. No longer is golf and the south a priority to me. I understand that I have been lucky to have lived my life in the Hudson Valley and now don’t have a big desire to venture away from home for long periods of time. I see myself getting more involved in my daughters lives and can even envision the day I have a couple of grandsons. Money and moving up the company ladder are no longer my passions. I want to write, I want to continue to conduct interviews with extraordinary people with connections to the Hudson Valley. Mostly I want to write. I have a few more stories I want to tell about my life’s journey to find purpose and meaning. I’d like to think there is still enough introspection in me to create new stories. I want to tell the adventures of an average man who, when all is said and done, connected the clues of his travels through the maze of life and stood at the top of the mountain.

And so I will pick up the pieces from the last 59 years and head into another winter with a renewed sense of purpose. Throughout my life I have prided myself in being able to have a vision of the future in regards to myself. I see myself next spring, I see myself next fall, and I try to see myself five years from now. My vision has never turned out exactly how it looked in the past but by having a vision and doing the things you know it will take to see it through has made for many successful outcomes. As I peck away on this ides of November my vision is not as clear as it once was.

Shakespeare wrote “What’s past is a prologue.” In the last year of my life I am understanding the Bard’s words with a deeper meaning. Everything that I have seen, everything that has happened to me, and all the knowledge I have acquired has set me up for this moment to write the final script. I am done making promises to myself because I doubt my drive to fulfill them. In the few instances I go easy on myself, I accept my flaws; I have always looked for the easiest way through this life, I have not been appreciative enough of all the blessings that have come my way, and mostly I worry about coming up short on my mission in this existence.

 

I realize I have had the opportunities, I have the talent, and I have a good heart. Still I wake up in the November darkness sweating. What did I miss? There are so many areas I could have done better. Will I ever be able to put the words down that make me feel worthy. Good old November, my least favorite month of the year. But this November I am ready to start over. If you bump into me in April you may not recognize me.

There was a soft quiet to the Mid-September night. It was time to say goodbye to the summer. No matter how much you understand nothing lasts forever, waving so long to the sweet summertime is a painful. The boats were coming off the Hudson River and into the Rondout Harbor as the sun was setting on both the evening and the summer. The Captains of the river had that serious look of being near the finish line of another season. It has taken me a long time to understand that my appreciation for the 90 day interval from June 21st to September 20th has much to do with my childhood . It also has to do with being brought up by school teachers and becoming one myself. Leaning back in my seat, with a Glenlivet neat sitting in front of me, staring blankly at the ducks who have gathered by the railing, I am confounded by how vividly I can see into my past. What did the end of summer mean to me now? How is different than from the days of my youth? It was 31 years ago since I last stood in front of a classroom and tried to make a difference in the lives of high school students. In the twilight of an approaching autumn I let my mind drift back to time and a place where my world centered around the school year. In my heart of hearts I will always be a teacher. Yet, for the past 30 Septembers I hadn’t give much thought, or harbored regret in terms of surrendering my teaching career at the age of 29. In the stillness of the moment I let myself go back.

The drive from New Paltz along the Shawangunk Ridge is beautiful on an early September morning. My 1968 Ford Cadillac is taking me towards Pine Bush to start my first full day as a social studies teacher in the Circleville Middle School. Having been a poor student in high school and at best an average one in college could make someone confused about why the hell I wanted to be a teacher. Nonetheless, this is the career path I have chosen. In a few minutes I will be standing in front of my first global studies history class. As I avoided the deer along Albany Post Road I adjusted my radio to a group out of Easton Pa. called Cyrkle playing the tune “Red Rubber Ball’. “And I think it’s gonna be alright, yeah the worst is over now the mornin’ sun is shining like a red rubber ball.”  The song was blaring as I pulled into the school parking lot and the career that was ahead of me. I slowly emerged from my overside vehicle, adjusted my tie, and took a deep breath. It was showtime and it wouldn’t be long before I was feeling like a star.

I could feel the eyes of people who were only a few years younger whispering to their friends, “who is he?” I did my best to look straight ahead seeking refuge in a room that for the 1982-83 school year would be Mr.Siegel’s room. All these years later I can still see  the kids in that first period ninth grade Global Studies class sliding through the open classroom door (I still think I could name over 80% of em).  I was ready to put on my first official performance. For me it was magical, I was confident that this was my calling and I was ready to hold my first audience captive. That first class stared at me with a confused malaise, “he is really our teacher?” Earlier in the morning I had ran a razor across my peach fuzz face, put on a pink button down shirt, tan khaki pants, penny loafers, and a dark blue and white striped tie. It looked like I could have just come from the movie set of St. Elmos Fire.

After the formal introduction of names and classroom etiquette I asked the students to write down what they expected out of this class and of me as their teacher. As a student I had always wanted to state my expectations I had for my education but I couldn’t imagine the type of answers I received from these 15 year olds I got that day back in 1982. “I expect to search for solutions of peace in the Middle East.” “I expect to get to know my teacher outside of the classroom?!” I had chosen to be a teacher and felt an obligation to deliver universal messages. As I stood in front of that first class I could feel the power. In the tiny little serfdom of Circleville Middle School in Pine Bush New York I was the rock star I always wanted to be.

At the age of 21 I had warped motivations in my desires to mentor teenagers. Teaching gave a contradicted young man a platform, a stage, and an influential voice. In many ways the profession played into both my strengths and my selfish weaknesses. I am an excellent public speaker, I can be charming and I am a true salesman, who on his worst day is manipulative and on his best influential. At the same time I was seeking adulation, popularity, authority, power, not to mention summer’s off. In he middle of that dichotomy was an insecure young man who enjoyed what he was doing and wanted to make a positive impact. Looking back there hasn’t been a time in my life since those early days of teach when my stride was longer or my voice clearer. I had a captive audience of impressionable youth in front of me for five shows a day. In a Wall Street sort of way I was a “Master of the Universe”. “Did you see what Mr. Siegel is wearing today?” “Did you hear what Mr.Siegel said to Matt Brodsky fourth period?” “Was Mr. Siegel flirting with Ms. Gove outside the teacher’s lounge?” For a delicate moment as the summer of my life was beginning I was living a dream.

After two years in the Middle School I was asked to go the call up to the high School to teach 11th and 12th grade American History. I recall telling my friends in the spring of 1984 that I had been called up to the majors. For a short period of time there was a fire burning inside of me that roared with passion and ambition. I had found my calling. This was what I had put on this earth to do. But not unlike a blissful love affair it didn’t take long before the flames began to smolder. It wasn’t long before the bells were shrieking in my ears telling me it was time for a class change. A colleague who couldn’t carry my gym bag was named a department head and telling me how I should teach my classes. The principal, who thought leadership meant presenting gold stars to hall monitors, called me into his office to review rules and regulations of faculty meetings. In very little time the free side of my spirit was screaming at me,” you cannot do this the rest of your life.”

Only four years into my teaching career stagnation and rigamortis were eating away at my soul. The students that you invested yourself in move on. I felt left behind as they ran off to new and exciting adventures while I stayed behind to re-invest in the next class again and again. It took me seven years to understand that remaining stationary in a public school classroom would crush the wild child in me that lived so close to the surface. In June of 1989 I said good-bye to Mr. Siegel and didn’t look back. Now only the stories of that titilating time in my life remain for me to write about.

Many autumns have come and gone since my school days. I have moments where the gap of time seems like only yesterday. October is closing in and as I sit behind the school busses and brush the leaves off my car I find myself trying to connect the distance. Our school days and our childhood are so intense to us that the memories stay with us no matter how hard we try to sometimes repress them. People who eventually evolve into adults mostly find disappointment in their younger selves. Hopefully we find solace in the fact that we were young, we fell a lot, we learned how to get back up, and we made an effort to figure out who we wanted to become. As I say my goodbyes to another summer the answers are getting clearer. It is great to look back at the summer as the leaves are showing a hint of other colors in the late September twilight. The captains of summer are docking their crafts in front of me possibly for the last time until spring. I ask the barmaid to fetch another round as I take it all in. It’s Sunday evening, tomorrow is a school day and my thoughts go back to who I once was, who I wanted to be , and who maybe I will become again; a teacher.

“Wait till the Mueller Report comes in, you’ll see. Wait till Mueller testifies in front of congress, you’ll see.” lol.

Please wake Robert “I can’t speak on that” Mueller up. Tell him it’s time to go home for good. Never has there been a person in the public eye who had more of a build-up and delivered less. With the possible exception of Ryan Leaf.

It may have been a good idea for Mueller to have read the Mueller report. It is clear he didn’t write it.

“That’s accurate, correct, I’m not going to answer, that is not in my purview” those were Mueller’s rehearsed lines during the memorably infamous hearing last Wednesday. Over and over and over.

Yes, the incredible Mr. Mueller turned out to be a giant dud. The Mueller Report, and his sub-sequential testimony, was an unmitigated disaster for CNN, MSNBC, and all members of the resistance movement.

“Read the report,” scream the delusional Democrats. As if there is some secret passage within the report that somehow redeems this $30,000,000 debacle.

Mueller did not look happy answering questions. Funny how the tough questionnaires don’t like being asked simple questions. People like Mueller, James Clapper, and John Brennan think they are above being questioned.

There is a long list of Democrats who have gone hiding under their favorite rocks. Can’t say that I blame them. Acting pompous and being wrong every time must to be embarrassing. Admitting they were wrong is impossible for most people.

One day Mueller was interviewing at the White House to be the new Director of the FBI. The next day he was put in charge of the “Stop Trump Witch Hunt.” We live in an amazing country.

No matter how much you despise Trump the witch hunt was wrong. If you can’t concede that you lose credibility points with me.

“Mueller does not exonerate Trump,” was the caption CNN ran all day last Wednesday during Mueller’s hearing. Has the rule of law been amended? Have you ever heard a jury say, “not guilty, but not exonerated.”

It has been a very challenging three years for the biased pundits in the news business. Relax a little guys and gals, only five more years of pain and misery.

If Gerald Nadler pulls his pants up just a little higher he will completely disappear. I’m serious, somebody should make him aware of this.

Every move the Democrats have made against Trump has failed . If they want to keep their record perfect, they must impeach.

I know very little. But I was positive that Mueller would have zero to add to the report that he didn’t write and sounded as if he didn’t even read.

Who was in charge when the Russians mettled in the last Presidential election. I will give you a hint…… It was not Trump.

Joe Biden says he is going to to toughen up in the next debate. First he is going to cure cancer, then he is going to knock out some Democrats. What a guy!

Ever since Donald Trump entered the political scene the Democrats have made mistake, after, mistake, after mistake. Putting Bob Mueller in front of Congress is the stupidest of all their blunders so far.

Mueller was suppose to be the super hero, called upon to slay the big bad evil monster. The hero turned out to be a senile old fool.

Mueller was a political disaster and destroyed any opportunity for the Democrats to proceed with impeachment. How come I knew he would come up empty, and the Democrats didn’t.

CNN, MSNBC, and the Democratic leadership continue to claim Trump is unfit to be President. The misfit seems to always be three steps ahead of the posse.

The people of Baltimore, who live in Elijah Cummings district do need a champion. Barrack Obama failed them, and Cummings their representative in congress has miserably disappointed them for a long time.

If you attack Donald Trump he is going to bite back hard. This shouldn’t be real hard to understand. So why does everyone get all up in arms when Trump throws punches?

In the meantime the Democrats are feasting on each other. If you really believe there is one of the 20 who can beat Trump you’re the one with your head in the sand.

Congressman Jim Jordan made Mueller look incompetent. It turned out that wasn’t any great accomplishment.

 

I think Kirsten Gillibrand and Cory Booker have a lot in common. They both look in the mirror and see greatness. Cleary, they are both delusional narcissists.

Elizabeth Warren is rolling out her new plans. All the plans are about taking from the haves to pay for the have nots. I haven’t heard her ask for reparations for the American Indian yet.

I admit I was considering Bernie Sanders before his own party raped him in 2016. That said, if he becomes President I am leaving the United States. No joke.

Kamala Harris has a new plan for medicare for all. People with an income of over 100,000 will pay for it. Ms. Harris could you please give me your business background before you take over the biggest business in the world.

Here is my prediction for the upcoming Democratic debates. Joe Biden and Elizabeth Warren will have the best showing. What does that mean in the long run? Nothing.

Megan Rapinoe is one hell of a soccer player. Congratulations to her and her amazing teammates on their World Cup victory. Now please STFU.

Yes, women should be paid equal pay for equal work. But the sports and entertainment business do not care about gender or color. In professional sports you get payed what the market will bare.

I believe the right to protest is one of the things that make this country great. But once again here is a message to athletes and entertainers: People pay to watch you kick and dribble the ball, they could otherwise care less about your political agenda.

Rapinoe talks as if she is the spokesperson for every woman on the team when it comes to her disdain for the President. The young lady needs to go to school and learn about like words like, grace, humility, and respect. Great champions usually get an A in these categories. I give Rapinoe an F in each one.

Rapinoe could have used her platform in a constructive way. How about go to the White House and ask the President to have a conversation about your agenda? Nope, she only talks with people who bow to her philosophies.

Jeffrey Epstein recruited children to be his sexual playmates. Who enabled this clown to get away with this for so long? An investigation should be begin starting with recently resigned Labor Secretary Alexander Acosta.

The evidence seems to indicate that former President Bill Clinton was on Epstein’s private plane 6 times? 24 times? 26 times? I would argue any of those numbers are relatively incriminating. Just saying.

“Where there is smoke there is fire.” I would agree that many times that is true. The Mueller Investigation is an exception. Tons of smoke and not a flame to be found.

In the case of Epstein’s relationship with Clinton there is plenty of smoke. I doubt you will be seeing much of Bill on the Democratic candidates campaign trail next fall. lol.

Let’s do a common sense poll. We complete a census in this country every ten years, shouldn’t the first question be ‘are you a citizen of the the United States?’ I mean it is a census. It makes perfect sense to me. That question seems reasonable enough.

Bob Mueller will come to answer questions in regards to his 438 page written report Wednesday. On the record, I can promise you this will only be damaging to the Democrats.

I have it from reliable sources that James Comey, James Clapper, and John Brennan are pleading with Mueller to stay home. Also, his friend Bob Barr is advising the same.

A man named Barrack Obama, remember him, would prefer Mueller went away quietly too. What will his worshipers say went “Mr. squeaky clean” turns out to a very dirty player.

Obama knew that his legacy was at stake if Trump was elected. That is why he helped to elevate and support the coup. It is that simple.

You must have your head in the sand if you didn’t notice the distance Obama has created between himself, Biden, and Hillary Clinton. Three people, who in the end history will say did nothing for their constituents.

The Democrats have one chance to beat Trump. I am positive it is not one of the current Democratic candidates.

I don’t know the person yet, but they can not be a politician. Like Trump, the person who could take him out cannot be a politician.

According to my google research, lol. Laura Ingraham’s ratings at 10pm on Fox are twice as good as Don La Mon on CNN in the same time slot . It says two things 1. Fox is a more unbiased look at the news. 2. Don Lemon should have been gone a long time ago.

Those jobs are based on ratings, everybody knows that. So why does “sour Don” remain. I added up my math , now you do yours.

By accident I became aware the men’s final at Wimbledon was epic. Am I the only one in America who noticed?

Here are the five big issues in the upcoming Presidential election? 1. Immigration 2.Health Care 3.Jobs and manufacturing in America 4.Foreign policy. 5.Taxes. Trump wins handily four out of five, the exception is health care.

Immigration is number one. Wait till they start running the ads with Nadler, Schumer, and Ortiz screaming “Trump manufactured a crisis at the border.” Game over.

AOC called Nancy Pelosi a racist. Isn’t there some sort of penalty for that? I forget, AOC can say anything she wants with impunity.

Biden has been a full time Washington lackey politician since 1972. So, after 50 years on the job, now he decides he’s going to cure cancer.

Sunday, ICE agents rounded up illegal immigrants who have ignored their court dates on numerous occasions. People are calling this inhumane?

It is a fact that FOX has double the viewership of CNN and MSNBC? If you’re a candidate running for President wouldn’t you want to get some FOX air time? I’d love to “get after it” with Chris Cuomo. I understand why he won’t have me on.

You want evidence that it is upside down day? Michael Eric Dyson was on CNN screaming, “it is important for people to prove they are not racist.” Great, they can scream racist at you and it is your job to prove otherwise. lol.

“Trump is stupid, crazy and unfit to be the President of the United States,” has been the consistent drum beat of the left pundits on CNN since he was elected. “Trump is a political genius, who manipulates congress, the media, and 50% of the country. ” Same pundits, “he’s unfit”, “he’s a genius”.

I thought the Democrats had learned how to fight Trump. I was wrong. He throws out the bait and they coming flying out of the water. He says stupid and hurtful things and they go into full moral judgement. Then their skeletons come rattling out.

Is Robert Mueller talking to Congress today or tomorrow? He has all the evidence now proving Trump is a racist, a traitor, and sleeps with Putin? Not one mention of the hearing on left winged media? Talk about a debacle.