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I read the news today, oh boy, America is once again fighting its scripted wars. Our social media streams, for several years now, are filled with false narratives and cries of the coming dooms day. The journalists of this country will find it hard to be trusted ever again. In today’s America it is completely up to the individual to filter their way through the lies that have been dished upon us. The only time I look in the local rags are for the obituaries, or the police beat, to see how many old running mates continue to buck authority. The names of those who have passed are our only touch with reality in an era when mass media in America is simply the voice of a huge expansive government that is doing everything in its power to leave the American dream in the dust. As I check the obits daily, I check first to make sure myself, or any relatives names appear, and then scan for friends of my parents, or mentors from my past. When I do recognize a name that has a deep-rooted connection, I take a long pause before taking myself back to a time when my world was filled with innocence . To a place where my neighbors, teachers, the community I lived at was a special protective bubble. Glancing through the bereavement section last week I saw the name of my seventh-grade math teacher at New Paltz Middle School: (Janis Vankleek Witz 1940-2024. Ms. VanKleeck was a dedicated teacher, lived directly across from the school, had two lovely daughters, a son, later a stepson and grandchildren. Janis’s maiden name was Shand, and she had graduated from the same school district she ended up spending her teaching career in. It was exactly 52 years ago that she was 32 and I was a 12-year-old, who teachers like Ms. Vankleek made me feel like I was part of a safe and loving family as I strode proudly down the halls of my Middle School.

In those days life came at me like a blue October day with the leaves at their peak. Math was by far my brightest subject. No matter the class, if you were trying to find me, you had to look deep into the row of chairs to catch a glimpse of me sinking low. The adage that “the best students are in the front” was accurate at New Paltz Middle School. The resistive scholar in me was doing everything in his power to separate from the “machine” which is our public-school system. Second row from the back was the best place for note passing and flirting with who ever was placed near to me on the seating chart. “And if I can’t find my way back home, it just wouldn’t be fair, cause precious and few are the moments we two can share,” myself and Christine Yeaple were discussing how much we loved the new top 40 hit as Ms. VanKleeck faithfully droned on about carrying numbers. “Being with you is a feeling I just can’t compare”. At the ripe old age of 12, only a year away from turning into an angry young man, I was holding on to the glorious world of youth and innocence inside the bubble of a stable village. It was a time I trusted my teachers and the community itself to have all our interests as the number one priority. In Ms. Vankleek’s math class I remember my mind being primarily on Christine. “Richard could you please stop distracting everyone around you.” The back of the room was where I could conduct all personal business and garner the best positioning to attract the attention of at least one victim.

The year was 1972, I was a young boy on the edge of puberty, and all the quirkiness that goes with it. It was the beginning of the real life that was ahead and unknowingly the end of my freedom from guilt. Growing up in a small hamlet the teachers in the public schools became the models you built your own foundation upon. Each teacher seemed larger than life. They weren’t people with their own lives, they were there to do the urgent task of preparing the next generations. Not until I became a teacher myself, did appreciate that our teachers were normal humans, with all the pandemonium and craziness in their lives as anybody else. In the seventh grade I had a team of teachers that have now since passed. Al Beard, a great English teacher who should have been a college professor. Bob Feldt my history teacher who was a wonderfully principled man. Denise Huede and Eileen Falkner, two French teachers who were both quintessential educators. Mrs. Martin was the “old school” science teacher. Jon Wirth my football and basketball coach, a conflicted man who seemed to be on a collision course for an early death. When I read the news of Ms. Vankleek passing it evoked all the sweet emotions and dreams of my magical youth in the bosom of a community that I trusted. The amazing mentors of the past who literally shaped and influenced thousands of kids who passed through the halls of New Paltz Middle School. Back in 1972 teachers stood at the doorway as students entered. Everyday eye contact and a comment, or two, built bonds that would last throughout the years. It felt like students and their teachers were in it together. There was little talk of politics. It was all about learning the subject that was being taught. It was the time of our lives when we were all only beginning to discover the things that made life worth living.

The connections we make with the mentors of our youth are life altering. Sitting in Ms. Vankleek’s class in seventh grade math I was at the pinnacle of guiltlessness priming for the fall back to reality. All things were within the realm of possibilities, and I could not yet forecast any of the obstacles that would shortly be in my way. Our teacher’s made it comforting to dream our dreams in our small hamlet in the safety of solid mentors, as we came of age. The small box contained everything in the entire world, there wasn’t much of an outside existence apart from, maybe, Kingston or Wallkill. At the age of 12 I had three priorities: fitting in, the record of my current team at the time, and the songs on the radio. It was a shivering February day back in 1972 that I was reminded I was just one kid in the back of a filled classroom. I was seated in my usual spot for eighth period with Ms. Vankleek. I remember in her class having an aura of confidence in myself that would be lost in my teen years. Myself, and my backcourt mate, Eric Ackerly, would sit and wait for our teacher to turn her back to the class and then started passing secret documents back and forth, along with a faint whisper: ‘Ack, did you see the new girl, I hear she’s the daughter of a preacher man,’ I announced having just seen her heading towards Mr. Hochreiter’s room. “Yes, I did” he said far too loud. “We got no shot, she’s already hanging with the upperclassmen,” Ms. Vankleek was doing new Math on the board when she abruptly turned about face. “That’s it, you two in the back, out, head on down to Mr. Barberio’s office.” We looked at each other with a slight smirk and headed for the door.

Ms. Vankleek was the kind of teacher that you trusted. She could be an understanding listener and a firm enough task master. Like most teachers in my youth their interest in me went beyond long division or pronunciation. “Good game yesterday, said the my dynamic math teacher, who was not one of the teachers who enjoyed snuggling up to the “jocks”. ‘Thanks,’ said the guy who loved the attention until he got some. I was a very little guy in a very little town, but I was smack in the middle of what I thought was the biggest arena in the world. Inside my fiefdom I was the master of the universe. In reflective moments I can finally make some sense of the past. I understand my teachers were the compass that I followed through the forest of adolescence. Teachers like Janis Vankleek made the playing field level, we all felt free to run with open fields ahead of us. For myself that first year as a seventh grader at New Paltz Middle school was as exhilarating as any time in my life. Puberty had not arrived and the emotional pain of being a teenager was still on the backburner. Everybody knew my name, I felt accepted, I had close teammates and close friends. I got invited to the cool parties of the hottest cliques. It always seemed like we were protected in our

beliefs and our personalities. Looking back, it was the end of a great shamelessness that would completely leave me by the time I was a ninth grader.

In the end we hit the teenage years and spinning a bottle gets so much more complicated. We can remember, we can appreciate, but we never can go back to those precious and few moments we experienced in a tight home-grown community. “And if I can’t find way back home it just wouldn’t be fair.” Yes, youth is lost on the young, but as we get older, we come to understand this is a necessity. Those glorious days of youth are the opportunity to build solid foundations that will become our rock throughout life. Sometimes the echoes of the music, of the friends, and of my childhood mentors stay with me like the baby blanket I hung on to through college. Well into my sixties now, I am awed at how vivid my memories are of a time in my life when my reality had everything to do with the events of my day and nothing else. For approximately the last decade, I routinely check the obits knowing that the inevitable discovery of the names that made a difference will hit your soul.  On each occasion the news is painful to digest, and in most cases, it triggers a flow of sweet memories. I hadn’t thought of my Seventh-grade math teacher in 50 years. Janis Vankleek taught for 30 years in the same public school she attended. She raised her family in the same hamlet, went to the same churches, shopped in the same stores, and every day she stood at her classroom doorway making sure all of her students were recognized with dignity. Without being cognizant our teachers become a part of us. Rest in peace Ms. VanKleek. 

The sun had moved three holes to the south and was setting in a hurry. In the United States of America, it was Labor Day 2024. Not officially, yet emotionally, another summer was in the books. The signs of the seasonal transitions were unfolding right in front of him, and he was reminded that the earth continues to rotate like it has for billions of years. The workers were throwing the cover over the pool in the backdrop of twilight. The spattering of golfers was still swinging at the little white ball, squeezing every drop out of summer’s sweet, but limited, juice. The singing peepers of August peak in early September with their loudest calls as the alluring stillness of the early fall dusk hung soft and low catching stardust. Labor day represents so much to the American psyche. The celebration of American Labor Unions and workers was the intent of the national holiday created by congress in 1872. The holiday has morphed into a day all children dread: the end of long warm hazy days, and the beginning of the year’s work ahead. For himself Labor Days of recent years were mostly filled with a melancholy of a missed placed youth when he convinced himself to abandon ties to any responsibility.  Most of us want to hang on to the dream of summer as long as we can because we know summer is the coolest and smoothest in the season business. In many ways the beginning of September presents an internal signal to move southward and execute a transition.

When the September bells begin to ring, we are left with no more time for “what if’s”, it is time to muster thoughts of what is. Letting go of clanking skeletons is not a job for summer. We usually collect more distractions, then insist on clinging, then lamenting.  The days are getting longer as our memories get a bit shinier and lucid. We try to remember the kind of Septembers when we were winners in the seasons in the sun. The kind of Septembers when our dreams were still fresh and there was still plenty of room to dream new ones. While it is nice to remember we can’t forget to let go. Turning to autumn the questions we have let linger quickly get pushed out of the recesses of our mind and into the present. So, we go back to our lives after the long sun sets of the endless summer. We go back to school, to work, all the way back to all the machinations that somehow become the google search of how we define ourselves. The autumn is the time to push forward and let go of the travails, and the personal triumphs. “Nobody on the road,  nobody on the beach , the summer is out of reach.”  Don Henley, said it as well as I’ve heard, telling the story of the young man cruising the empty highway road, not looking back at what was just left behind. In today’s media’s maladies of cancel culture leaving your friends behind, both by decision and by natural causes, is a part of everyday routine . On life’s chapter of “letting go” September metaphors are much gentler than the frigid January’s stare through a pane window. There are many summers when your team is not charging for the pennant. There are summer’s you didn’t catch the girl, or the perfect wave. There are the summers your best friend moves never to be seen again.  In this era of e-mail, social internet contact, and the constant reacquaintance s of “old”  friends,  we eventually learned why we had not been in contact for years.

Summer is the one season we don’t want to fade away. We appreciate the memories of past summers, and how they let us remember those moments we were at our best. That first Sunday after the traditional Labor Day Weekend Show the model cars and the open convertibles flood the road showing signs that puts the past into perspective. Going back to school is on the minds of students everywhere, even the ones with degrees. We have a new season to start over and make our own movie, with ourselves as an improvement from our old stale character. In the math classes the algebra teacher is changing numbers into letters, while the history teacher drones on with a manipulated and coerced confession regarding stories of America’s glory. In the fall our psyche wants to take us back to long days and star filled nights. The fall waits for us to make another decision from the large bin of the options that remain. We try to hang on despite knowing the best route is to let it go. Whether it is letting go of a summer love, or the great trip from which we really didn’t want to return from, the autumn opens the door to adjustment and reflection. It is not just a seasonal change but the slow morphing of our souls that often coincides with the seasons of our lives. Fall has arguably the most spectacular color changes and temperature fluctuation of any of the seasons. The fall of our lives is when we blossom in soft twilight while subtlety preparing for the inevitable darkness.

The motorized car was making its way up the steep drive. Two weeks of total escape had come to an end, and he was ready to plan for the details of the next move. The approaching fall, for the first time, there was no school, no career,  and not a rationale in sight to not getting moving. In our conscious minds we keep going back to two places:  the comfort zone, or our drifting zone. It is pure human nature to drift back to a time when our tasks and aims weren’t as specific, when we didn’t understand that someday we would have to prove our worth to ourselves. Sometimes it takes a call from a friend. “Hey, what you got cooking,’ he wasn’t used to the phone’s ring these days because his machine was mostly on airplane mode. Or hiding in the drawer. “I haven’t seen anything from you in a while.  What are you working on?  Since the summer began, he had been negotiating a deal, the kind that requires a “tic for tat”, but he tried hard not to discuss his work until it was complete. ‘I had been thinking about a serious piece on education, or maybe just an opinion piece on the condition of America’s psyche. The summer is stuck in my head, it’s time to let go of this comfort zone I have settled into.’ There was no reply from the other side of the air but probably a sarcastic deep breath. There have been so many deals that we make with ourselves, and others, in this tumultuous ride of life. There is a time for plotting our paths towards a direction of something different. Once we’re ready to defeat procrastination it becomes time to execute. This fall was a crossroad filled with the appreciation of all that had gone before, but now it was time to leave it all behind. What was done was done and all that was left was where he still stood.

In the end I do believe we all have a purpose, although it is clear most people have no desire to acknowledge that fact. Isn’t it our responsibility to pursue a purpose? Or are we just living to get by.  There is only one person who can develop and understand your purpose. The Socratic philosophers debate the parameters of man’s individual purpose, but they do not argue that pursuit of meaning is the only road to a fulfilled life. Are you a teacher, a healer, a thinker, of maybe just a simple bloke only trying to get along?  Somewhere in the autumn air of the fall we pause and wonder.  It is about acceptance; “nothing last forever” and the practical realization that every summer dream does not have a fairy tale ending. If you can make it through the rainy days, you might find yourself alone in a place where you can attempt to make sense of what the trip has been all about. By deep middle age our road has been randomly traveled and the last act is playing out. Of course there is still time to change script, to develop a new character of our own creation. Then one bright day it is a clear blue September morning where the sky is so blue you forget the whole summer was anything but beautiful and perfect. What is left behind are all the broken parts that are left for us to mend. So September hoodwinks us into a false sense of security that summer will return and the other three seasons were simply filling insignificant space. But the appreciation is in still being in the game knowing how hard we played and that we earned one more glorious season.

A blink of the eye and it was September 11^th 23 years later. The infamous day when loaded commercial airlines came out of the clear New York sky  acting as mass bombs setting off an inferno that historians will someday in the future declare as the trigger for World War III.  One moment we were all in the primes of our life and suddenly the safety of the American Dream was in doubt. Many of us were young and hungry becoming the masters of our own universe. The next moment young men and women were looking down from a 104-story towering inferno with only two options left for the short remainder of their lives: burn, or jump. The walk up the steps to the Sojourner Truth Library felt like a therapeutic stroll you take when you are in the beginning states of chasing your new dream. It was time for letting go of a past that we tend to cling so tightly to. The wiser can dry their eyes and accept the gifts of our youth are only there to borrow. At some point the chapter of transformation must end up with a sense of purpose, and it becomes a priority to execute that agenda we want to continue to remain relevant to ourselves. We dreamed our dreams; we made it through the rain, and we are left standing with the energy to write the final chapter.  We learn it is appropriate to kiss the summer goodbye and point us towards the fall. To a time in our lives when the September twilight paints the picture of what could be heaven. All of whatever it is we hang onto has already happened; It’s gone. Let it go.

Sunday afternoon had already arrived at the Tau Kappa Epsilon Frat House on the campus of Muhlenberg College. It was mid August and barely a creature was stirring. We were like leftovers from a Gatsby party sprawled on the couch with zero plans for today, let alone the future. We were freshly hatched college graduates with fancy degrees. We were unemployed and not in any big rush to seek out gainful employment. Two lost souls stuck together in Allentown Pennsylvania waiting for a sign. The girl spoke up from under her newspaper. “You’re from New Paltz, N.Y., right?” the young man on the sofa was barely awake. ‘Yeah, I heard of it.” The girl, a recent graduate of Cedar Crest College (an all-girls school also in Allentown Pa.) kicked him gently in the ribs. “Have you heard of Pine Bush, New York?” That second question got him to sit upright. ‘Yeah, it’s a little rural farm hamlet about 30 miles west of New Paltz. When I was in high school people in the scholastic sporting reaches called Pine Bush “a sleeping giant” because of how fast it was growing in enrollment?” They both sat up from their overextended malaise, for the first time in months I was directly facing my future, and that meant making a move off of the couch. The young lady started reading from the want ad section of The New York Times, “Wanted: High school history teacher, certified grades 7-12, and head varsity basketball coach. It was 42 years ago, and even in the present I can recall every detail of the day my life would take a direction I was meant to go. After a phone call back home, my car was loaded for what was going to turn into the first major move of my life and it was bringing me back to the Hudson Valley.

One week before I was comfortably stuck in “what am I am going to do with the rest of my life,” depression to being dressed in a suit and tie sitting in the principal’s office in Pine Bush New York. I was being closed by two old school educators (Ward Tice and John Shaughnessy). They were the High School Principal and the Athletic Director pitching me on what a wonderful future awaited me in the land of the Bushmen. Of the two senior educators in the room the principal seemed to be steeped in an over glowing optimism about the future in this land of farmers. “Pine Bush struggled in its early years of entry into the Orange County Athletic League, but we truly believe this district is a sleeping giant ready for a great awakening. We are looking for young ambitious educators ready to put roots down in the community and lead us to a dynasties in both academics and athletics. Ward Tice’s sales pitch was excellent, but he was sitting with a cynical, some claimed jaded young man. “I was checking the sports pages, I’ve noticed Pine Bush has not won a football, or a boys basketball game in two years (my dad told me after I told him I was on my way to Pine Bush). You guys had trouble in the smaller Ulster County League, now you’re playing the likes of Kingston, Newburgh, and Middletown.” The athletic director (John Shaughnessy) hadn’t said much up until now. “It won’t be easy, but with a redistricting plan that will bring a large Scotchtown student population, along with a commitment from our superintendent, there is no doubt we will be much more competitive very quickly. The administration has been charged with hiring hungry young, committed people to teach and coach that will lead us into the 1990’s as the “diamond in the rough” of the league.  It was August 15^th , 1982 and, on that day, the self-proclaimed Ne’er-do-well came off the couch to be officially named an 11^th and 12^th grade history teacher, as well as the Varsity Basketball Coach of Pine Bush High School.

The day after labor day 1982 the hallways in the Pine Bush school district were breathing in the winds of change. The once rural farming village was engaged in a transformation that was visible in real time. The area just south of Pine Bush is called Scotchtown and it is a community that once had been encompassed in the Middletown school rolls but now were attending Pine Bush. Prior to the 1980s’ Pine Bush schools was 99% Caucasian in both its student and teacher population. With the movement of district lines, a large influx of what used to be Middletown students increased Pine Bush’s minority community to approximately15% during the 80’s and 90’s. The energy was palpably positive. Looking back there was a lot of good-natured sense as if a movie was being filmed:’ Farmers meet City slickers. The week before labor day I received a phone call (a few days after I had signed a contract) from Charles Moore the district’s new superintendent; “We had a last-minute candidate apply for the opening we have offered to you. He has experience coaching varsity, and I think he will be a great person to begin your career with. I would like you to consider an opening in the Circleville Middle school and Junior Varsity basketball coach. We are excited to have you as part of our team and I feel this position will be best in the long run for all those concerned.” For sure, the call was both a kick in the stomach along with it being a tremendous relief.

The only sounds in the gymnasium were the screeching of sneakers into the hardwood floor. “See the ball.”  “Get in your stance.” Sprint back,”  head basketball coach Jerry Leonardi’s screams could be heard over the sounds of heavy panting. The Bushmen hoop prospects were filled with desire, filled with hustle, filled with determination, but were a bit lacking in talent to compete against the big bad Orange County ballers. That first year in Pine bush we did not win a varsity basketball game, extending a losing streak on the hardwood to 40 games. Yet, during my first-year teaching in Circleville Middle School and coaching in the high school it was obvious that progress was being made towards surging forward ready to strike. By the time I was teaching in the high school (1984) Pine Bush was one year away from competing for the Orange County League Title in football, and the varsity basketball team made the sectionals for the first time in years finishing 12-8. In the hallways of the high school this new injection of diverse and open attitudes were welcomed in with open arms after a long-shaded past of racism and antisemitism. The new recipe was filled with pride, and a oneness throughout the entire district. By 1989 Pine Bush High had grown to over 2,000 students coming from Pine Bush, Circleville, Bloomingburg, Scotchtown, and Walker Valley.  The once lily-white school enrollment was urbanized and seemingly spiritually united. Academically, socially, and on the athletic fields the Bushmen were doing their best to leave behind a history of separation and discrimination.

Some stains are difficult to scrub. In the 1980’s and 90’s Pine Bush did the work, morphing into a true melting pot of critical learning, competitiveness, and togetherness.  The district had become the largest demographic school district in New York State. By the time, the 80’s were finished Pine Bush had established itself as a progressive bastion of a united community. It had the fresh face of a diverse student population, a young and ambitious faculty, and all of this began to manifest into successes on the athletic fields. Ward Tice and John Shaughnessy were right on that summer day 42 years ago when they spoke to the young man, they were getting ready to put in the game. “Pine Bush is a sleeping giant ready to rise.” I only made it five years in Pine Bush. It was the place I believed would be the beginning steppingstone to a long teaching and coaching legacy. My years in Pine Bush seem like a dream that I still can’t put my hands around how it all evaporated for myself so quickly.  No period of my life would be more filled with the feeling of  ‘I am doing the work I was born to do.’ It was like we were all in the fight against the rest, we were the underdogs, the lonesome losers ready to turn into the prince. I left teaching behind me in the fall of 1989 to pursue a life outside of the snug cocoon that had grown into the Pine Bush family. I was not cut out for 40 years of students coming and going and me standing still. The truth was, somewhere in a place of my confessions I was afflicted with the classic Peter-Pan Syndrome; extend my youth as long as I could.

The exit off Route 211, in the land of the malls that is Middletown, a brewery called Aspire was holding a reunion for all the classes and faculty that were responsible for being part of a sleeping giant’s awakening (all classes from 1980-2000). It wasn’t the Circleville Middle School I was looking for this time but a reunion of over 400 Pine Bush high alumni and faculty. I was going back to a magical place where it all started for me, the same place I walked away from in 1989 never intending to return. A place where I was my most vulnerable but filled with a youthful innocence dreaming of glory ahead. Those of us that were in Pine Bush in the 80’s felt like we were part of something that could only be felt by the up-and-coming warriors of the day. A spirted few of those Bushmen (led by Hillary Ingram) had rallied over 300 students and 30 former faculty members to come back home to check out the sleeping giants who had come through the years wide awake. The long-time stars of the Bush had returned to an unlikely gathering of reminiscing of what it was like back then and what had become of all the heroes of our adolescence. The teachers were introduced above wild applause and cheers. The coaches and mentors like Tom Walraven, Dan Greenberg, Carla McLaud and Bob Bender, talked of the bonds and networks that led to the successful stories seen across the evening. We never know how it all turns out, but sometimes we get to go back and confirm that we were part of a special time and a special group of people. Back then my only plans were left to the hands of fate. An old girlfriend from Allentown, Pa. had helped me find my way back to the Hudson Valley that August morning as we were pleasantly wasting away a quiet Sunday afternoon. It turned out I would only be in Pine Bush a brief snippet of time, but in those tender years, I met by wife and future business partners whose influences kept me in the valley of my permanent home.

My limited stay in Pine Push had me feeling a bit awkward as I stood in front of the Aspire Brewing Company. ‘You sure you’re worthy?  So many Labor Days had come and gone, and another school year always waited. I went all the way back looking for the faces that would help bring back the past. “Is that you, Mr. Siegel?” said the young lady in the gold and purple blouse skirt combo posing as the cheerful greeter. “Who else could it be?” I asked with a long slow smile. Michelle Pound hadn’t changed much from the days of our first encounters back in the fall of 1982. Ms. Pound, now a 52-year-old kindergarten teacher, escorted me through the door into the land of backwards time. There were 400 former Bushmen, spanning four decades, spinning around a circle of four rooms. There were several opportunities to re-connect discovering how it all turned out. We went back to a place in time when all slippery obstacles were in our way, but we were ready to dodge them together.  We were the new kids on the block with attitude. Gary Hans was there, Walter Holmes, Carol Mitchell, Glenn Tolliver, kids who were 17 when their history teacher was 22.  Deep into the night the dance floor was filled with old friends who were coming together one more time. As Joe Pound did a “spot on” imitation of his very young teacher’s opening day rant out of 40 years prior my eyes turned to the disc jockey and master of ceremonies. Any teacher who had Jamal Battle as a student would not be likely to forget the experience. Through 42 years Jamal represented the spark that I witnessed ignite, back in a time and place before civilization. “Mr. Siegel, let me introduce you to my wife. Oh, I was a rowdy little student back in the day”  The man in the bow tie, the man with the tight cut, the man with a smile that is still percolating. ‘No Jamal, you were just leading a revolution.’  A teacher and a student who lived in the days Pine Bush turned into a giant hugged it out.

The main street bistro was bustling for a lazy mid-summer morning. The waitress barely gave a glance as she rushed by the man seated reading yesterday’s news, “do you know what you want,” she asked on the fly. In the moment he was stuck between the pancakes or the French toast but the tone of the server’s question “what do you want” got him thinking beyond diet. “I’ll take some serenity, with a side of enlightenment,” he whispered to himself before ordering French toast with a side of bacon. The waitress’s simple query of her trade had sent his mind spinning into philosophical exploration. “What do you want?” It is a basic question we should be asking ourselves every day, followed up with a practical response. The largest selling book in the history of the world, the Holy Bible, preaches to us: “ask and you shall receive”. That may hold true today with the French toast and bacon but not so much for the request for peace and fulfillment. He had read in one of Napolean Hill’s transformational books “to get what you want in life you needed to transcend ego and completely forego wantonness”. Sitting at breakfast, with a full day’s chores ahead, letting go of wanting seemed destructive.  The universal truth with humans is that after they have obtained what they want they immediately move on to their next desire. What if your mind became so still you were motionless and wanted for nothing. He started applying butter and syrup to his breakfast and peeked into the malaise of a life that would have him wanting for nothing.

After consuming an unhealthy breakfast, he was off to start putting a dent in the day’s “to do” list. The Sojourner Truth Library was his refuge on a steamy, sweltering summer’s day. ‘Who didn’t want to be outside or at a watering hole of any sort?’ he asked himself as he found his hiding space amongst the stacks. A mid aged woman was one of only a half a dozen people scattered amongst the vast palace of thoughtful silence. While others, on the outside, plotted summer moves there were a few choosing to get their stimulation inside surrounded by cool air and Candide. The two strangers remained focused on what was in front of them without contemplating another option. The bibliothèque was hovered in the kind of quiet that was not for those who find themselves to be easily distracted. Initiating conversation can be looked upon as a sign of rudeness, or worse a lack of tac. The State University college campus was closed for summer classes due to construction projects leaving the small smattering gathered alone with their endeavors. ‘Do you attend this college,’ was the first sound echoed in hours as he got up to depart. “No, I attended an out of state college years ago,  graduated in 2010. I am here working on various business projects. It turned out she was a seasoned writing coach and motivational speaker. ‘This is an exciting time to a writer, the man chirped in between listening to lines of her resume. Did you always have a clue as to what you wanted?’  She stared over several institutional manuals in front of her displaying a gracious spiritual smirk. “I figured out what I wanted a long time ago and I went and got it.”  Of course, like the words the fabled jazzman Joe Jackson so eloquently laid down over his saxophone: “You can’t get what you want, until you know what you want.”

The first thing we all want in life is our mommy’s love. Over the course of our lives, we converse, mostly to ourselves, in terms of what we want as we start developing into an adult. We want to be wealthy. We want to live in a glorious location and be embraced by throngs of distant admirers. In our youth we want for wealth and glory. We imagine once we have an abundance of those two, we can now pay any price, and justify all means, to get what we want. The first stage of our wanting is all about survival. Do we go to bed with a full tummy and a roof over our head? As children we want a fair chance with family, authority, and education. Below the broad scope of wants are the simple human drives of nourishment, sleep, and sex. We want a steak for dinner, we want Mrs. Smith to be our teacher, we want another person to fancy us, and we want to reciprocate. These are the obvious early wants and needs. We learned quickly that we get some of the things we want.  We get tired of familiarity and quickly set our sights on the next conquest. The young lady in the library was well past the stage of wanting dolls and lollipops for Christmas. “I was clear from my formative years that I was going to be a writer and a teacher of some sort. I wanted an independent career leaving the option for a family open, I still want both.” After that the choices come down to what career, which spouse, where do I live. A bit of terror creeps in ‘what if I live to be old and haven’t achieved what I wanted out of life? Is wanting so much, or dreaming so big, setting us up for personal disappointment. The last person you should ever want to let down is yourself.

The man packed up his thoughts and headed out into the July haze. As the sweat poured down his forehead, he headed to his car contemplating what had been took and what was left for the taking. “I knew what I wanted when I was a teenager, and I went and got it,” the young lady’s word still echoing in him. The young lady had convinced the old man that she was way ahead of him. When he was in his 20’s he was sure he wanted everything but doubted he was really looking for anything but an easy ride to the top. The dreams were of great material wealth, big houses, trophy girlfriend, and a whirl wind life full of fame and fortune. If we are fortunate enough to stay healthy and afloat we spend 35 prime years collecting and competing.  At 60, we have no choice but to ask ourselves how we did. Did we get what we wanted? What happens in this place that I was sure I would never accept: old age? The focus moves from specific collectible items to practical nonmaterial virtuosities . I want my family to thrive beyond myself. I want the world to become a better place. I want to leave something behind. The material things become less titillating in the older years, as we cast judgments upon our choices we made throughout our lives. Did we do justice to the hand we were dealt? How did we recover from the bad decisions we were able to admit as much. Later in life we can’t help but look around and ask ourselves ‘did I get what I wanted? Is there anything left?’ We alone get to evaluate ourselves on how we played the game within the rules we set for ourselves.

When we are coming of age, we are trepid about the future. Will we get what we want first has to become “what do I want.” In our formative years we position ourselves to make a mark. We are all big fish in our tight communities of the tender years. We eventually will morph into minnows flailing about in the ocean. For most, the big dreams of youth are eventually exposed by the reality of our insecurities to blend in. We dream big and wake up one day in our 60’s with the clock ticking away the final minutes. We cannot go back and change the score. We can only play what the board dictates in the present. The things we wanted have found their place into dusty scrapbooks and the report cards. All the pictures and letters are nothing more than delusional images of our well-honed narratives. There is little left beyond acceptance and recovery. Looking in the mirror and facing our personal reality has a wide range of affects which presumably is the reason people are not comfortable with introspection. Reaching back to retrieve your wish list can create massive depression “I’m not what I thought I could be,” is a humbling pill to swallow. To the contrary,  our reflections always present us with an opportunity to make changes at the spur of the moment. Either way it is vital that we keep turning the pages without dwelling on what we missed and focus on what we are set up to achieve. We can open the door to our own personal freedom, the kind where you find by letting go of the “if only”  heading untethered into tomorrow.

It was exactly a week later the man was back to the Sojourner Truth Library to finish a short story. How does our story come to an end making some sort of efficient point?  Would the young boy of his youth be content with the moment he had got to? As a survival mechanism humans tend to make past narratives suit their own heroic journey through life. It is out of necessity we learn to forgive ourselves with the promise of doing better tomorrow. The reality tells us the hourglass is headed for an end of our stories that is undetermined until it is. In the meantime, we can only be practical about where we are, from there we can continue to adjust our want list. The library was again creating the kind of silence that only an abandoned palace of study and critical thought could. We are alone with our dreams of yesterday and the evidence that is our lives in the present. We are in constant negotiation with ourselves for our moral souls. Our once upon a time requests turn into pleas for forgiveness. In the end all we have is here and right now, the circumstances we built to get to the moment we’re in. For himself there was still so much more to come, so many more stories to tell. Today, when he entered the bistro he didn’t wait for the waitress to ask him what he wanted’ ‘I’m ready to order , ‘I’ll have the French toast and bacon.’

It was that once upon a time moment that instantly connects us with all the wonder that lies ahead. On the first day of summer 2024 two young boys and an even younger girl were in their front lawn chasing fireflies against the rose-colored skies as dusk settled in. The beginning of summer, filled with the dreams of long days in the sun. The whimsical tales of splashing water, titillating sunsets, and shiny green baseball diamonds presented in cathedrals of the gods. The hope of a new, or first, love fills our heart before eventually breaking it. The fall will come faster than we want leaving us empty with only echoes to sustain us through the next three seasons. The summer will come again, leaving 90 days to repair the damage. The harder the winter of our lives staggers us the more we appreciate the summers of our coming of age. For the writer there is no better genre than summer stories of found and lost love. In the screenplay ‘Summer of 42’, (made into a movie in 1972) the main character Hermi (based on author Herman Raucher summer of 1942 on the Nantucket sound) was roughly the age of the boys’ chasing fireflies on the first night of the most magical season of them all. As the summer of 2024 began the youth of this day can still relate to Hermi as he weaved his way through the dizziness of a fresh summer. “Maybe this will be the summer I walk away with it all.”

Throughout the centuries the litterateur’s metaphorically bed all the seasons, but none with the same passion as the summer. Not because of the idyllic narrative we tend to create, but because of this higher level of sharp sensitivity that tingles our senses. While the winter of our memories are mostly of struggle and gloomy flashbacks of survival, the summer comes back to us as fields of gold and alluring star filled nights. The poignant views of past seasons in the sun are often connected to a song or a place. A lake, or a pool, and most prominently the ocean.

A ball game, a drive-in movie, and precious stolen moments with the object of our affection. The vision in the summer dress who dances barefoot in the sand and renders a sight of both enchanting ecstasy, and hopeless despair. For the movie character Hermi those dreams turned suddenly into reality one night. But the very next morning turned to into an emptiness that would last through all the seasons of his remaining life. The background noises of summer rise far above the sounds of any other competing season. The pace of your heart gets into a rhythm of waves crashing, clubs meeting balls, crickets humming, and sailboats casting their sail on the reflections of turquoise lakes. The hanging willows distinctly separate the shade from the from bright light of the sun. And while our bodies want to soak in as much of the suns energy while it lasts the shade is a soothing place to seek refuge and calculate our next move.

When summer moves past the solstice the days begin to grow shorter as the “dog days of summer “approach.  Soon will come “summers official” holiday celebrating the birth of the United States of America. A day, that in the year 1776, a group of revolutionary colonists signed a Declaration of Independence cutting the chord of their mother (Great Britain). The Fourth of July to this day remains the center piece of independence, freedom, and all things summer. The prep work of the fireflies in June are the prelude to a huge firework display. In the summer of 1942 American young men were being sent to Europe to combat forces of evil, doing their best to protect the freedoms of the individual sovereignty declared in the Declaration of Independence. Many of these young men would not return to take in the summer of 1943. For the likes of Hermi and his summer running mates, who by fortunate timing, did not have to make the ultimate sacrifice associated with storming beaches abroad. Hermi, Benji and Oscy did not lose their lives, or any limbs, only their innocence.

 In the summer of 1942 America escalated its war efforts due east,  “over there”. Hermi would spend that summer out of sight of the fight, exploring an island on the New England Sound as a 15-year-old coming of age. By only a couple of years Benji, and his peers had been 3 years too early to carry weapons on the beaches of Omaha and Normandy. Their main concern on soft summer days was sneaking into pharmacies seeking contraceptives to protect themselves from sexual conquests that were unlikely to come to pass.

The Summer of 1942 has seen 82 summers past as we move towards the canicular days of 2024. Not much has changed about the design of summer in that stretch of years. The environmentalists tell us the earth is getting hotter and dooms day is just around the corner. In the summer of Herman Raucher’s youth, it was the Nazis, or the Communists that were the boogie man. In the summer of 2024, it is mostly the enemies within us that have become our most feared opponents. But the foes of our present still must step aside when we arrive at the summer solstice and past the fourth of July. In the movie ‘Summer of 42’ the main character (Hermie) is up to the normal tomfoolery of a summer in a beach community. During Hermie’s summer explorations he falls for an older woman whose husband has gone off to make the supreme sacrifice. When we look back into the past, we can see parallel events of today to answer questions as to the why’s of the present and prognostications of our future. The average temperatures on the Nantucket sound are similar in the summer of 2024 as they were in the summer of 1942. Teenage boys and girls still search the summer nights for romance, and sunsets of orange fire don’t have a care for what calendar year it is. The bombs still fly on the other side of the pond, but just like the summer of 1942 when the whole world was at war and in peril, there were discerns of guiltlessness to be found. In the incorruptibility of our summer youth the magic floats in front of our eyes as the storm clouds build up fast and dump the wrath of nature upon our nurturing. For Hermi, like the stories of many teens, the summer was a sudden lesson on the frailties of our lives and how fast all can be found, and then lost.

At the end of the movie “Summer of 42” Hermi recollects all the experience he has gained in the summer that was now behind him. Still, hauntingly he tries to come to terms with all that has transpired. Hermi discovered the summer wishes us goods things. It heightens every sensation to an intensity that will never be found in other seasons. At the same time Hermi learned the ecstasy that can go along with love sometimes evaporates faster than any anxiety waiting for it to be delivered. Yes, summer can guide us to the wonder of it all and eventually leave us standing desperately alone when the subtle shift of the wind turns to fall. We all have those summer moments that will stay with us no matter what life dishes out in the isolated winters of our lives. Raucher wrote his Academy Award screenplay about his summer coming of age story in 1971, 30 years after spending the summer on the Massachusetts beach with his aunt and uncle. His bittersweet story centered around the night he spent with the young lady of his dreams, (Dorothy.. played stunningly by Jennifer O’Neill) the same day of her discovering her fiancé had become a casualty of war. Hermi is the narrator who takes us through a summer on the Nantucket sound in the eyes of a 15-year-old and his two buddies (Oski and Benji) in the year 1942. As we head directly into the summer of 2024 the circumstance of the world is quite like Hermi all those years ago. The young men and women coming of age still can relate to the same arousing energy as all the summers that came before.

“The summer knows, the summer’s wise, she sees the doubt within your eyes.” In beginning days of the summer of 2024, the 15-year-olds are still running in the lawns and sandy beaches chasing elusive fireflies. In Hermie’s case the fireflies morphed into the sharp arrow of a love that would penetrate his soul like no other ever would. We all have a summer of “42”.  Was it the time at your relative’s cabin, or local watering hole, or Long Beach Island, or maybe a lake in the Catskills?  As we tread timidly into the summer of 2024 another reckoning of lost innocence presents itself. In the real-world Herman Raucher had his first experience with romance in a beach house on the Nantucket sound.. A summer that built into a confusing end of bittersweet permanence. Hermi would never she the object of his adolescent affection again. The War across the Atlantic would end three summers later, and the summers retuned to some sort of normalcy for the entire world. Watching the ‘Summer of 42’ is sure to bring a tear to your eye. It is sure to bring you back to the summer place where you seemed to jump far ahead while at the same time leaving the most tender parts of you in scrapbooks. In the last scene of the movie Hermi looks at the house of his summer fling before turning to join his friends Oski and Benji back at the beach. The narrator tells us ‘I never saw Dorothy again or learned of what became of her.”  “And if we’ve learned our lessons well there is little more for her to tell.” As we dive into the summer of 2024 there is still hope that maybe, just maybe this will be the summer we find it all.

The time was long ago, yet the vibrations and imagery were as fresh as the events of yesterday. In the early September of 1978, the world seemed to be between maladies, if only for the moment. Inside the head of an 18-year-old , who was away from his tiny acre, his mind was more tumultuous than what would be deemed normal by his peers and adults who crossed his path. As he entered the first class of his college artriculation his thoughts were between concern and numbness. He took a seat, in the back row, a large gap separated himself from the instructor,  but was not completely isolated from the rest of the students. Freshman English was mandatory fare in most liberal arts institutions across America. The core subjects, a spot of religion, philosophy, and the sciences were fit into a broad curriculum that assured the future graduates were exposed to a variety of tastes on their way to a sheepskin. For himself, freshman English appeared as frightening as the rest of his first semester schedule which included intermediate French, and American History. He had arrived on campus as a declared communications major. English had been his best, most accomplished field in high school, but this academic specification of college grammar and literature made him queasy. He was not sure of anything, except that he was inwardly petrified of his current situation yet determined not to expose himself. The professor entered the newly constructed Center for the Arts building after most of the class participants had settled in ready to let the learning commence. The “lone ranger” in the rear had one goal, a singular motivation: personal survival. A piece of paper, which he discovered was called a syllabus, was passed out to each class participant. It contained a listing of homework assignments, as well as scheduled exam dates. ‘Holy Batman’, he muttered under his breath. The syllabus contained the name of the one required novel which could be purchased in the student bookstore. Most of the other reading materials were grammatical journals on spelling, punctuation, and sentence construction. At the very top of the syllabus was a novel  that he noticed was written only four years ago. ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ written by Robert M. Pirsig.

The professor could not have been better caste as the elite wise sage. He could have effortlessly played the part of ‘Mr. Charles Edward Chipping’ in the classic version of the famed film ‘Goodbye Mr. Chips’. Dr. Thornburg looked like a mixed clone of Robert Donat (1939), and Peter O’ Toole (1969) who each performed to separate generations as the English boarding school headmaster ‘Mr. Chips’. The tale spun insightful lessens of a teacher guiding young men as they were coming of age. Dr. Thornburg, beyond appearance, was a vintage academic. For the late teens under his charge, he had the look of a man well in his 50’s, closer to the end of his career than the beginning. On that first day of the new semester, he adorned what turned out to be his standard attire for classroom presentation, a bow tie in a full suit effect. His audible delivery was deliberate and measured. He was doing what he been called to do (within the rigid parameters of a structured curriculum); get impressible immature minds to think for themselves. For the angry young man in the back of the room there wasn’t much of a chance for the crafty mentor to penetrate the firm shell which had only started to harden. The first day of class was dismissed and the confused kid headed directly to the school bookstore, located only a football field away. He made one purchase, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” His ride, still fully loaded with his luggage, made the way up Chew Street to locate what would be his home for the next four years.

The back parking lot of Martin Luther dormitory was adjacent to Memorial Hall the center of all athletic activities on campus. The official Orientation Weekend for freshman had ended the night prior. He left his baggage behind and started his sojourn to find his living quarters with not a single connection as to how, or where the cards would fall. The room number was 250, which turned out to be both the closest dorm room on campus to Memorial Hall and the smallest in geographic size. These are the leftovers you get when you are barely invited to the party and are the last to show up. The connections have been made and the plans have already been laid out. Leaving behind all his belongings he tepidly climbed the stairs to the second floor with nothing in his hand but his Book on motorcycle maintenance. On the first day of classes of the fall semester of 1978 it was eerily quiet as he knocked on the first door on the left. No answer. So, he walked through the unlocked door to find a sparsely decorated room, especially what was to be his side. On the left as he entered there was a life size poster of what looked to be some sort of modern-day James Dean. The young man on the poster was wearing a white tee-shirt (sleeves rolled) and a pair of faded levies, neatly coordinated with a pair of black army boots. The disturbing fact was that the new arrival had no idea who the man on poster was. It wouldn’t take long before he got an introduction, and to hear all about, (without much choice in the matter) everything “Boss”. The man on the wall, who was born to run was posing for his latest non-commercial album ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town’. But in the immediate moment he mumbled to himself, ‘who the fuck is that greaser’ while finding a seat on his naked bed gripping tightly to only to his copy of ‘Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’. 

From the moment he saw ‘the title’ on the syllabus he knew that the presentation of the cover was going to be the major obstacle to him embracing this novel.  First off, ‘who the heck is Zen?’ Next, motorcycles were a turn off for him, as was the maintenance of any kind of machinery. He flipped through the pages,  ‘too long winded to keep focus.’  A story of a father and son traveling through the desolate landscape of the Dakota’s, Wyoming, and Montana. As he read ahead there appeared to be nothing but storms on the horizon; tornadoes, hail, heavy rain, extreme range in temperatures to go along with high winding mountain roads. The back jacket insinuating that amid their travail’s the father and son were chasing ghosts that had been on their route in a different era. Sitting alone, in the early afternoon light streaming into the Martin Luther dorm room, staring at the poster on the wall and clutching this ratchet story he forced back tears while assessing his plight. ‘This is it,’ he whispered to himself. It is time to buckle up and face the music. The metaphors had him surrounded, but this 18-year-old didn’t understand the definition of metaphor nor was he able to recognize one. He took one more look at the poster on the opposite wall and the book in his hands. ‘Man am I a long way from New Paltz’ . He shook his head silently before making his way back onto the grounds of his new home in search of the Ettinger Building and his second collegian class, intermediate French.

That first semester of college in the fall of 1978 would turn out to be the most transforming of his life. He didn’t get past page ten of his first reading assignment and still maintains not a recollection of any discussions that Dr. Thornburg had with the class regarding the only assigned novel. The professor was generous enough to give the lackluster student an average grade for a below average performance. At the time, freshman English had very little impact on the growth that would happen within himself the next four years. He changed majors twice, joined a fraternity, played some basketball, was shot by cupid’s bow once, maybe twice, and overall called the college experience ‘a successful step’ to the beginning of the rest of his life. After receiving his BS in American History, he left the stage and headed into the world of education as a teacher of history.

Flash forward 46 years, the same kid, now nearing the end of his personal journey, was browsing in a bookstore looking somewhat settled and appearing to be in no rush. The book’s title was not going to confuse him all these years later. His eyes fell upon Robert Pirsig’s ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’. He had barely noticed that through the years Pirsig’s metaphorical mechanism examining the journey of life, told through the steady voice of the narrator, had gathered a cult like following. His eyes were fixed on the edited cover. There it was again, unexpectedly staring at him one more time through all the in-betweens. He had heard some of the fanfare, “it will change your life.” The still cynical older man gave his reaction inaudibly, ‘yeah, yeah’. There was a long hesitation before he reached down and picked up the 440-page text and walked bewildered to the checkout line. Could it have been Dr. Thornburg had a premeditated long-term plan for his freshman charges?  How could a scholarly man like himself, think anyone in that class had lived enough life to comprehend the massive metaphors of the human condition as freshmen in college? Did he expect any adolescence would to be able to absorb a story of the possibilities of past lives and connecting those possibilities to the lives we were struggling through in the present? Was it possible he could think that far into our futures? “They may not get this now, but someday if they are fortunate enough to survive deep into life this book will come back to them.” Could the wise professor be that prophetic?  He thought about Dr. Thornburg as he read the book cover to cover, word for word, within a couple of days this time around. In between the lines of the pages some of the answers to the questions he didn’t know how to ask in the days of his maturation lie right in front of him. When he finished there was no regret, only appreciation.

The second Saturday of April is known as “moving day’ to the folks of Augusta Georgia. But at the 2024 Master’s the gusts from the God’s were keeping the leaderboard still. Scottie Scheffler, who has developed into the best player in the world started the day with a one-shot lead that he would have to sleep on going into the final round. Trying to rest with a lead the night before the final round of a four round tourney is a bittersweet experience. You can see yourself donning the green jacket and you can envision your golf ball drowning in Ray’s Creek. The great champions find a way to control their mental state if they are to go on to win multiple major championships, while the rest end up in history’s dustbin of runner-up’s. Tuning in last Saturday I began my annual pilgrimage (via television) to “The Masters” weekend. For one week of the year golf lovers get to watch the premier players in the world go to golf’s heaven to compete for a green jacket. As naturally as the world keeps rotating around the sun, the powers to be at Augusta have remained unusually unchanged since the inaugural event back in 1934. Over the years putting on the green jacket, that recognized the winner, is without debate the most coveted prize in golf. The drive through the magnolias towards the imperial clubhouse is the sweetest ride in golf. Once the player is emerging from the magnolias he is entering a time and space that exists no where else on this earth.

In a world that is currently completely upside-down “The Masters” hangs onto to the strict rules of privatization and capitalism principles of “don’t t tell us how to run our Country Club.”  Amazingly, over the years, advertisers, the players, the networks, and the nation as a whole look the other way at discrimination and elitism that have always ruled this club which is still held in such reverence. There are both magmatic leaders and dangerous leaders in this world, and then there is the “Board of Directors at Augusta”. At Augusta National the Chairman of that Board is Ceasar who is a one-way street for all things Augusta National. The Masters is run with an iron hand, with the goal being “we run the best golf tournament in the universe, and we run it exactly the way we want. Proceed at your own peril.” “The Masters” is determined to leave the world behind and create an environment designed for their fantasies. The enormous elephant in the room at Augusta is its dark history of misogyny and racism. It was not until 1975 that the first black professional golfer (Lee Elder) was allowed to compete for “The Masters” title. The only blacks driving down Magnolia Lane in those days were the help. As recently as 1995 “The Masters” was boycotted due to the club’s practice of “no women” on the golf course. These deep scars from paradise’s past cast ominous shadows over the entire grounds which are 100% ignored by the shills announcing. That year the Travelers and Cadillac pulled their ads, and “The Masters” ran the tournament without a hitch, or a sponsor free. Nobody tells the good “ole boys” of Augusta how to run their club. Yes, they gracefully put away their blatant racism in 1997 and embraced Tiger Woods as “The Masters” second greatest champion.

In the year 2024, the Board of Directors at “The Masters” has woken up to the social issues that they used to turn the other cheek to. But they haven’t given into inflation, or any sub-standard conditions on the golf course. Ice cream sandwiches cost 50 cents for the patrons during the tournament. Hot dogs are one dollar. And how about a cold Heineken for a dollar fifty. Change is not the favorite word for the old white geezers that run the show. The word tradition is the most important from the Augusta’s board point of view. With a few exceptions (WWII) the green jacket (even through Covid) is put on the eventual winner of the grandest tournament of them all. There is not a pro out there on the course who has not dreamed the same dream to someday tee it up at Augusta with a shot to put on the green jacket Sunday evening. “The Masters” have been doing it the same way  since what seems to be the beginning of time. And not a single commentator, member, or patron is going to say one irreverent word about the dark history of America’s favorite Country Club. Surprisingly enough in the year 2024 the winds on Saturday at “The Masters” kept the leader board spookily still.

Despite its jaded track record of white male elitism, the week of “The Masters” remains one of the most watched events on American television. The Tuesday night, prior to the opening shots being fired, the legends of golf gather in the founder’s room of the clubhouse for the past “Champions Dinner”. Each year the prior champ hosts the traditional  “victors only dinner”. This year the host was Jon Rahm, who had caused quite a stir the week before announcing he had accepted 350 million dollars to leave the PGA tour and join LIV. Rahm’s menu selection was a feast with all the goodies made for the heartiness of Spaniard taste buds. On Wednesday, the tournaments families get to participate with the players in the traditional par three tournament this year won by Rickie Fowler. These events build for the Thursday morning when golf’s big three (Jack Nicklaus ,Gary Player, and Tom Watson ) walked through the early morning dew to launch the ceremonial tee shots that begins the gala. At the Masters the storylines are always titillating. This year the between the lines gossip was focused on Rory McIlroy. Would he win his first green jacket to secure the grand slam, (winning the PGA’s four major tournaments), would he take $850,000,000 from Greg Norman and become the final sellout to the PGA tournament. By the time Sunday evening rolled around neither had transpired. But on Thursday morning at “The Masters” the storylines are put on hold, and it feels like opening day of the baseball season (they fall close together on the calendar). “Everybody was even par, and everybody’s dreams were fresh.”

So much has changed in this world over the past fifty years, but the lords of Augusta National continue to spend unlimited dollars to do everything in their power to keep their sacred traditions of “The Masters” preserved. As the tournament began Thursday morning, 89 invitees were ready to fight for a chance to compete at the highest of levels of golf on gods’ acre. Bryson DeChambeau, the independent rich bad boy of LIV fame dominated the leader board for most of the first two days. DeChambeau, who did find a way to win the U’S. Open at Winged Foot back in 2020, has become a symbol of a new breed of golfer who respects “The Masters” traditions but certainly marches to his own drum when attacking “The Masters” set up. As DeChambeau ultimately faltered in his attempt to outdrive Augusta, Scottie Scheffler rose quietly to the top of the leaderboard. Once on top, today’s hottest golfer in the world put on a clinic in remaining a “calm cool customer.” Scheffler used his depth patience and honed talent to show the world that on the golf course “he has all tools to continue to be a great champion for years to come.” On Sunday night when the green jacket was placed on Scheffler’s shoulders, the God’s of Augusta took their annual deep breath. The old blue bloods of Augusta don’t like controversy and Scottie Scheffler is as close to perfect you’re going to get these days. A true blue “good guy” with a beautiful family and great head on his shoulders. The future is his for the taking.

The time of the second Sunday of April had arrived. As Scheffler made his way through the crowd, his caddie walked side by side hoisting the flag from the 18^th green making their way to the Butler Cabin. “The Masters” had what they wanted. Scottie Scheffler hugging his parents marching through the thralls of well wishers like Marc Anthony returning to Rome after the conquering had been done. The victory march ends in the Butler Cabin, and a presentation that is scripted the same way it has been the last 70 years. Augusta’s Chairman Fred Riley congratulated the low amateur (Neal Shipley) before turning to Jon Rahn, signaling the time for the past Masters champion to put the green jacket on the new conquering hero. Scottie Scheffler had won his second green jacket of what is sure to be many more to come. At the age of 28 he had already secured his place amongst the gods of “The Masters”. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Scheffler said politely as tears rolled off his eyes in front of four million viewers. Late into the Georgia night Scheffler came out of the Butler Cabin to greet family and friends patiently awaiting the new king. Among the missing was his wife, home expecting their first child. The night before Scheffler had said that if he got the call, he was leaving the course immediately, even if it were on the seventy second hole with a lead. That sounded good to the crowd, but the god’s at the Augusta would have never stood for it. As the rest of word remains shakingly upside down The Masters got through another year doing things just the way they like.