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As March continues to roar like a lion, I am reminded of my own words that I have repeated many times . “ When Laura and Mary Kate are of college age I will only be  found in warm climates during the winter months.” Last Tuesday, after I could not get my car out of the driveway due to 30 inch snow drifts , I had reached a breaking point . I returned to my place of refuge and wrote down the recent stream of consciousness that has been flowing through my mind.

It is quite possible Donald Trump is on to something… global warm might be a  hoax after all.

Someone told me shoveling snow was one of the leading causes of death for men  over 50……. I am one hundred percent sure that is not how I will die.

Sydney Australia looks real nice this time of year….. something about it being on the other side of the hemisphere.

My college spring break was a couple a days in Atlantic City………not a cruise to Cozumel.

Sean Spicer should think about wearing a helmet  before Trump shoots him out of a cannon every day.

I am not even close to being over the Super Bowl…… but hopeful I will be, by September.

Nocturnal Animals was one of the best movies I’ve seen in a very long time….. It was written and acted for only the big and the brave . Promise not to be a spoiler , but, there are two endings and both are great..

I wish I had traveled to warm places when I was in college. Instead I live vicariously through my two daughters.

If I haven’t said it enough, my daughter Laura is basically perfect.

Gay Talese wrote a new book called ‘High Points’. In the book is a re-publication of the story he wrote for Vanity Fair in 1966. It is called ‘Frank Sinatra has a Cold”. If you are a fan of the Rat Pack or simply enjoy brilliant writing it is must read. Yeah I know hard to believe…… Gay Talese is still alive.

Just when I am losing total interest in watching sports on TV I got in see Wisconsin upset Villanova and Michigan upset Louisville …… and oh yeah The Masters is coming up. I think I’ll stay tuned for another week and a half.

Mary Kate goes to the beach. I am in the snow. Oh look–there goes MK jumping from a plane. Oh look—there goes Mk climbing the Blue Mountains. Oh look—there is Mk at a Justin Bieber concert.

I wear over-priced clothing… some of my friends even call me pretentious ……..they must be joking , right?

I attended father- daughter sorority week-end alone  last year at FSU. This year it is mother- daughter sorority week-end …… . I will be along for the ride.

I can’t wait to get back to recording my conversations. I have two scheduled in the next few weeks.

Mo’ money mo ’problems .

The science fiction, fantasy genre usually does nothing for me. With ‘Game of Thrones’ I make an exception. Bring on the dragons, ice walls, dead walkers, eunuchs, wildlings, and Giants. The chase to the throne continues in late April…. I can’t wait.

Geography  is not my specialty , but when you accuse of me of not knowing what continent Mexico is a part of you better be ready to fight…… I’m sure it’s in South America?

Trump claims that evidence of voter fraud and Obama’s wire tapping will be brought forth shortly. Pretty much will be about the same time O.J.’s going to bring forth the real killer of Ron and Nicole.

We all have people in our families we wouldn’t mind never seeing again……. But that little guy in North Korea takes things a little too far…. Don’t you think?

Seeing A-Rod prancing around Miami with J-Lo gives me goose bumps. I think this time it may be true love.

Make me watch La La Land.

I know, I know , you never can tell what weather March brings to the Northeast…….but still

Listening to congressional hearings regarding the Russian influence on our recent Presidential election is eye opening. Now what happened election day at my polling place makes sense. That guy walking around whispering to everyone “ we know where you live comrade, vote for Trump.” I am now convinced this is the reason Hillary Clinton lost.

Ok Mary Kate you don’t have to keep convincing me , I am believe you that University of Sydney is equivalent to a Ivy League school.

Laura is living large in Tallahassee . Mary Kate is soaking up the Australian sun. I am here in the snow. I will complain all I want about my upside down world.

Upside-down and inside-out……just like my pockets.

Oh look – there goes MK to the Australian rules football championships.

 

 

The collegians were walking with a casual sense of purpose across the campus of Florida State University. It was just before 9am on an ordinary Tuesday morning in the middle of a north Florida February. The black Tahoe made its way gingerly through the tight interior campus streets and sea of back-packed students. These were brave Seminoles who apparently did not fear the anxieties that can go along with an early morning class. The warm brilliance of the sun was hitting me hard, still, I pushed my  sun glasses up to have a closer, less-shaded look. There had been a time when these moments would make  my eyes moisten and take me backwards to some sappy reflection of a wasted  youth. During my long, extended vacation I deliberately decided it was time to take a giant step forward in my life. It was true. I had allowed myself to stay in neutral the past two years. It was common for me to resist change, and hang on much too tightly to what had gone before. Certainly, I reluctantly made adjustments in my life, even re-invented myself more than once. Observing the undergraduates moving to their sunrise classes I knew it was time to do it again.  As I drove by Doak Campbell stadium and turned onto Varsity Drive, I let my Ray Bans drop down over my peepers. Now, I needed to block the sun and go back to who I was, who I am, and the dreams of who I can become.

Prior to making the trip up I-495 to Tallahassee, I had been on my annual golf vacation in Orlando. Eight guys, who, for six days indulge in golf, gambling, drinking, along with eating every meal as if they are going to the electric chair. The plane leaving the ground aimed towards Orlando was a cruel reminder on my 57th birthday, that I am much closer to a landing than a take-off.

Each morning I awakened to the sounds of high-powered lawn mowers, the first tee starters voice, and the door opening as my roommate returned from his early morning work-out. I have continually returned to this golfing haven in the sun for approximately 25 years. Although the cast has rotated over the years, the script for the trip remains intact.  In the 51 weeks of the year that I am not at Bay Hill, I have managed to remain married, raise two children, switch careers three times, been fired, been broke, and found a way to become comfortable financially. The people I travel with have been knocked around themselves, some are still married, some are not .They have lost children, jobs, money, and the strut of youth. What we all share is the understanding of the shortness of life. We embrace the idea that things keep changing as we challenge ourselves to find ourselves.  In recent years, our golfing efficiency is fading, the dinner bills get more expensive, and we raise each other more at the poker table.  At the end of this trip, instead of being tired of each other, we talked about coming back in November and not waiting a full year. As I say to almost all proposed adventures these days – “I am in”.

The sun continued to blister in the blue sky. My ride was already waiting for me outside the Bay Hill lodge. “Austin get over here and get my bag in the trunk, I don’t want to miss any of the Super Bowl.”
A cold corona in hand, I hopped into the back seat of my caddy-for-the-week’s red 2010 Toyota Camry. From the driver’s seat Austin turned to me and said, “Rich, meet my girlfriend Shay.” This unlikely threesome headed west out of Arnold Palmer’s old stomping grounds toward Tampa’s Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. Austin, the tall, lean, handsome, young man from Nowhere, Wisconsin, is dreaming of making his living as a professional golfer. “I am going to work and let Austin pursue a living on the tour,” chimed in his future bride Shay. Trying to balance my admiration for anyone chasing their passion and my practical experience of knowing that most fall short, I did not speak and just nodded my head. I wanted to tell my new young friends all I had witnessed in the past: Young athletes, with no plan B, one-dimensional dreamers who, after falling short of exaggerated ambition, never grow into fulfilled adults. After thinking about my own sometimes failed lofty dreams, I continued chugging on my beer in silence.
About ten minutes before kick-off, the three of us checked in the Hard Rock, secured a seat at the bar, ordered up a seafood platter and were ready to watch some football.
The morning after the Super Bowl, Austin, Shay and I woke up with a Super Bowl hangover that I knew any recovery from would take a while. I dropped mucho shekels as the Atlanta Falcons stole defeat from victory. My two traveling companions drove me back to Orlando where I picked up my black Tahoe rental. Seeking balance and a dose of reality, I pointed my borrowed car north. Surely a surprise visit to Laura in Tallahassee would be the welcome respite I needed. As I hit the open highway, I checked all my messages which had been purposely ignored during the past few days. Besides the usual array of clients, friends and family, there were two texts that jolted my attention. One was from a CNN reporter, and the other from the director of the Oval Office Operations Keith Schiller. CNN is doing a profile on my childhood friend who is now one of the top advisors to the President of the United States. A peer from my adolescence, who the odds said would  never make it out of New Paltz, was now the man closest to the most powerful person in the world. Cruising at 85 mph past Jacksonville, I picked up my phone to return my calls. On hold, I thought about the gap between Austin and Keith. One pursing, and the other already finding the Holy Grail. It really is all about the in-between. Somewhere in that canyon we either get to who we are or we don’t. A familiar thought came over me. I need to keep changing, growing, and evolving. I have been a good time Charlie, a husband, a teacher, a coach, a father, an insurance broker, an entrepreneur and an ex-jock. There is so much more to who I want to become. I raised the radio volume, and my speed, and kept moving down the highway.
FSU’s football stadium is right across the street from my daughter’s apartment. I did not let Laura know I was coming to see her so it was a surprise to catch her home studying. My first child is one of 35,000 undergraduates at Florida’s State University, and every one of them has a lifetime of choices ahead, the person they will marry, the career path they will follow, where they will look to settle,  all the major decisions I have had to make. All of the opportunity that lay ahead for them to go on that journey of trying to become who they are supposed to be. I have the hope that Laura is one of the enlightened ones, one of the lucky ones who will be decisive enough to make well calculated choices, yet strong enough to not be bound by them. During my overnight visit, it was reinforced that Laura is much further down the path of growth than I was at 21. She understands patience and the benefits of not rushing into long-term commitment. If she is ever going to reach her full potential she will have to get knocked down early and often. Hopefully she will come through those times stronger, resilient, and more appreciative for all she accomplishes going forward. “You can have it all Laura. Be patient and independent and every door you knock on will open for you.” At my age I figured a father’s advice may finally have some credibility.

The last leg of my journey was a six hour ride from Tallahassee to the Hard Rock Hotel in Ft. Lauderdale. Alone again, approaching south Florida with the sun setting on the horizon I was passing Exit 352 on Interstate 495. I read the sign aloud “Silver Springs”.

It sounded like a metaphoric place where we all want to go. A place where life experience is valued, an intellectual, spiritual haven where learning and mentoring are equals. Only the well-rounded and weathered travelers are welcomed. A place that getting to will be less important than embracing the idea. The sun had gone down, completely. In the clouds of the half- light, I saw the cast of characters  that had interloped in my latest adventure: my golfing buddies, Keith, Austin, Shay, and Laura. In the twilight of my thoughts, we all raised our glasses and made a toast in unison,  “ To Silver Springs.”

Approximately one mile north of the hamlet of New Paltz the music was crashing out of the amplifiers. The summer of 1978 had officially started only a few days prior. Orleans, a Woodstock, NY-bred rock band, who had recorded their share of top ten singles, was playing to a full house. For an 18 year old, small town jock, working his first night behind the bar, this was as good as it gets. It was sometime during the final set that I heard her voice over the crowd, “I’ll have a Stoli and soda.” I knew immediately who it was. Almost six feet tall with long blond tresses that fell halfway down her back, with a figure to rival any model on the catwalk; she made an impression that stayed with you. Making every effort to play it straight, I delivered her libation simply stating, “That’s a buck twenty five.” She handed me two George Washington’s and coolly posed the question that kept my attention for years to come. “Are you Rich Siegel?”

By the time she turned 16, Chris Casper had the kind of looks that made any man’s neck swivel. I was playing basketball for New Paltz High School when I first saw her. We were visiting Onteora High in Boiceville, NY when I felt a tap on my shoulder. My teammate Todd Krieg leaned his eyes to the left, “Hey Richie, check it out.” I turned towards the home team’s locker room and let the basketball slip from my hands so it would find its way into the vicinity of Todd’s sighting. The stray hoop was right at her feet as I reached down and straightened myself to be face to face for my forced introduction. It turned out to be more of a face to neck meeting. My six foot frame was about a head below my new acquaintance, who’d had her hands filled with a rack of water bottles. The manager for Onteora’s basketball team had high heels on and was drop dead stunning. “Hi, do you know who I am?” was the best I could stutter. Chris Casper looked at me blankly and continued on her way.

From out of the throngs of drunk teens that summer night in Speakers, she was standing in front of me once more. Only this time she acknowledged knowing who I was. “Yes, I am Richie Siegel, I kind of introduced myself to you this winter.’’ Miss Casper smiled and we shared some small talk about why she was visiting my hometown. I was unaware at the time that one of her friends snapped a polaroid of the two of us during our brief exchange. As it turned out, Chris was in Speakers club that evening to watch her boyfriend Lance Hoppen who was a guitar player for Orleans. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Twice our paths had crossed in close up settings and yet I was unable to make a lasting connection. I would never see Chris Casper again; still I never got her face out of my mind. Over the years I continued to wonder what could have become of that radiant girl that flashed through my life. I was pretty sure she married Mick Jagger, or maybe Michael Jordan. The girl from Woodstock with the looks of a movie star certainly was destined to live a large life. Maybe she married a rich Sheik, had six kids, and lived in a Saudi Arabian palace. I always wondered about people who grow up fast. Eventually all of us have to run out of time and youth.

I knew where the road began for Chris Casper, I had an idea of where the trail led, but not a clue as to where she would end up. I hadn’t thought much about it in recent years, so when a Facebook friend request came in, it took me a second to grasp who it was. The girl who had been only a vision to me in my youth, was now looking at me in a photograph some 40 years later. Chasing a good story has developed into a passion for me, and I was sure Chris had some stories to tell about the decades that had passed. I wanted to know what she recalled about our brief passing moments. I wanted to hear the highlights of her journey between then and now.

The returned messages came from all the way across the great divide, from the little town of Laguna Hills in California. Today, Chris Casper is a California girl through and through. It turns out her life on the periphery of the rock world was fleeting. She lived with rockers Kane Roberts and Alice Cooper for several years, and owned a private investigator business. At 41, she married a high school football coach, and the two have enjoyed a fulfilled and content life together.

Like all of us, Chris Casper has no choice but to live with the decisions she made along the way. We can never turn back, we can only move forward powered by the past. All those years ago Chris Casper was a barely heard whisper in my ear. She was there, and then she was gone. To hear her story today causes both a smile and a tear. I had always envisioned that bigger-than-life young girl was enamored by my achievements on the basketball court. That she was so star struck, she picked me out in a bar that led to a few blissful rendez- vous’. Her version differs slightly.

Okay, maybe more than slightly. She contends we met one night at a club, snapped a picture together never to see each other again. She did not recall me scoring 50 points against the team for which she was the student manager. She has no recollection of the two of us looking for love under the dashboard lights. It is painfully humbling for me to think  her memory of how it all happened may be better than mine. I have come to understand my past gets more out of focus as I put more and more years behind me.

In the big scheme of things we are here for a flash of time. During our brief moment we have so many choices, so many decisions to make. I am not aware of one person who is here after a dress rehearsal. We, succeed, we fail. We win, we lose. We build, we tear down. For sure, we only go around once. On an individual level when our time on this earth is over, nothing much matters. But while we live everything matters. Chris Casper is all of us. Her journey still has some avenues left. It is human to look back and second guess, to reach into one’s soul and see victory and to see defeat, to see fulfillment and to see emptiness.

One soft summer night, nearly half a century ago Chris Casper and I shared a wink, for just a moment in time. It was inevitable that we headed down the road in opposite directions. Catching up to her in the present is unlikely.  Our points of view on our meeting in Speakers are totally opposite. To me, it was some sort of validation of who I was at the time. To Chris Casper, it was a photograph with a cute guy in a bar while her rocker boyfriend preformed on stage. Still, we share an uncommon bond. Sometimes in my quiet moments, I turn around sensing something sneaking up behind me. When I look back what I see is too blurry to make out any details. What is my reality and what is just my imagination running away from me? Chris Casper convinced me…it really doesn’t matter.

 
Lance Hoppen and Orleans

 

It was November the 12^th, and election day 2016 was  four days in the past. By the time the late fall sun was ready to set behind the Catskill Mountains the crowd of protesters outside of Uncle Willy’s Tavern had dissipated to a few  . The gathering had started much earlier in the day . At its’ height there were as many as 50 who took to the pavement to let the drivers and passengers  in the vehicles that passed know how unhappy they were with the results of America’s vote on the new President.  Their demonstration was  sedentary,  filled with signs and chants. “Dump Trump, We’re still here,” and “He’s not our President, ”rang out  across the corner of Wall and North Front Street.” It wasn’t anger I heard in their voices, it was fear I saw in their faces. A woman with a baby strapped to her back was asked what is it about Donald Trump that makes her so afraid. “Everything, from his position on  gay rights, to him believing the problems with our environment are a hoax. “  Another woman, whose hair happened to be bright yellow spoke  even more vigorously in regards to America’s choice . “ How could this country elect a man whose rhetoric has insulted women, blacks, Mexicans, Muslims and gays.”

The fact is that on Friday January 20^th  2017 Donald J. Trump will be inaugurated  the 45^th President of the United States. Like the pundits, prognosticators, and  mainstream media, the protesters in Kingston N.Y. were both shocked and devastated by the results of the election . “I am so disappointed in the American people,” continued the young lady with the yellow hair.  “ I still am in a state of disbelief.” It could be said that since the Civil war our country has never been so divided .  The divisiveness encompasses  numerous issues: race, immigration, health care, taxes, the second amendment, abortion, and gender.  It is puzzling to realize, President Obama’s popularity is at an all -time high, yet the people did not endorse the continuation of his policies and legacy. It is important to keep in mind that no matter how polarizing  Donald Trump might be, he is  not the second coming of Joseph Stalin, nor is the savior for all the ails us. He is simply an agent of change , who is representative of half  of our populations’    frustration and pain in the way our government has been run. To the rest of Americans he is their worst nightmare in regards to racism, sexism, and totalitarianism .

The educator in me  hopes that there  have been lessons learned from the partition created by the last 18 months of this Presidential election cycle. From a logistics standpoint the process is far too long. The electoral college ,for sure, is an antiquated system, and it  remains hard to trust how our votes are counted. Most important is to try and understand what message was being sent from the ballot box.   The Rust Belt and Middle America , clearly screamed that the working class feels disenfranchised. On the other side  minorities,  the economic poorer class, gays , and various religious sects are terrified of our President elect.  Or as a black friend of mine has said to me , “Make America Great Again,” is code for “Make America White Again.”  Trump received less votes than Mitt Romney did in 2012 and is now the leader of the free world. Hopefully we now understand not to trust polls , and that talking heads on T.V. are not the voice of America. We’ve learned  that the transfer of power is still respected no matter how great the gap in ideology.  Though far from flawless (electoral college, party bias to one candidate over the other, lobbyists and special interest groups) our system is still the best in  the world. We can debate certain specifics but still  our process remains a testament to our founding fathers foresight and to how the principles of democracy work.

As we move forward we will see who the “real” Donald Trump is . The people who did not vote for him think they know. The people who did vote for him hope for change, strength, and compromise. There is no doubt much of his pomposity on the campaign trail gave many groups reason to call him a “hate monger”. It is also true that some of his doctrine hit a nerve of many Americans that feel as though they have been left out. His supporters claim there are two Donald trump’s ; the one running for President, and the one who will be president. Giving him the benefit of the doubt he will be a President of all the people, and given this opportunity he will deliver the things we all want. There isn’t an American who doesn’t want to improve our health care or educational systems. We all want our families to be safe on our own streets and throughout the world. We all want a place to earn a living and be able to provide more for our children. The things we all concur on are far more important than certain social issues that we will never be on the same side of.

Donald Trump will be working with a Republican House and Senate.  Will the probable end to stagnation and grid lock be a good thing? What are some of things that will get done in this country in the next four years. At the very least, two new Supreme Court Judges will be appointed. A wall of some sort will go up between Mexico and the U. S. South West borders. Taxes will go down for  both the rich and the middle class. Obamacare will  be repealed or amended colossally. What about the things that really frighten the 55% Americans that despise Trump ? I choose to take the high road in what will not happen in the next four years . He will not lead us into another conventional  war. Roe vs. Wade will not get overturned. There will not be mass deportation and the break- up of any families already living the United States.  Hillary Clinton will not be prosecuted or persecuted by this new administration. Only time will tell for sure but it is time whether you voted for him or not to give our new leader a chance to lead.

Ironically it was Uncle willy himself who emerged from his Saloon to check out the protesters. “This didn’t happen back in 1976 when I lost the election to Jimmy Carter. We accepted the results and moved on.” He turned his shaking head and retreated to his establishment , but not until he had a last word for the people holding the signs. “Please back up so the patrons can get in to have a drink.” Above the shouts of Americans who thought they couldn’t be heard, the ones who wanted everyone to remember they were still here, were the sounds of the honking cars passing by. Some occupants of the vehicles gave the thumps up and blurted out “Yeah let’s dump Trump.”  Others rolled down their windows and chanted, “Build the wall. “ It was getting dark in Kingston as I turned my back to the commotion and headed west down North Front Street. A boy about 15 was suddenly standing right in front of me. With his hands cupped around his mouth he began taunting the protesters. “Make America Great Again! Make America Great Again!” Now it is time to find out if that is possible.

Over the past 16 years I had run this beach over 100 times. For the first time I can remember, while on one of these excursions, I am not battling a hot morning sun. Today, it’s heavily overcast and any hope of the sun breaking through is minimal.  When you’re spending big bucks so you and your family can search for the perfect tan it certainly isn’t the kind of weather you dream of. Usually my jogs begin around 7:00 am and almost always provides me a time for quiet introspection because I mostly run alone. Recently my knees have not cooperated enough to allow me to do much running but today is an exception. With the clouds laying low my daughter Mary Kate suggests these are the ideal conditions to make our journey across the shore a long one. Never one to pass up a challenge, I embrace the opportunity to hear the rhythmic sounds of the waves and the slow ticking of my dreams as Mary Kate sprints out far ahead.

There is no better place than the ocean to get your mind into a reflective state; to give yourself a chance to look back from where you started and where you’re dreaming about going. As my bare feet pounded into the wet sand I tried to clear my head of the life I left behind in New York.  I tend to get very emotional and evaluative of my place in the world in the proximity of the vastness beside me. In the couple weeks prior to arriving in the Caribbean I had conducted pre-“conversations” interviews with two talented artists chasing their dreams. One was a 46 year woman with three children who still sincerely believes she can be a country western singing star. The other was an 18 year old, Buddy Holly lookalike who is convinced that he is on his way to stardom as a singer, song writer. The meetings made me think of the times long ago when I had my own dreams.  It reminded me where my dreams had gone and, more importantly, the conversations had gotten me to focus on my dreams for tomorrow.

As a kid my dreams were centered on being a sports star. I pictured myself striding up to the 18th green at the Masters with a three shot lead. Or I was on the mound pitching game seven of the World Series. Looking out across the endless sea I chuckled to myself about how quickly I had to put the sporting glory days behind me. My Nashville star told me she had put her childhood dreams aside to raise a family. On the other end of the spectrum, “Buddy Holly” spoke of the certainty of him eventually becoming a star. I listened as he played a set with a band led by local legendary musician who was now in his sixties. Jimmy Eppard is as talented as any musical artist I have ever witnessed in person, yet he is still hammering nails for a living.

I was still running and wondering: When is it time to stop chasing? How do we know when it’s time to move on? By now Mary Kate and I were almost to the other end of the island. She had stopped to wait for me.

“Let’s go all the way to the end,” said my athletic daughter.

I was ready to turn around, but there was no way I was passing up the opportunity to keep running with her. She had so much ahead of her, so much time. On this gray morning it seemed she could run forever. It was the first time I can remember not being able to physically keep up with her youth. We had covered a lot of ground but the distance between us was growing wider. Mary Kate had been waiting several minutes when I reached the far tip of the island.

“Dad you used to be able to keep up,” sighed MK, showing no signs of fatigue.

“I know, I know,” I conceded breathlessly.

Without any further conversation she started running the opposite way from which we came. Her old man had no choice but to start moving and try to catch up.

In many ways I had dreamed of this day, this very moment. A day that years ago I would have bet a large sum of money would never happen. I reminded myself that I was in a place that 30 years prior I had visualized-on vacation with my family on a faraway island. My offspring were no longer children and they were formulating their own dreams now. It was time for them to go on with their lives without me beside them. It was time for me to stay close but always behind. The rest of the day was going to be filled with the stuff my dreams were made of:  A guided Jet Ski tour in the ocean with my older daughter, Laura; writing on the beach; a couple of cold libations; and a beautiful family dinner watching the sunset. Motivated by the notion of what was ahead for the day, I started to run harder.

Tolstoy wrote, “The two strongest warriors are time and patience.” I read that when I was 19 taking a required Russian Literature course. At the time the words gave me reason to pause. Only in the present do I think I have come to understand what he meant. There are time constraints that are universal to everyone. It is for certain that time can, and usually does, expire on our dreams. Instead of being crushed we must find the wisdom to know when to stop chasing the unachievable. We need to develop the patience to understand we have not failed but have just simply run out of time. There are always new dreams to dream. About the time I was absorbing Tolstoy I had accepted my childhood dream of putting on the green jacket at Augusta would never be realized. As I pushed myself to keep moving my legs down the shoreline I caught my second wind. The clouds in the sky were lifting and I sprinted with every bit of energy I had left to catch Mary Kate. It was no use; she was already cooling off in the water.

Although what I dream of these days is far different than the dreams of my adolescence, I’m chasing them with more vigor than ever. I see many grandsons in my future, I see more published books,  and maybe a few more rounds in the 70’s. But mostly I see myself finding serenity and feeing full in a faraway place in the sun.

In the northeast, there always comes a day in the middle of April that spring jumps out in front of you. It makes you feel as if you just walked into a surprise birthday party. The spectacular yellows of the forsythias and daffodils; the brilliant white of the blossoming apple trees, along with the blending gimlet greens of the budding leaves makes even a dying soul feel reborn. On the afternoon of April 15^th as I winded my way along Route 17 along the Beaverkill River, all the hope of spring was in front of me.

I was headed to Ithaca, New York, halfway between arriving and leaving behind all the noise back from whence I came. It was already past the time my youngest daughter, Mary Kate, had expected me.

“I will be there in 45 minutes,” I said to MK over my cell phone. “Yeah, yeah that means an hour,” my wise cracking child snapped back.

Since Mary Kate became a teenager we found our way into a relationship where we do not cut each other any slack. She has struggled living in, what she sometimes believes is, the shadow of her older sister. She has also been intuitive enough to understand that her parents are flawed and her family isn’t like the Walton’s.  I am finally coming to figure out that any tension or anxiety I feel towards MK has to with my realization that her entire persona mirrors her dad as a 19 year old. The past few years as I watch MK going through one of the biggest crossroads in her young life, I also see a young man walking beside her with the same hidden confidence.

In 1979, that young man who  I still catch a glimpse of, was a confused and insecure soul walking the campus of Muhlenberg college in  Allentown Pa. His older brother was a Senior at Brown University with a job, a wife, and a life lined up.  I was in the midst of finding a person I used to know, or one I wanted to become. I had been searching for an easy way, yet I quickly realized everything I was ever going to get out of life was going to come the hard way. In the fall of 1978 I was literally starting from scratch. The first day I stepped on campus I did not know a single person nor had I met anyone prior to my arrival. I struggled to make a Division III basketball team. I was going to class and studying more intensely than I ever had just to get “B”s and “C”s. Against every fiber of my independent bones I pledged a fraternity.  A self- created image of myself as somebody special was evaporating. I was experiencing life as a regular everyday freshman in college, where no one gave a damn about New Paltz, Richie Siegel, or a basketball that said I scored 50 points in one game. Through it all, as emotionally painful as it was for me, I was gaining an understanding that there are times in all our lives we must live in an ordinary world.

By the time I arrived in Ithaca it was only a few minutes before MK and myself were walking downtown to her favorite Mexican restaurant. For mid- April it was unseasonably warm in Ithaca which probably helped diffuse any coolness that existed in our father -daughter relationship. I could sense an opening to tell MK all the things that have been on my mind this past year. As we waited for our table and munched on chips and guacamole I got a chance to hang on her every word. My usually brooding, unsettled daughter was opening up to her dad. She talked about her upcoming field hockey scrimmage that I would be watching the next day. I listened to her tell me about the coaches’ new strategy for the upcoming season. She opened up about her classes, her professors, and her study habits. She went on about her friends and the social scene or in her eyes a lack of one. It was the most conversation the two of had since she was six years old. Even displaying so much positive energy she still talked about longing for something else. In the same sentence, she spoke of transferring to California and who her roommate was going to be next year at Ithaca. I looked across the table at Mary Kate at 19. I was focusing hard to put the memory of this night in a place so I could always retrieve it.

As MK talked into the night I listened harder than I ever had. I was thinking of all the things I wanted to say to her, things I would have loved to hear from my dad in my freshman year at college. At the time I struggled to find who I was and who I wanted to become. Mostly, I want to tell her how proud I am of her. I wanted to say to her that she had proved to herself, her biggest critic, that she had the fortitude and the independence to survive and thrive without her parents. I wanted to tell her how much better she had adjusted to college life than her father did all those years ago. I wanted to tell her how all the trials and tribulations she was having now were all valuable investments to her future. I turned my head away from my daughter’s eyes for a moment to clearly see that angry and scared boy who was many painful years away from becoming a man.

May 1st is always one of my favorite days of the year. It is a day that resonates with hope and possibilities of all that lies ahead. Truly, all things seem possible and all our dreams experience a rebirth. Two weeks past my solo trip to Ithaca I am in my car alone again, only this time headed home. Laura and Donna are in a car tailing me closely while returning MK’s car to Kingston. We had driven up together to have an opportunity for the four of  us to be together for a few days. By the time I reached Roscoe the rain had gotten heavy; still, it did not disturb the bevy of fly fishermen casting their lines in the Beaverkill. I began to think of all the salmon swimming upstream trying to make it home to their birth place.  For the first time I thought about the cycle of life they endured. They started in a stream and found their way to the ocean only go to against the tide back to their home stream to lay their eggs.  I was picturing MK and myself as rebellious salmon swimming hard against the current. We were determined to not let of any of the lines cast get in the way of our journey. It didn’t make sense that we were traveling side by side. I had already been to the ocean and back. I had gotten tangled in so many lines but somehow had found my way home and laid my eggs. MK and myself were rushing through the cold water navigating the fishermen’s traps. I had been through the maze before. I knew the way back, I knew the route of least resistance. I wanted to tell her how to avoid the bait that was in front of her. I had made so many mistakes on my own voyage. If she would just let me help her, if only there was a way to tell her how the hooks floating on the surface had scarred me. My day dream ended as Laura and Donna went zooming by approaching the exit to Liberty. I had to remind myself I was alone and MK was left behind in Ithaca to complete her finals. I couldn’t help but smile knowing she was never going to listen to my tales of trying to head up the river. She was far too busy creating her own path. She is going to all the places I have been. Watching her growth during this year I am confident she will find her way back up stream in much shorter time than her old man. And she will arrive far less damaged.

The radio in the background is always on the Oldies station. I could make out the songs I used to hear when I was a boy being driven around in my father’s car. The exact chair I was sitting in I had occupied at least 100 times over a 33 year span. Every time I slither down into the chair I have flashbacks of my youth, my career in teaching, and my family.  My mom and dad started going to Dr. Peter Chidyllo’s dental office when I was still in college. It made sense to me that when I returned to the Hudson Valley in 1982, he would be the one to take care of my pearly whites.

Right from the start me and Doc, as I affectionately refer to him, hit it off. I didn’t like going to see him, but I did like him. Like myself, he was an upstart making his way in the world with a blossoming business and family. I was an insecure 22 year old kid who had just started a career as a school teacher but was clueless to lessons of life. All of these years later it was still the two of us exchanging small talk on a warm March day as I nestled into my seat for another drilling.

Over the years my appointments with Dr. Chidyllo have been bittersweet. They represented a microcosm of my life.  Doc and I have only seen each other during my visits, never in the outside world, but we interact in the way old friends do. When I first met Doc my teeth seemed to be symbolic of the life I had led to that point. In 1982 my mouth was in disrepair from my early years of living hard and giving no mind to the discipline of dental hygiene. Since that time, I’ve gone through reconstructive surgery, had total replacements on five different teeth, and a major root canal. Through it all, whether it be a cleaning or major surgery, I am always under the influence of Nitrous Acid (laughing gas). The drug takes me to a place that is both peaceful and dreamingly tranquil (most of the time). It certainly eases my pain and takes me on short trips back in time similar to a potent hallucinogenic. Doc usually jokes that I must have smoked a lot of dope in college.  He will often remind me that the gas machine is turned up to full throttle. The laughing gas is so intoxicating for me that on one occasion I came in carrying several balloons and asked for an order to go.

My early experiences in Dr. Chidyllo’s office were mostly unpleasant. In my mid 20’s I had each of my wisdom teeth extracted. This amounted to four painful, separate surgeries, each one more excruciating than the next. Both the patient and doctor appeared equally nervous during these procedures. Doc was probably 31 when he removed the last of my wisdom teeth. I mention this because after that day I truly believed he would be looking for a new career. I was heavily medicated and the long, intimidating Novocain needles had already been inserted into my gums when the operation went awry.  While the tears poured from my eyes, Doc was wrestling with the big bad tooth that had been broken in half by his pliers. It was the only moment in all my visits in which I saw the look of panic on Doc’s face. I was drenched in sweat as Doc went back to the drawing board and left the room to get some more numbing needles. He then made another incision and finally dug out the infectious tooth. That visit ended with me on the floor. I had a small hammer and was smashing the cracked tooth into oblivion screaming, “Take that!!!!! You will never hurt anyone again!”

As the years passed on I would see Doc every six months for routine x-rays and cleanings. It reached the point where I looked forward to my rides down to Wallkill. Doc and I would engage in meaningful conversation. Sometimes he would have a gift for me other than a toothbrush like bottles of expensive vodka and a book about blackjack. Mostly, I enjoyed inhaling some funny gas and going into dream land. In later years, by happenstance, my visits began to coincide with emotional events in my life. It was in the mid – nineties when I was aware my parents were in the midst of some marital issues that I let the laughing gas get the best of me. As I entered the waiting room I noticed the woman I knew was having an affair with my father, waiting for her turn in the chair. I was mad at my father because I had been aware of the relationship for close to 15 years.  When Doc asked me, like he regularly did, how my dad was doing I told him, “Not bad for a guy who is married and has a girlfriend too.” Doc looked at me with both astonishment and fright as I removed my mask and proceeded to lead him into the waiting room. In a loud voice in front of about eight people, I pointed and loudly declared, “That’s her. That is my father’s girlfriend for the past 15 years.”

During February of 2013, I was in the middle of intense negotiations with my employer Ulster Savings Bank. In the midst of my career turmoil I chipped a tooth munching on a bagel.  I had an appointment scheduled with the dentist at 11:00am on Wednesday, Feb 13^th. As I rode down to Wallkill for my appointment my phone was lighting up like a pinball machine. It was the President of Ulster Savings Bank. “If you fail to report to the bank today by 11:00am to sign your producer agreement, and its’  Non Compete Clause, you shall be officially terminated from employment.” The way things stood in regards to my work environment, this was not shocking news.  I was now forced into a final decision before I had anticipated. My answer came from my foot as I pressed harder on the gas pedal continuing on to see Doctor Chidyllo. I took my seat in the old familiar chair and knew it would not take much gas or Novocain to numb me today. “Ready to take care of that hole, Rich?” Doc politely asked me. As he sharpened up the tools of his trade the clock was striking 11. I had the firm look on my face of a man prepared for war. “Let’s get this party started, Doc. I’m being fired from my job and getting drilled in the dentist chair at the same exact moment.” I closed my eyes and breathed in the gas.

To loosen me up for my most recent drilling, Doc had some pictures and stories to share with me. He had just spent the week in Louisiana with his son, Donald Trump Jr. and a collection of their friends. Doc had gone down to The Bayous for a fishing expedition with his son and his friends.  As part of the weekend he also attended a reception hosted by a current presidential candidate, Donald Trump. Doc had an opportunity to chat with my old high school chum Keith Schiller, who is the head of security for the Trump Organization. Doc’s dental hygienist, Hilda Freer, happens to also be a classmate of mine. While absorbing my medications Doc continued to converse on the smallness of the world, on being the parents of grown children, and on how far the two of us had come since the days we first met. “Isn’t it ironic” I thought to myself. We had both been through so much in this life. In our own right we had achieved modest success. Our paths never crossed in the world outside his dental practice, but that chair, surrounded by those four walls, held all our secrets. Thanks to Doc my days of pain in the dentist’s chair seem to be behind me.  Doc has made sure my teeth will hold up well into the future. If only I could be as confident that the machinations of life will be as kind.

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