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May I please have a Corona and some mild wings?” I said nicely to the girl behind the bar in Terminal F at the Philadelphia International Airport.

“You guys take cash?” The usual response I get is a chuckle along with something like: “Of course, everybody takes cash.” But tonight, on my first official day of being childless in 20 years, karma was ready to have the last laugh at my expense. “Sorry sir we don’t accept cash, only credit cards.” Having lost my lone credit card in Tallahassee earlier in the day, I was not amused. I didn’t have time for my “talk my way past the rules routine”. Hungry and parched, I limped off to catch my connecting flight to Newburgh, New York.

As I headed down the corridor I could see the long line of people. I looked to the left and there was the bad news posted on the monitor. Flight 621:  9:25 pm, “Philadelphia to Newburgh Cancelled”. Like a lost sheep, I stood on a line waiting for an opportunity to talk to some programmed representative of U.S. Air.  “What’s the word?” I asked my fellow sheep standing in front of me. Someone answered, “We can get the 9:25 flight tomorrow; it’s the best they’re offering.” At this point my small amount of patience gave way to my primal arrogance and ego.  “That’s nice, but what the fuck are we doing standing on this line for?” I asked loud and indignantly. Another passenger chimed in, “We’re hoping they can get a bus to take us back to Newburgh.” That ended my short moment living in the land of “the flock” mentality. “Yeah right, and Santa Claus is coming to get us in his sled. Raise your hand if you want to go rent a big utility vehicle and leave the “City of Brotherly Love” in the dust.” Four strays from the herd meekly put their hands half way up.  “Great, you guys locate the luggage and I’ll get the car.”

It was a Sunday night in the middle of August, a time when most people are at the shore and hanging on to that last gasp of precious summer. For me it was the first night of something I had been looking forward to since a cold, December night back in 1995 when my daughter Laura dropped into my life. I made a pledge to myself that evening that I was going to be a fully committed parent. I was going to give my children all of me, in the same fashion my parents had for me and my brother. I also made another vow that night: I was willing to make family my priority — but not forever. In my mind, I signed an 18 year contract that after it’s expiration, I would become a free agent. A year later when Mary Kate was born I adjusted that to a 19 year lease. When both of my unexpected cherubs were off to seek a higher education I would be ready to start a new life — a selfish life with me as the focal point. There would be no more day-to-day parenting and no more building my schedule around my families’.

The day prior, me and my oldest daughter had arrived in Tallahassee to get her settled in for her second year at Florida State. After several hours and several thousand dollars left behind at Bed Bath and Beyond, Laura and I turned our rented Lincoln Navigator into the parking lot of what was to be her new digs for the coming year. I quickly became confused as to whether we were at her new college apartment or our favorite vacation spot in Turks and Caicos. The pool areas were moderately occupied with scantily clothed co-eds enjoying libations in the 90 degree Florida summer sun. The beach volleyball court had a hotly contested game in progress with mostly female participants. The young males were shirtless, sprinting up and down the full sized basketball court. Laura’s apartment looked brand new with a complete kitchen, living room, dining room, and a T.V. viewing area with a 50” flat screen hanging on the wall.

Each of her three roommates had their own rooms possessing individual baths and walk-in closets. Laura prepared her new quarters to her liking in the midst of greeting the arrivals of her partners in crime and their parents. A group of us parents, along with our scholars, went out on the town together to help launch these beautiful girls’ sophomore year. At dinner, eating my Quesadillas, I looked over to my oldest child whispering with her roomies. I was reassured of something I already knew: aside from my financial support, Laura did not need me anymore. I quietly took sips on my Corona and made small talk with the other parents. I felt confident it was Laura’s time now.

On the same day, much further north in Western New York, my younger daughter was getting acclimated to her new residence at Ithaca College.  She had agonized long and hard as to her college of choice. She had reluctantly settled on Ithaca for its’ athletic training program and an opportunity to play field hockey. While Laura and I were getting comfortable by the pool in northern Florida, MK and my wife sweated the drudgery of moving into the freshman dorms. Mary Kate was about to begin the physical rigor of three-a-day practices along with experiencing the mental anguish of leaving her nest of the past 18 years. From all the way down south, I could feel my younger daughter’s determination to exhibit her independence and grit. It had not always been easy being the Laura’s little sister and now she was far away from her shadow.

In one weekend, the two most precious and important people in my life were leaving me. It was a time that in some ways I had looked forward to and an arrival I dreaded. I knew that on Monday night, the two girls whose diapers I had changed, formulas I mixed, and whose lives had been more of a priority than my own would be sleeping in strange beds on opposite ends of the east coast.  I was aware there would be no more house full of kids on the weekends. There would be no more early morning wake up calls to come rescue my damsels from a party. The early morning drive and conversation on the way to school over the last 15 years were over forever. In my own way, I had been practicing the last few years for my girls’ departure. I’ve been preparing to find comfort in a vacant house. I’ve been preparing to fill an empty heart with some noise, and I’ve been readying myself to be selfish again after a 20 year hiatus.

The city of Philadelphia and its’ “no cash” bar had no chance of holding me for the night. I had secured a huge SUV and my new found traveling mates were waiting near the terminal with my luggage. I handed over the keys to one of the men and gave out instructions: “I’m paying for the ride, but you are driving and turning in the car, and I’m going to sleep in the back without being disturbed.” I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I wanted to contemplate my new life. I wanted to get home. Somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, around midnight, as Sunday, August 17^th was turning into Monday, August 18^th, I was awoken from a sound slumber. “Fly me to the moon and let me walk amongst the stars,” I could hear being sung in unison. My comrades had found an old Frank Sinatra tape and were singing along at the top of their lungs. Even old, cynical, reflective me cracked a smile and had a good shake of the head.  Four wayward travelers and I were cruising past Hoboken crooning to Frank Sinatra with the windows open and the warm, summer wind blowing in.

It wasn’t until the large Expedition arrived at the Newburgh airport that I was sure I had not been lost in the twilight zone. The five strangers in the night dispersed through all doors of the ride and huddled together for a souvenir photo. It was three in the morning as I drove north on the New York State Thruway. My wife and Mary Kate were still adjusting to Ithaca, Laura was comfortably settled in Tallahassee. I was alone on what seemed to be a deserted highway heading home to an empty house. Unsure if my dreams were ahead of me, or already behind me, I whispered into the dusk, “I love you Laura. I love you Mary Kate.  Be careful what you wish for.”

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Only 15 miles separates the upstate towns of Kingston and New Paltz. I am a passenger in my own car, being driven to my destination while sitting in the back seat. There are four other passengers in my group. One fellow rider is a former high school girlfriend, another is a young man to act as her security blanket, and two other young men are to act as mine. We are weaving our way along the backroads of Ulster County with the windows down and the music bouncing off the Catskill Mountains. I have lived in the Hudson Valley for all but five of my 55 years and obviously have been back to New Paltz, the town where I grew up, several times. So it was a surreal feeling on this July night to think that I was determined to find my way home. I had always believed that you can never go home, and I had not ever felt the urge. Mick Jagger was screaming at me “ You can’t always get what you want,” and I was finishing his sentence ,”but if you try sometime you might find, you get what you need.” It was the Friday evening before the big New Paltz High School Reunion Weekend. The alumni who went to high school there in the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s were already filling the old joints sharing some version of their days in the sun. I have worked hard to move away from who I was , where I came from, and all of the people associated with New Paltz. For me, my high school years were filled with disappointment and not measuring up to my own expectations. I have spent the time between then and now trying to make up for all I wasn’t back in those days. As my vehicle roared across the Esopus bridge I stuck my head through the open window and felt the exhilarating breeze of the summer air. “I saw her today at the reception, glass of wine in her hand, I knew she would meet her connection,” The Stones continued. We were almost in New Paltz. I was finally ready to face the past straight on.

As my ride made its way up Main Street and closer to the section of the reunion gatherings all I had left behind was now in front of me. I had read the itinerary for the weekend put out by Ann Minadeo and Denise Shelton the reunion organizers. I was aware the classes of ‘70-‘74 would be mostly in McGillicuddy’s while the classes of ‘75-‘79 would be populating P&G’s. As we cruised up Main Street I was overwhelmed by the crowd in front of P&G’s. I still didn’t have my nerve up, so my small posse and I ducked into McGillicuddy’s. It turned out to be the perfect spot to get a few shots of courage before heading to the other side of the street and being more recognizable. Amongst the older crowd I attempted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

From out of nowhere I got a big slap on the back from one of my adolescent heroes. In the early 70’s Al Bonagura was larger than life to an up and coming 7th grade athlete. He was big, handsome, with a hot fastball and a hotter girlfriend in Ann Baker. “Rich I enjoyed your book, you are a great story teller,” he said with a smile. Al looked great and appeared at total ease with himself. I knew he had married a younger New Paltz high grad and was living the American dream. I had not sought out my childhood idol, and I have had very little contact with him over the years, yet his words of affirmation, along with two shots of Jameson, propelled me to move on.

My escorts and I made our way through the masses to Pat and George’s. Waiting there were my high school peers, now in their in mid-fifties. We had our youth in common, and by the mere fact that we had shown up was an indication we had left behind any of our old baggage. I kept my head down as I shuffled through the crowd mauling around outside the front door. Once inside Lisa Hoffman and I snuck into the direct left corner and ordered Stoli and tonics as if it were 1978 again. From that location, I was hard to spot, yet I had a good view of the faces from my youth as they came in and out.  I saw Roger Plantier, Pete Sciascia, Tim Savago, Lucy Schaefer, Elaine Mackey and many others. All of the years of avoidance, and my personal insecurities seemed to dissipate as fast as I swallowed my first drink. I got a bear hug from Tim Lefevre.

I chatted for 20 minutes with Nancy Bigelow. The conversations were brief and pleasant. Instead of feeling inadequate about it I got a laugh when one of my former female classmates had no idea who I was. If for nothing else I was proud to have, for the moment, overcome any of my projected solipsistic tendencies. I knew the bigger test lay ahead tomorrow, but the anxiety and voices in my head were quiet.

Huguenot Street is the oldest street in America. New Paltz was an area settled by a religious sect of Frenchmen called Huguenots. It makes sense that the mascot of New Paltz High School is a Hugie. On Saturday July 11th approximately 30 Hugie alumni gathered in an art gallery on one of the most famous thorough fares in the country. They had convened to look at artwork and hear book readings from alumni. One of the writers on the agenda was the class of 1979’s Nora Raleigh. Nora is a renowned author of young adult books. She has established herself as a true professional attached to publishers, editors, and agents. Also on the bill was rookie and an unrepresented “hack” named Rich Siegel. Nora did her readings first and talked about her friendship with classmate Larry Hiller who died of AIDS in 1991. Larry was also in the class of ’79 and had gone on to have a short career with the New York City Ballet. She expressed how people like Larry along with growing up in New Paltz had influenced her writing. When it was my time for the stage I felt like Donny Osmond having to perform after the Beatles.

The room was filled with two of my former English teachers Pat Masson, and Kathleen Evans, my father and a spattering of other familiar teachers and characters from back in the day. I read two stories. One was an excerpt from my book, “You Can’t Do Both”, I had written about my neighbor (Hank Schulte) who died in the Vietnam War. I also read from a story about my first day in high school. The people in the room had been there at my most vulnerable and awkward moments. We had all been in it together and now we were there for each other again. A high percentage of the reviews were good. There was one exception of a former graduate who sent me a wretched note backing up my own claim that I was still nothing more than a “hack writer.” I am closer to serenity in regards to my adolescence but still took the critique to heart.

The alumni golf tournament was right down the street from the book signing. I had decided to participate in the reunion and I was in all the way. I stood on the first tee at the New Paltz Golf Course for the first time in 25 years. My playing partners were my brother Gary ’75 and Tom Levin ’80. As we waited our turn I shared a beer and a laugh with Brian Roach, John Schulte, and Carrie Hardmeyer. The gap between the years and the distance we all had traveled was non-existent. I swung at the golf ball with zero tension or fear. It didn’t matter how far astray it went I would chuckle and say to Tom and Gary “O.K. guys pick me up”.  It was the most fun and rewarding nine holes of golf I have ever played. Tom is now a real estate broker in Maryland who is at least double the size he was in high school. He also happens to be a hell of a golfer. Gary and Tom carried us to victory and some great bar talk. It took several hours to play the 19th hole. While John, Gary, Tom, Phil Burke, Carrie, Nancy and I told stories about the days round and of old legend, our classmates were streaming in for the Saturday barbecue dance. I had planned to go back to Kingston to freshen up for the night’s activities, but I could not lift myself off the bar stool. I was disheveled and not showered as I sauntered to the buffet line. I found a dining spot next to Cherie Kidd, Stacey Krieg, and my old neighbor Erich Spies. Back when we were kids Erich and I played every game imaginable together in the afternoons before settling in to watch “Dark Shadows.”
I know Erich has led an unconventional life and I am not sure he ever graduated from high school. At 56 years old he has recently become a father and looked as happy and content as anyone there. Erich lived hard in those younger years. At about 15 he decided to skip the years 16-30 and carried on like an adult. I wanted to ask him if he wished he had ran slower back than and saved some steam for his older years. Knowing my old friend and seeing his smile , I think I may have my answer.

The sun was setting behind the Mohonk Tower and the band was cranking out another oldie but goody. It was time for me to seek refuge up on the balcony close to the bar. There is nothing like the warm summer night air, familiar tunes in the background, a cold libation, and talking it all over with the friends you came of age with. We all had seen each other grow up in the most fragile times of our lives. In the half-light we tried hard not to see our comrades for who they were or what they looked like in our long ago memories.

The gab was not so much about the journey that had taken us to this night, but more about the present, and what was ahead. Some had physically come from far away. Roger Plantier had flown from across the pond, Jamie Rhein drove from Michigan, Ann Minadeo organized the event from her Colorado home. Susan Hiller came in from central New Jersey. Even the locals who still walked the same dirt we all grew up on were there. The old familiar faces of Joey DeMaria, Dave Tucker, and Barbara Buck felt as if like they had returned to a place they never left.

For one weekend we were all back. For me it is a place in time in which I still dream. A space in time that still makes me cry tears of happiness and tears of pain. No matter how many decades pass, I still see the images of those days vividly. I have harbored much regret about that time in my life. I have run as fast as I could to get away from all connected to it. Finally, I had found my way to turn around. We can never change what went before, we will never completely heal. Looking out over the golf course into the darkness I thought about how fast our lives keep moving. The band was covering Journey’s classic “Don’t Stop Believing “ I sang the words to myself “and the movie never ends it goes on and on and on ……..”

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“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how the music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance”… In 1972, Don McLean’s lyrical history (“American Pie”) pertaining to the death of rock ‘n’ roll stayed atop the U.S’s pop charts for nearly four months. The song was playing in the background on a rare Valentine’s day when February wasn’t making you shiver. It was cold enough that I had to keep wiping away the watery mucus that was running down my nose. We had all snuck out of the New Paltz Middle School dance and somehow obtained a couple of quart bottles of Miller High Life.

Eric Ackerly was there for sure, as was Scott Taylor, Peter Mancuso, Peter Morrison, and probably Dana Lyons. I am even more sure about the girls gathered– Cherie Kidd, Stacey Krieg, Sheryl Swift, Christine Yeaple, and Polly Diven. We were a band of 12-year-olds whose destination for escape ended up on a circular turn-around at the dead end of Howard Street. Forming our own circle, we passed around the beer taking small sips trying to savor our anticipated buzz. When the alcohol was gone, we looked at each other straining hard to look unaffected. I am not sure who, but somebody had acquired enough liquid courage to suggest a game of Spin the Bottle. Scott Taylor grabbed the empty Miller quart and twisted it into the concrete. As the bottle spun and grinded into the pavement, I felt my first euphoric light-headedness and the butterfly knots in my stomach that coincide with romantic love.

That night in the dimly lit cul-de-sac I had an embraceable moment of infatuation that I never stop trying to recapture. The particular Valentine’s spin with destiny triggered a mirage of pre-pubescence experiences with members of the opposite sex. My junior high school years were filled with a variety of awkward moments with girls. These instances occurred mostly at house parties that were hosted by classmates both male and female at their parents’ home. The attendees had already received a pass to first base and were looking for the sign to steal second. For me, it was a time of innocence and discovery of adolescent love.

The kissing was done with mouths closed and the exploration of another’s body was foiled by a thin barrier of clothing. We were at a clumsy age that the girls were starting to wear bras, but the boys were not ready to utilize jock straps. Despite being a head shorter than my slow dance partners, and having a voice that squeaked it was at this time I had more confidence with the opposite sex than I ever would in the 20 years that followed. We weren’t worried about birth control or our sexual prowess, but instead held on to the wonder of enjoying the scent and nuisances of our novice counterparts. Before we started high school, the Raspberries were urging us to “Go All the Way”, as we tried to grasp on to those innocent “Precious and Few” moments we were sharing.

The fall of 1974 when I left the middle school to enter the high school, I felt like a small time club singer who finally plays a big arena. While my lack of physical stature was definitely hurting me on the athletic fields, it was around my own female classmates and especially the older girls, that my diminutive size caused me the most pain. A 15-year-old freshman, who didn’t shave, had scrawny arms, and stood 5’4’’ in platform shoes, I wasn’t going on many dates. My first year at New Paltz High I listened intently as I my peers whispered stories of how they were rounding the bases. I was a wallflower hearing the tales of the girls who were, and were not, going all the way. Rumors were rampant on the handful of girls that may or may not have had abortions. Those first couple years of high school I was a bench warmer in the game of love and romance. In my mind, I was ready for the big show but physically I could barely make it in the minors. Like most students in that situation I learned to compensate for my shortcomings with a litany of personality adjustments. I worked on other ways to draw attention to myself. I developed a better sense of humor, I read more, and worked on things in my personality that would be beneficial to attracting girls when and if I ever grew taller.

The reality was whatever minor successes with the ladies I enjoyed in my high school years, did not come to be until I added some height. In my junior year I sprouted up a few inches and from my new view at 5′ 7”, I began to test the murky waters of the dating world. I experienced brief, uneventful encounters with Elizabeth Fasolino, Judy Dawson, and Di Di Puelo. All of these dalliances highlighted how inexperienced I was when it came to being physical with females. There were many embarrassing moments for me that year. I was 16, and still not really sure what separated an “ American Kiss” from a “French kiss”. About a week before I had a date scheduled, I was on the bus with Lou Mosconi heading to a soccer game. Even though I was a somewhat introverted underclassmen, I found the courage to ask Lou what the exact difference was. “Hey, Lou,” I blurted, “what’s the big deal about the French and kissing? Do they do something special?” After Lou laughed hard and loud, he dignified my inquiry with an answer. “You both have your mouths open and you move your tongue around with hers.”
My interest was peaked with this new found knowledge, I was not only ready to try my go at it with my weekend date, but I even set my sights on who I would take to the Junior Prom. I had my eye on a cute blonde who had those cheerleader looks. I nervously dialed her number on my parents’ old rotary phone. “Hi Mr. Clinton, this is Rich, could I please speak to Jill?” I thought I heard Mr. Clinton say “don’t bother asking Jill to the prom, there is no way she is going with you.” Of course all he actually did say was “hold on and I will get her.” When Jill came to the phone, I got hit in the stomach with my first kick of love. “Uh, I’m not sure,” she hemmed and hawed, “I have to check with somebody, I will let you know next week.” Click. Jill Clinton ended up at the prom with Will Scott. I ended up with two dates that night– Vicki Wilson and senior, Patti Durkin. I took Vicki to the prom and I took Patti to Minnewaska, where we enjoyed kissing like the French do as the sun rose above the mountains.

At New Paltz High School there were many specific privileges that went along with being a senior. Standing in front of the cafeteria entrance doors between periods was one such traditional rite reserved for 12th grade boys. In the fall of 1977, I spent more time in or around the school’s cafeteria than I did in the classroom. Four times a day, Phil Burke, Robbie Ferrante, Brian Roach, John Schulte, and I were perched in front of the dining den. We hunters were scoping out the young damsels, who unknowingly just found their way into the lions’ lair. After a summer growth spurt my upright stature rose to almost 6’0’’.

As a result, my confidence with the girls soared to new heights as well. Lisa Hoffman was a freshman when I first noticed her pass in the hallway. At 14, she looked her age and resembled a fawn doing her best to stay out of harm’s way. She wore her shoulder-length, straight brown hair  perfectly parted down the middle. Lisa was on the verge of womanhood, displaying all the physical attributes that lured me in, her full lips to her big green eyes, she exuded pure joy and innocence, and I instantly smitten.  On and off that year, in the midst of my senioritis, Lisa and I  took a beginners course in physical relationships. We fumbled and rolled around often that year like two puppies having a wrestling bout. We were each other’s first love the senior and the freshman. A soft spot in my heart remains to this day for Lisa. I will forever have a soft spot in my heart for Lisa. The young girl somehow realized that the cocky, flippant, older guy she had fallen for was more than that.  I’m glad someone noticed.

It was finally my turn to spin the bottle. I had already scanned the circle and thought about a technique to get the bottle to stop its rotation in a desired spot. For what turned out to be only a brief moment in time I was on the right side of that old familiar pain associated with romantic acceptance. I put just the right amount of spin on that empty beer bottle. In between Peter Mancuso and Sheryl Swift, my glass arrow pointed to Cherie Kidd. Happy with the end result, I moved in for my first kiss. Amidst one of the many little circles in small town America, my lips and Cherie’s stayed together for several seconds. That night spawned many a junior high party filled with games of Spin the Bottle, Post Office, and Truth or Dare. After that unforgettable night in the cul-de-sac, I pursued romance and teenage love with an idyllic image of the way it was supposed to look. Truth is, my junior high and high school years in New Paltz were intensely disappointing romantically.  We can only hope those days of our youth, the moments , the girls, and our home town can take their proper place in our memories.  We can only hope those rites of passage of our adolescence  did not scar us , but instead helped our growth and self- awareness .  Nothing can bring back the feelings we felt in those cul-de-sacs , the Spin the Bottle parties, and  proms.  In the present I attempt not to dwell  on  those  times but rather find strength in  what remains behind.

 

 

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It was right about the time Stevie Nicks was singing “Rhiannon” from the movie soundtrack that I noticed John slide his arm around Michelle. I was sitting next to John on his right and Michelle and Margot were on either side of us. We were having fun watching the movie Slap Shot about a minor league hockey team struggling to find its’ identity. John had already graduated high school and was way more experienced than his male running mate. He’d been around the block with a few girls prior to Michelle and was very confident around the ladies. I on the other hand, was a senior in high school and still a virgin. As uncomfortable as it was for me, I picked up my right arm, threw it over the nape of Margot’s neck and pulled her close. My Stevie Nicks lookalike was in my arms as the sounds of the authentic came out of the speakers.  Up on the screen we watched in delight as the three fictitious hockey goons (the Hanson Brothers) made their way into movie lore. It was the fall of 1977 and at that moment I didn’t think life could get much better.

It was only 14 months after that magical night with our foursome in the cinema that John Ferrante died. He was asleep in the backseat of a car on his way back from a day on the ski slopes. One of our New Paltz high classmates lost control of the car and crashed into a tree. The driver, his brother Robbie, and the other passenger survived.  The tragedy occurred on Thursday, January 18^th1979. It was the next morning when a call came into my dorm’s pay phone.  Ann Marie DeCapua was on the other end of the line and told me John was gone. I dropped to the floor and cried harder than I ever would again over a person’s passing, including my mother’s. It was a time in my life when I was running from ghosts, of my mind’s own creation.

John was my only New Paltz friend who would go out of his way to find me. He loved New Paltz and his family so much that in all probability, he would have continued to work on the family farm, married young, and been a father to  a crop of children. He may have been the only person I maintained a friendship with from my high school days. Ironically, the first time I had slipped home from college I had talked to him about my yearning to break away from our hometown, leave the past behind and never look back. During that first semester break of 78-79, John found me parked in a precarious spot. He recognized my car and pulled up next to me. It was much easier to hide in the pre-computer, pre-cell phone world. I asked my traveling companion to excuse me as I turned the crank to roll down my window.

“Sorry John, I’ve been laying low. I’m headed back to school tomorrow.”  John smirked and shook his head. “Still seeing ghosts, Hawk?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t realize that I had just spoken the last words I ever would to John. I had no idea I was seeing his piercing brown eyes for the last time. Never again would I see the guy with the thick dark hair and thin black mustache. His last words to me proved prophetic.

“You can’t fly away from me, Hawk.”

I never uttered a proper goodbye that day. Then I heard he was gone.

In 1979, Pine’s Funeral Home was the only place in New Paltz offering services and final arrangements.  I got back into town to go to the wake on Sunday. Pine’s was filled to capacity and the line to pay respects winded its’ way back to Main Street. I stood for over an hour and a half in the cold January air thinking about what it meant to die so young. I thought about the obligation I had to not waste time anymore. I needed to live my life the way I wanted to, without apologies. I concluded that it was my own conscience that would be my personal God, and that I would be my only judge. For the first time I began to realize that my years as an angry, young man prior to John’s death were without base. With John’s passing, my anger was validated and would propel me on a path that would not have been otherwise. I thought about what John had said to me only 30 days earlier. I couldn’t fly away from him, nor did I want to, and from that day forward I didn’t have to.

I reached the receiving line right around the time Dallas was kicking off to Pittsburgh for Super Bowl XIII. John’s parents and four brothers stood in front of an open casket. I was mesmerized by the sight of John – he didn’t look frail or injured. I’d seen John sleep through things that would wake the average person. So, for me, John looked peaceful, resting with a contented smile.  I was only a few days shy of my 19^th birthday but the full magnitude of John’s rest was very clear to me. Pete Jr., Robbie, Sande, and Timmy stood at attention like soldiers guarding their post. Pete Sr. and Carol Ferrante were arm in arm still shedding tears in attempt to cope with any parents worst nightmare – the loss of the a child.

Pete Jr. and John were toddlers when their parents came from New York City in 1960 and bought a piece of property in New Paltz. On their plot of land, the Ferrante’s built their family homestead and started farming on a parcel known as “The Flats”. From that moment on, the Ferrante family, and what would become Wallkill View Farms, became a large part of the fabric of the village.  By the 1970’s, the farm had grown into a major agricultural business and all five boys worked the land. The family represented everything pure about small town America. Pete and Carol were seen everywhere from Little League Baseball games to Chez Joey’s Pizzeria to the Catholic festivals. They rarely ventured out of New Paltz as their five boys played football, wrestled and golfed. Three of them would marry local girls and raise families in their hometown. Only Robbie stayed a bachelor but always kept New Paltz as his address. There is little doubt John would have followed a similar path like his brothers.

I kneeled before the casket and took one last long look at John. I remember thinking what a great guy John was. He was loved and he had loved. He was a handsome and respected young man with a stellar reputation. I remember saying to myself “John was so much more.” I got up from my crouch and moved toward the silent gallery of fellow mourners having just paid their respects. During his brief life, John had been fortunate enough to be in love on three separate occasions. Jody Bivona had been his first love, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t find her at the service. Michelle Hoffay, his current girlfriend, sat in the front row sobbing alone.  And then I saw Wendy Thompson and was transported right back to when the three of us used to hang out. She liked to tease me with the gibe of “three’s a crowd.” I shot Wendy a smile and pulled into the seat next to her. For two very outgoing teenagers, our lack of conversation and inability to express ourselves was awkward.

“I loved John very much; always will’’ were all the words I recall Wendy speaking that day.

Before I headed back to Allentown and the rest of my life, I stopped by Todd Krieg’s house to watch the Steelers hang on for a 35-31 victory over “America’s Team”. Right around the time Sunday turned to Monday, I was back in my room at Muhlenberg College. Even before John’s untimely passing, I had been trying to put my hometown in the rearview mirror. John’s death would surely put more space between me and what I had held on to so dearly during my adolescent years. I lay on my dorm bed that early Monday morning unable to sleep. Over my roommate’s snores, I stared at the ceiling.

I considered the times that John and I had spent together as teens. In the darkness my mind went back to that fall night and our double date at Slap Shot. The four of us were leaving the theater together. Behind us on the screen the credits were rolling. Maxine Nightingale was singing the movie’s theme song, “Ooh and it’s alright, an it’s coming on, we gotta get right back to where we started from.” John gave me a wink as he held hands with Michelle. As I had done before during the movie, I followed the lead of my more experienced friend and took a hold of Margot’s hand.

I whispered to my friend, “This is great, isn’t it John?”

“Yup, and believe me Hawk it’s only going to get better.”

More than one year from that night in the movies, and only a few days after we  had lost John in the crash, far away from the town where I had come of age, in the midst of the cold Pennsylvania winter, I started to cry silent tears.

As each of the 37 years passed since John’s death, the thoughts of his words that day in the theater get less bitter for me. I’ve made sense of it now, and yes, John, you were right. It is better and continues to be.

Video References:

Mike Hoffay was sitting alone on the steps in front of St. Blaise. From inside the bar, the sounds of Roger Daltry lyrics echoed through the street, “No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, the sad man behind blue eyes.” It was unusually warm for a mid-May night. I could feel summer settling in and as much I always looked forward to summer, I wanted time to stand still tonight. It was already Friday morning and I had made the decision three libations before to chalk up another missed day of high school. It was 1978, I had been 18 for four months, and I was spending another wasted evening attempting to drink away my teenage angst. I was convinced some of the answers lay on the bottom of my glass filled with Stoli and tonic. For me, the bar scene had become a very comfortable place for personal therapy and the village of New Paltz provided the perfect setting for my treatments.

The maturation process came slow for me both in the emotional and the physical states.  Looking back to the day I had my first drink is as vivid to me today as if it was yesterday. I see clearly who I was with and what bar I was in. Keith Schiller and I entered Bacchus looking like Wilt Chamberlain and Spud Webb. It was December of 1976 and we had just played a basketball game in Marlboro. My body was starting to change, but I was still very small and my voice was still a soprano. It still makes me laugh, thinking back when Keith thought out of the two of us, that I should be the one to go to the bar and order our cocktails.

“May I please have a Bud Draft and a Sloe Gin Fizz?”

Much to my surprise, I was served my first drink without having to produce any ID, let alone a fake one.  After drinking my alcohol- laced sarsaparilla, Keith and I drove off to a disco just on the outskirts of town called The Pilgrimage. This bar was far different from the town joints. The disco craze was at its height, and The Pilgrimage was one of the few bars of that genre to find a place in the hard rock and hard partying town of New Paltz. Amongst the bright lights and the large mirror ball hanging from the ceiling I could easily make out a six foot five black guy with platform shoes, in the middle of the dance floor rolling his forearms to the beat.

It was Anthony Monroe, Marlboro High’s center on the basketball team who had just lit us up for 25 points a couple of hours prior.

I don’t think there was a rivalry, but for the most part, the bars in the village of New Paltz were divided into two categories: they were either filled with college students or filled with locals.  Directly across the street from Pine’s Funeral Home was a tavern called Zach’s. The bar was owned by a former New Paltz High grad, Dom Zacceho. Zach’s patrons were purely hometown boys and girls. It was rare to see anyone over the age of 26 in Zach’s. The barstools were lined with former glory boys and cheerleaders. The wooden booths were reserved for the current stars of the New Paltz athletic fields. The “One Saturday Wonders” were abundant in Zach’s, retelling tales of the big game against Highland or Wallkill.  Only in their early 20’s, they spent a lot of time refining the story of the big moments on the gridiron or baseball field. The mix of the current high school students and alumni heroes made for some serious alma mater bonding. On and off the field conquests were embellished in proportion with the amount of ale consumed. Of course the young men tending the bar were the biggest stars in Zach’s.  They were also the ones scoring the most with the teenage girls. Susan Savago was starry-eyed for Greg Garcia and they ended up marrying. The same went for Mike Beck and Jane McKenna. Romance came from behind the bar in the form of Bill Schiller, class of ‘72, and Nancy Bigelow, class of ‘78. What I recall most about Zach’s were the 100’s of albums piled behind the bar. I was impressed with the height of the stacks of 33’s. Despite the tremendous variety of music Zach’s possessed, the only voice I distinctly recall being blasted every night were the vocals of Meat Loaf. “I want you, I need you, but there ain’t no way I’m ever going to love you. Now don’t be sad, because two out of three ain’t bad.”

Directly west of Zach’s at the bottom of main street, McGuinn’s stood tall on the corner, proudly showing off its’ prime location. Unlike Zach’s, McGuinn’s catered to the college crowd and rarely did I see any of my high school friends passing through the door. It was a typical night in the summer of 1978, right around the time the light had finally given way to the dark.  An old, beaten down, red station wagon rattled up to the front of McGuinn’s with the back end sinking from the paraphernalia loaded in the rear of the jalopy. Every Sunday evening that summer, Eddie Kirkland took the stage to perform his “one man sings the blues” act. The Gypsy of the blues, as he was known in the industry, carried all of his equipment in from his wagon without assistance. His pay for the evening would be the total amount of money from the two dollar cover that was charged to each individual entering the bar. On those Sundays in the summer following my high school graduation I was the doorman collecting the cover.  Just 18 years old and I was already working in bars every night.  Besides telling his stories in song, Eddie was a man of few words. After every song he would wipe his brow and ask the audience to “Have Mercy”. He would also ask the Good Lord to “Take a special liken” to each person in the crowd. I usually collected about 200 dollars for Eddie each Sunday, with one exception. On one particular Sunday, I had started my day off enjoying my drinks, which continued on the job.  I remember Eddie shaking his head at me as I lay passed out in the bushes in front of the bar. I was only clutching the 20 dollars I was given at the beginning of the night to make change.  The blues road warrior barely spoke a word that I had lost his night’s pay and headed to his station wagon. All I could I remember hearing was a raspy “Have Mercy.”

In between Zach’s and McGuinn’s, both literally and figuratively, sits Pat and George’s. It was, and still is, the only New Paltz bar where both college students and townies co-mingle without incident. True to its’ tagline, P & G’s is the cornerstone of New Paltz. Every person ranging from 18-85 within a 50 mile radius has a P&G’s story they are ready to tell. The establishment is a well-oiled, money making instrument. The shot and beer crew occupy the bar in the morning.  The usual, large lunch crowd begins arriving around 11:30. In the evening the old-timers enjoy a nice dinner before the party crowd crawls out from under their rocks. The bar is a time machine in many ways. No matter the time of year, no matter the time of day, you are sure to find a legend of New Paltz amongst the employees or the customers. Marcus Conklin still mans the bar on Friday Happy Hours and has for nearly 40 years. On a daily basis, Dennis Tasker sat on the south corner bar stool nursing his 35 cent drafts that now cost him two bucks a throw. Charlie Hague, who graduated high school in 1978, is still collecting the cover charge at the front door. On any given night, I look at the patrons and can find my old classmates: Joey D., Robbie Ferrante, Susan Savago, or Barbara Buck.

For me it’s not the current clientele that gets my attention when I enter my old stomping grounds. Like many an old haunt, I can see ghosts of the distant past. I still see George Clark and Jackie Casey drinking White Russians as if it was their last day on Earth. I see Stormy behind the bar pushing a bowl of his chili in front of a customer. Warner Hein is patrolling the space at the opening of the bar. Anyone who grew up in the village of New Paltz knows Pat and Georges has a life of its own. The bar and restaurant were born in the fall of 1947. A few years later, a tall, 19 year old out of New York City named Randy, strolled into the cornerstone watering hole and hooked up with a girl who would later be my mom. In a way, P&G’s gave me life.

It was a month before graduation but I had already left high school behind me. I was unhappy with where I was, yet not prepared to move on. When I bumped into Mike Hoffay hanging outside St. Blaise I felt a pang of envy. He was only a sophomore, and as much as that time in my life was behind me, it was all in front of him.

“Hey Rich, aren’t you proud of me?” Mike said “I’m trying to follow in your footsteps, carry the torch for you.”

I was looking a bit puzzled as to the reference of his adulation.

“You know, burn the candle at both ends, party on school nights, close the bars down, and still get it done.”

Now I knew what he meant, and I felt a misguided sense of pride. This was my hometown; this had become my way of life.

Mike continued on with his dialogue, “Come on Rich, it’s only 3 am, I’m inside with Terry (Shand), come in and have a drink.”

I certainly was not going home but I knew it was time to move on.

I left Mike with some inspiration, “I’m counting on you to pick up the ball for me when I leave for college in the fall.” I said with a laugh.

“I’m walking up to Pat and George’s, I told someone I would meet them there.”

As I headed up the main street of my childhood, my mind was heavy on leaving. But even then, at 18, I knew all the roads of my life led back to where it began, P&G’s.

Reference Videos:

The yellow school bus made its way up Main Street , glided up the hill past the downtown bar section of the village of New Paltz. Pete the bus driver was paying no attention to the 30 mph speed limit, or the deafening sound of the screaming chants. “Pete is a dope , he ate a bottle of soap, bubbles here, bubbles there, bubbles in his underwear!” It was early September 1974 , and I was staring out the window into the morning light headed to my first day of high school. Not a single cell phone, iPad, or computer was occupying the attention of the passengers. Their focus was directed toward the chorus of taunts they had created for certain individuals as we reached their stop. “Pee-you, pee-you, pee-you,’’ as the Depuy family of four climbed the entrance steps. “Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt,” for Matt Robertson. “Hain is a pain, Hain is a pain, Hain is a pain,” was the greeting for John Hain. Further up Main Street was Pat and George’s, one of New Paltz’s most famous landmarks, on the same side of the street as my window. For 7 am I’m perplexed that the bar appears crowded with mostly men who aren’t exchanging any dialogue but merely glaring down at the shot glasses in front of them. The big yellow vehicle continues rolling through the village finding its ways to North Putt corners and my immediate future.

My big brother Gary was entering his senior year and drove his 1972 Ford Pinto filled with friends to school, but refused to make room for his little brother. He had spent the summer abroad as an exchange student in South Africa and the sudden change in his demeanor and physical appearance was staggering. My undersized, gawky bro had returned home a handsome young man–confident and much bigger in every way. Two days prior to the opening of school he hosted a big beer bash at our house. I couldn’t believe my prepubescent eyes-beer kegs, roach clips, and a seemingly endless stream of 17 year old, soon to be seniors. Lucy Schaffer and Patti Ralph stood out the most at that pre-high school celebration. They were the two girls in particular who paid a lot of attention to me, or at least that’s what I thought in my new found alcohol- infused state. Two days before I began high school, I was drunk for the first time, fell in love twice, and learned the early lesson that both alcohol and girls were false friends.

That first day at New Paltz high school I was like a kid entering the Magic Kingdom for the first time. The village of New Paltz had always maintained a reputation as a progressive, liberal environment where booze, drugs, and sex flowed freely. Still, I was surprised by the independence that the high school seemed to allow its students. There were “open” study halls which meant there wasn’t a teacher on duty to keep track of where you were. If you were on an athletic team you could opt out of gym but still get credit for it.

The cafeteria was full of a wide variety of food options including complete breakfast for those who had open periods in the morning. The most shocking thing, looking back, was our smoking lounge, a space just outside the classroom area where students of all ages to go out and light up. In the early fall with the windows ajar, I could sit in Bert King’s Economics class and breathe in some second -hand smoke in an attempt to get high on the other clouds that filtered through the air. On my first strolls through the halls of New Paltz High, I got the feeling that they had just moved the recent party at my house inside the walls of the school.

The 1960’s and all that went along with those years was still fresh in the minds and attitudes of the teenagers of New Paltz. Our hair was long, the big bell bottoms protected us against high waters, and both girls and boys sported a lot of rawhide jewelry. At 14 I was fascinated with free love, drugs, and the easy going attitude that went along with the “hippy” culture. But being labeled as a jock coming from a conservative family made it challenging for me to get closer beyond the fringe to all the exploration of that era. Staying in tune with the times, there was a general assembly every year on the first day of school. Ken Salinger, our on-again, off-again principal, welcomed us to the lazy and hazy world that was our high school. In that particular assembly, I remember seeing the larger than life Seniors, who I had watched on the athletic fields and party at my house, gather to demonstrate to the underclassmen what cool looked like. Pete Sciascia, Jay Egan, Roger Plantier, and Mike Beck were Godlike figures as they sat in the back row adorned in their football jerseys. But what I recall the most about that assembly was when the English and Theater teacher, Richard Cattabiani, got up to announce the few students who would perform their artistic talents. Amy Silverman sat on a stool in front of the student body with only a guitar in hand and started to sing. “My father sits at night with no light on, his cigarette glows in the dark, the living room is still, no reply,” began the lyrics of her inspiring rendition of Carly Simon’s hit song ‘That’s The Way I Always Heard It Should Be. ‘ It took me 30 years to act on it, but after hearing Amy’s voice echo through the auditorium, I knew I wanted to be an artist.

They did have actual classes and some good teachers at New Paltz. My brother was a very good student and the game of school came easily to him. He was very sharp in the math and sciences and was headed to the Ivy League to be an engineer after graduation. I always looked up to Gary and was proud of him but his academic prowess placed a self-imposed pressure on myself that took many years to overcome. My first period class was Earth Science and despite the fact that George Campbell was an excellent teacher, I had zero desire to understand what made the world go round. Next came Ron Noelle’s Algebra class. Considering I was a whiz in mathematics through middle school, I was amazed at how fast I became ignorant in math. On the first day, when Mr. Noelle put (A+B) = C on the board, I could see my days as an honor student were done. Going into Miss Hick’s English class I got a glimmer of hope that my academic career wasn’t going to be a complete disaster. She put the syllabus of the book and paper assignments on the blackboard and the class let out a collective groan. While my classmates moaned, I focused on the reading list: The Lord of The Flies, The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm, Atlas Shrugged, Macbeth. I had heard of them all, and over the year I read each one cover to cover. I very much liked each one of them, but Gatsby was by far my favorite. It didn’t take me long to figure out that English was my favorite subject, Miss Hick was my favorite teacher, and I was an “in the closet” bookworm.

It was mid-afternoon and my ride was now making its way down Main Street in my hometown. Like the morning, Pete was back at the helm, but the mood on the bus was very different. No one was calling Pete a dope, there was no more chanting “pee you” as the Depuys were dropped off. Everyone sat with four or five books in their laps. For a school bus full of high school students, it was eerily quiet with only the sound of reflection. Our bus got caught up in traffic right in front of Pat and Georges. I peered through the window as I had hours before, and it was obvious the bar clientele had rotated. The crowd was younger and happier. The doors were open and I could hear the music coming from inside. Unlike on the ride to school, the street was filled with young college students navigating their way around their new domicile. Right before we were through town and entering the flats across the bridge I looked to the mountains and at the old familiar site of the Mohonk tower that loomed above where my home was located. It was September 4, 1974, just another day in the little college town of New Paltz. It was clear to me that this day had been the precursor to how much my world was changing. But for that moment, on that day, I was going home.

The hard rain was unrelenting. It was that close to twilight time on a Sunday evening that no matter who you are with, you feel alone. The traditional day of rest presents an opportunity to look ahead and reflect on what you have left behind. I am the sole passenger in my car, a solitary silhouette behind the steering wheel. All I have is my music and my thoughts as I follow the dark Nissan Maxima that is in front of me. Through the downpour , I am comforted only by the red taillights from the car in my lead, carrying some friends, as we make our way toward New York from Pennsylvania. Only three hours earlier my parents, and my second mom, Sue Dorado were the lone representatives for me at the Muhlenberg College graduation of 1982. As I listened to Supertramp with their insistence for me to “take the long way home”, I was confused as to where exactly “home” was anymore. My undergraduate days in Allentown were over and with the depressed outlook for Bethlehem Steel my aspirations of starting a career in teaching would not, and could not happen in Allentown. The area’s steady economic decline was punctuated by not one teaching hire in the Lehigh Valley in the last five years. My wipers were going at full tilt clearing the water from my windshield but they could do nothing about the mist surrounding my eyes. I had shown up as a scared Muhlenberg freshman–immature, and lonely– in my grandmother’s old blue convertible. Four years later degree in hand , I drove off campus in the same car, but I was somebody completely different.

As people grow older, their college experience becomes more nostalgic and seemingly more magical. For many, their days as a collegian are described as the best days of their lives. Statistics say that 28% of married people met their spouses while attending college together. Also, close to 50% of young adults who go far away for their formal education end up getting a job and locating near where they did their undergraduate work. Not necessarily by choice it turned out for me that I did not marry a girl who attended Muhlenberg with me, nor did I stay in the Allentown area. This is not to downplay the impact my four years in central Pennsylvania had on me. The local vernacular still resonates. I would make a statement:

“ I got a B- on my Comparative Religion test.”

The Allentown linguistic reply: “Did you, now?”

Subs became hoagies, Philly cheese steaks replaced pizza as my favorite meal, and rolling rock started to taste better than Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was hard to determine who I loathed more the Phillies, Flyers, 76ers, or Eagles. To make matters worse they all had very good teams in the years I attended Muhlenberg. The larger impact for me had to do with the lessons that, over four years, changed who I thought I had been, who I was in the present…. and who I wanted to become.

When I look back on my days at Muhlenberg , the constants of my memory’s visions are pledging a fraternity and my experiences on the basketball team. Those images find their way into my dreams even today. The vulnerability I felt from the competition, and attempts to define myself reverberate through my body still. But it was in the classroom, although not as obviously, I found the beginnings of a person who had not been but was to be. Of all the venues in my young life, the classroom had always left me feeling the most inadequate. At Muhlenberg I was surrounded by an exuberant amount of nerdy, but cut-throat future physicians. I was in class with people where getting A’s was a matter of life or death. The liberal arts program required credits in Intermediate Language, Religion, History, English, Math, and Science. I was nothing more than a cocky bull-shitter. I was okay in any class where there weren’t pre-defined answers required. I had quit on math when letters were thrown in with numbers on the blackboard, and the only thing I knew about science was that half the day was light and the other half dark. But somewhere I found the motivation to do what it took to get through the curriculum. I went to class, took notes, studied and actually read a couple of books. My efforts got me a pile of B’s and C’s. My college transcript would confirm that with the exception of when I did my student teaching I received one A in my four years at Muhlenberg . That was in the very non-scientific or mathematical Bullshitting Class, or as it read on my course schedule , Public Speaking.

Even though it was mid-February, the radio stations in Allentown were already hyping Phillies baseball. It was the first day of spring training and it was also my first day of student teaching at Dieruff High School, one of two high schools located in Allentown. I had come to Muhlenberg as a communications major, fell in love with history in Ed Baldridge’s class, and somewhere in my junior year decided I wanted to teach and coach. I got out of the car on that winter morning and I could feel an assortment of teenage eyes on me. The attention and recognition of being put on a pedastil by my new students was my new drug that would turn out to be a hard habit to break.

For a football coach Larry Lewis was a little man. It was unusual for the head football coach of a large city high school to teach any classes that involved actual teaching, but Coach Lewis taught five classes of advanced American History.

“Hi Rich, I heard a lot about you. They tell me you don’t need much rehearsal, that you are ready for prime time.”

I don’t remember responding. “This is what page we are on, all five preps are the same, and here is the attendance and grade book. In an emergency I will be in the coach’s office.”

So that was it… my career as a teacher was taking flight and I was on my way to my second A. My student teaching experience was the first time in my life that I found my voice. I felt a true sense of value and esteem that was so different than scoring points on the basketball court or anywhere else.

While I spent the second semester of my senior year looking for a way of life, the first semester was spent looking for the party. By the time it had reached the fall of my Senior year, I was feeling my oats. I am a fashionably late type of person when it comes to everything, but now I was ready to step out. Our five man suite was to be occupied by three TKE brothers (Myself, Tom Wagner, and Kurt Jack), two of them on the Varsity basketball team and two Phi Tau brothers (Steve Digregorio, and Ozzie Breiner) both linemen on 1980 Championship Muhlenberg football team. It was only a couple weeks before school started that Wags’ dad passed away, forcing him to live at home for his senior year. That left a little nerdy freshman, Brad Moore, who now goes by the more distinguished Brad Moore M.D.,  stuck in an apartment with four self-appointed BMOC’s (Big Men on Campus). The person in charge of housing at Muhlenberg who did that to poor Brad should have been fired immediately.

Brad would claim later that in general terms he found the four of our lifestyles shocking. But his eyes opened the widest by the activities of the 22-year-old senior who lived in the single. To his three other suite mates, Brad would make inquiries into the mysterious enigma that was me.

“Do you think we should tell the campus police about Rich? Does he have any classes? Why do I see people coming and going from his room but never him?”

Ozzie and Steve would tell me some of the questions Brad would pose to them. My two roomies would answer with “Wait til the weather warms up, we will see a little more of him then,” and “he has a lot of important unspeakable business to do.”

The dichotomy of Brad and I was more perception than reality. Somewhere in the space of that year we grew to have an affection for each other. The nerdy freshman and the self-absorbed senior had more in common than either one could have ever imagined.

The two cars were still in Pennsylvania when they got off Route 22. The rain had subsided and it was hot enough that steam was rising from the ground. I parked and caught up with the three people who had been my biggest supporters during my four years in college. For such a special day, a day of beginning and a day of ending, the talk at dinner was ambiguous. I think my parents were relieved that I had made it through college with a degree and in one piece. Sue was happy she wouldn’t have to type any more of my mundane history papers. The name of the restaurant was “The Old Homestead” and it was busy for a Sunday evening. I was unusually reflective as I devoured my steak and drank my suds. I was leaving a place that I had considered my home. I was leaving my friends and I was leaving behind four years at Muhlenberg that had shaped who I was going to be for the remainder of my life. I was going back to a world I use to know but had left behind both figuratively and literally. I did not have a job or a specific plan for the future. Yet on that night, I felt accomplished, I felt secure, and more importantly, I felt confident. Back in the car deep into New York, Supertramps’ song played again. “When you look through the years and see what you could have been…What you might have been.” Thanks to my years at Muhlenberg, for the first time in my life I was sure who I was.