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On the campus of New Paltz State University, the Old Main building’s mere presence exudes educational fortitude. Old Main was constructed in 1907 and 35 years later became the signature structure for the newly named New York State Teachers College. As the years have passed, every public school teacher in the Hudson Valley has taken educational classes inside its walls as they worked towards their mandatory requirement to obtain their Masters in Education. In the summer of 1986, the building represented both a gateway and an obstacle for a 26 year old agitated and abashed educator. In the fall of 1987, I would be entering my fifth year in the teaching profession. The end of the year would represent the conclusion of my probationary period. The requirement for certified teachers in New York State is that they have to obtain their Master’s degree by the completion of their fifth year in the classroom in order to continue their certification. I was well behind in my matriculation and was on campus to see my graduate advisor whose office was located on the third floor of Old Main.

“Rich, you’re 15 credits shy of the 30 necessary,” began my student advisor Jim Hillstedt. “Three courses this summer and one each semester (fall and spring) and you are done.” I nodded as if this was a good and doable plan.

“Thanks Mr. Hillstedt,” I postured. “Now I have a strategy and all I have to do is execute.”

The foliage was ripe on that early June day as I left the center of educational studies at SUNY New Paltz and walked through the summer sun with hope, but a lack of passion. I had already struggled finding the motivation to get me through undergraduate studies. College, to me, was a necessary evil in life. Earning a four year diploma was the completion to an assignment that I knew from the time I was in diapers needed to get done. Despite the fact that myself and formal education didn’t get along, I choose a career as an educator; a career that required more classroom work beyond earning an undergraduate degree. Simply stated: I didn’t mind handing out assignments, but had grown tired of being given them. My mind and spirit had quit being a student after my senior year in college. I had signed on for four years of World Religion, Major British Writers and Microeconomics, but 30 credits after undergraduate studies weren’t happening. That summer I received a grade in one of those three classes and “Incompletes” in the other two. I would be entering the fifth year of my probationary period behind the proverbial eight ball.

I have not been inside of Pine Bush High School in 28 years. The school has since been completely renovated and enlarged significantly. My classroom was located in one of the two rooms directly across from the principal’s office and the nurse’s office. During my free periods, if I wasn’t in the pool area, I could be found near the school nurse’s headquarters. Madeline Glass was a woman probably around my mother’s age at the time. In many ways Mrs. Glass was like my school monitor and advisor. I would confess things to her and ask for advice, but mostly looked for her approval. The latter was very hard to come by. I think there was some level of mutual respect but I received nothing but tough love from her. She knew when I was hung-over, when I was fighting with the administration, and when I was teetering on crossing professional lines. She picked on me, teased me and judged me just enough to make me question her one day.

“Mrs. Glass, for three years you have been the first to point out of my flaws and shortcomings. For the record, can you think of any good qualities I have? Just one?”

Mrs. Glass sat quietly for a few seconds before replying, “No, but give me some time to think about it.” It wasn’t until the end of the school year that Mrs. Glass offered up an answer. “Rich I’ve been thinking about the question you asked me and it took me this long to come up with an answer. You are an excellent teacher and possess good manners.”

Phew, my mom had done something right in raising me.

From the first day I stood in front of a class back in Allentown PA., I never doubted my abilities in the classroom. When I decided to be “on” I could get kids to learn about subject matters they had no interest in. At my best I could reach 25 students in a single 45 minute period. My problem was by the time I had begun my fifth year teaching I was having a difficult time “turning it on”. That was not the case for my fourth period, 11th grade American History class, the year of 1986-87. Shannon Salvati sat in the seat closest to the door. Dominick Radoslovich sat in the back row. Craig Brown and Sue Coladangelo were located in the front opposite of Shannon. I think the reason that class stands out in my mind is not because of it’s over abundance of brilliant students, but more because they challenged me to bring my best every day.

Whether real or perceived, I sensed that class didn’t believe I was all that. They had heard the talk and I wanted to prove to them that I still belonged. That class was my own personal test to see if I could still do it. The fact was I could. The only question was whether or not I wanted to. Kate Kelly sat right in the middle of the class. Her sister was a senior at the time and one of my favorite students ever. I knew Kate struggled with me comparing her to her sister and had an initial resentment toward me. Two seats away sat John Cavalluzzi, a bright, fun loving kid. I wanted to prove to John, the whole class, and particularly Kate that I was still a dynamic teacher. I found out 25 years later that Kate married John but never found out if she liked me as a teacher.

Even though I did some of my most inspirational work in that fourth period class, I had failed my own test. I was stale. How could I possibly do an effective job for another 30 years? I looked around at my colleagues and saw plenty of dead weight. I also observed many dedicated and committed classroom teachers who had stayed fresh and still had the passion you need to consistently be the kind of mentor students deserved.

Bob Yuengling taught high level math and was a no-nonsense, serious educator. Bob Peay, a throwback to the 60s, was a Pine Bush institution whom the kids loved for always keeping it real. Mark Cartisano always had high energy and a true romantic relationship with History. If I continued in education, I would have done well to mimic many of his skills. Roger Norton was just a “good ole boy” Science teacher who never took himself too seriously. Elisa Roman was an old fashioned task master – a tough lady who was a fine teacher and highly respected by her students. Her being a huge Mets fan made me like her even more. Finally, Jerry Leonardi, a 35 year old man going on 65. Despite his quirkiness, his heart was always in the right place. Whatever needed to be done, Leo was there. Basketball coach, yearbook advisor, master cook, and a converted English teacher into a Social Studies teacher. If students or faculty needed a motivating quote or a shoulder to lean on, Jerry was their man.

As my car made the sharp turn around Osiris Road, I heard a squealing sound indicating that my tires were low on air. My attitude was mostly flat for such a delightful June day.

“I’m going to give up the booze and the one night stands and then I’ll settle down to a quiet little town and forget about everything.” I was singing along with Gerry Rafferty as he was winding his way down to his number one hit “Baker Street”. “But you know you’ll always keep moving, you know you’ll never stop moving…”

The irony was that my own personal stagnation was forcing me to move on. I wasn’t even close to finishing my Master’s work and had been granted a year’s leave of absence to get it. I was promised that if I did complete it, my teaching position would be reserved. The story that time told was simple. I never earned a Master’s degree and never again entered the halls of the Pine Bush High School.

Twenty eight years later, I can still see most of the faces. Even now when I dream of those days, there’s one person who appears every time. He’s always dressed like a preppy, frat boy. On the outside, he looks confident, yet reluctant. I see him walking down the hall and everyone seems to know him as he says hello to just about every passerby. Sometimes in my dreams he is happy and content, other times he is doubtful and confused. Back then I thought I knew him well. Nearly 30 years later, when I awaken from these dreams, I realize I didn’t know him at all.

At 11 pm, the end of Labor Day was fast approaching and the fearsome foursome headed into Pat and Georges for “one last drink”. The endless summer had somehow slipped behind us. A silhouetted crowd of SUNY New Paltz students could be seen heading down the road and making their way to P&G’s watering hole.

“Girls, here’s a $20,” I directed to our lady companions, “Go to the bar and get yourselves some cocktails we’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

If a band wasn’t playing, there was never a cover charge. But with Springsteen, Journey, and U2 billowing out from well-worn 33’s, I decided there would be an admittance gratuity that night.

“Let’s stand here and collect a five dollar cover from all of these amateur college students on their way in” I said to Bruce with a smirk.  Bruce Concors certainly didn’t need the money but was always ripe to step out on the edge. “O.K. I will I.D. them and you collect the money,” Bruce said with a straight face. After about a half hour, I had $340 dollars in my hand and Bruce had allowed at least ten underage co-eds into the joint. After using a portion of the money to purchase party favors we returned to our dates.

“Ladies I hope you’re ready for a long night. We are going to close this summer out with a bang!”  I then told the barkeep to get us a round of Cuervo Gold. We raised our shot glasses, “Here’s to keeping the summer alive one more night!”

Tuesday morning there was no need for an alarm clock because I never went to sleep. I showered alone, gargled with mouth wash, and hopped in my car- speeding through the back roads toward Pine Bush. Although  it was the 21^st  “first day of school” of my life, I knew things were glaringly different than all the prior first days. I would go on to teach three more years after this one, but already my adrenaline and energy were in the rear view mirror. I had received tenure in the spring: a teacher’s free pass to longevity and stability. However, instead of feeling secure, my innards were that of a caged, baby lion yearning to run free. It had been a great three year run but it felt like the beginning of the end. That first day, one that should have been filled with thoughts of what was to come, was instead cluttered with a fogged hangover. All of my sensibilities were wrapped up in the party from the night before and the preceding years that had seemingly flown by. I  had  been abruptly awoken from a beautiful dream in which the friends and lovers had vanished. As I strode in the halls the “Big  Three”, as I affectionately called them: Bouzakis, Bubolo, and Casella were nothing but a memory. The PBHS version of the Rat Pack- cool, well dressed, 18 year old lady killers had left an indelible mark on me. Standing in my classroom I searched the rows of my new classes and couldn’t find Michelle Gray, Carolyn Snyder, or Stacey Browne, girls I would never see again.

This is what it’s like for school teachers; students graduate and move on with their lives while their mentors remain stuck in time. My fourth season into a career, whose average tenure is 35 years, and I was already thinking about a way out. As the fall of 1985 progressed, I tried hard to embrace the new seniors and continued to enjoy healthy relationships with most of the faculty. However, the administrative side was steadily pushing me closer to the edge. Ward Tice was a pleasant man with a perfectly lovely family, but as a high school principal, he was in way over his head. Water seeks its’ level and as a biology teacher Mr. Tice was adept at staying afloat. Being in command of 1500 students in a highly charged, diverse, ever growing senior high school left him gasping for breath. Ward had hired me, helped facilitate my move up from the middle school, and was responsible for granting me tenure with flying colors. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long between being anointed as the new king and attempts to have me thrown to the gallows. The biggest telltale sign of Tice’s efforts to dismantle and knock me from grace was represented by the students in my classes. Not by accident for sure, scheduled for Mr. Cartisano’s American History classes (and not mine) were Stacey Tice, Sandi Tice, Pam Hazen and Jennifer Steiler. Notably the kids of teachers in the school and those of the principal.

Patricia Simmons had started teaching with me at Circleville Middle school. Now in my second year at PBHS, she was making the move to the high school as head of the Social Studies department. Once a confidante and running mate as a teacher, she was now positioned to be my boss – or so she thought. My lifelong propensity to resist authority and be subjected to any kind of “boss” was escalating my growing unpopularity amongst the administration. Before Christmas vacation, it had gotten to the point where I wasn’t even on speaking terms with the head of my department. I was getting “written up” for skipping staff meetings and having students like Kim Kelly, Pati Hauck and Andrea Lunney make out my lesson plans and deliver them to Ms. Simmons for her review. This was a woman who had been my friend and we had even gone on double dates together with other teachers. Now she was competing to be “public enemy number one”, whom I cruelly made fun of for her unfortunate characteristic of literally talking out of the side of her mouth.

Only 25 years old and feeling a malaise didn’t make sense to those in the education business. While the struggles with my fellow adults, co-workers, and bosses deteriorated, the affinity I had with the students never wavered. Before homeroom each morning, guys from my former J.V. basketball team gathered in my room to shoot the shit. We talked about sports, movies, and mostly personal stuff that never left the room. Jimmy Doyle, Dave Killen, Derek Moore, Eric Fuchs, and Mike Johnson filled the gap left by Shaughnessey, Merlken, and the like. Each kid in their own way was as special as the kid that preceded him. The cycle, though, was all too clear: the bodies in front of me would keep rotating in and out with the only constant being me. In the classroom my energy was no longer automatic. I had to press a button to jump-start me before every class. I would pick a student in my head before every period to inspire me through the lecture. I convinced myself I couldn’t let down Kate Kelly or Billy Zwart or Michelle Ponsolle. It was a short term solution, but how long could I keep talking myself into bringing the kind of energy it took to be the dynamic teacher I felt it  necessary to be?

That initial day of the 1985 school year mercifully ended without incident for a very hung over teacher. A rented BMW sped along High Trail road on the out skirts of Walker Valley. The white luxury car came to a full stop in front of a back woods bar known as the Hoot Owl. The passenger crept slowly from his car, left the bright summer sun, and stepped into the darkness. As Foreigner pleaded to get the answer to what love is, the lone figure worked his way around the pool table and settled on a bar stool sidling up to the only other patron in the gin mill. The beautiful young blond was a rare sight in the Hoot Owl this Tuesday, or any other for that matter, but he knew this Pine Bush alum very well.

“What’s the lady drinking?” he asked the middle aged woman on the other side of the bar.

“Stoli White Russian with a tequila chaser,” chirped back the barmaid.

“Ah, same as where you left off last night,” the male customer said softly, still staring blankly ahead.

“I’ll have a Bombay and tonic, twist of lime.”

The two patrons never made eye contact.  “I see you made it through the first day, said the freshman co-ed. That’s quite an accomplishment after last night.”

Still only gazing straight ahead and staring at himself in the bar mirror, he gave a whispering laugh, “Not the first time I went with zero sleep. How about you, did you get any sleep?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

“You know we have to take a break from this” he said.

“I knew that’s why you wanted to meet here this afternoon.” She threw down what remained of her drink and headed for the door. I walked behind her and watched her get into her tiny Ford two door and drive away headed for New Paltz State. My eyes followed the back of her car until it disappeared around the bend. The endless alluring summertime of an extended youth was fading. This exhilarating, wondrous, energizing chapter of my life was beginning to end.

Vito Colletta missed his calling. As he strode down the hallway in his $35 dollar Marshall’s sport jacket he looked as if he could be perfectly cast as a low level lieutenant in the Soprano gang. With his full head of slick black hair pasted to the side, shifty brown eyes, and bushy eyebrows he could have passed for a small time mobster on his way to carry out a hit. Instead, he was the assistant principal of Pine Bush High School, walking down the hallway with a sense of purpose that was testing his reputed lower than average I.Q. On this particular Monday my best guess was he was once again looking for me and not one of the students.

“Siegel did you leave school early Friday afternoon?’’ was his introduction to this latest potential confrontation.

“No, Vito, why would you make such an inquiry?” I replied sarcastically .

“Mrs. MaCewan said you walked out the side door at about two and never returned.”

Vito did not like me and he was doing everything in his power to catch me with my hand in the cookie jar. As Vito challenged me further regarding my early departure, I caught the eye of a 17 year old student who had developed into sort of a teaching assistant for me over the course of the school year and saw my opening.

“Vito, I am not going to let you or Mrs. McCewan embarrass yourselves any further.
Friday afternoon Kim Kelley had very a personal problem that needed private conversation. I was talking to Miss Kelly right over there,” pointing around the corner behind the stairwell.

“ Siegel I know you’re lying.”

“Well, Vito there she sits why don’t you go over and ask her.” The game of chicken was on. Mr. Colletta shot glances back and forth between myself and Ms. Kelly . Shaking his head in disgust he headed back down the hallway, walking with a defeated shuffle, once again not securing his man.

By the fall of 1984 I was ready to embrace moving out of the Middle School and walk the halls of academia at Pine Bush High School. It was a seamless transition for me at the time. I had already coached two years of J.V basketball and had become familiar with many of the athletes, cheerleaders, administration, and faculty. Now the ride from where I lived in New Paltz in my new 300zx was much shorter than the prior two years. In my mind it was a promotion, everything and everyone would be magnified. Standing in front of first period 11th grade American History class I felt like a baseball player who had spent a couple years in the minors and had just been called up to the majors. The lights were brighter, the kids were bigger, and the accountability was raised to a higher level.

Of the many labels I had been assigned , being called a good student was never one of them. And, now, there I was the authority and voice of reason to these late teens. As I stood in front of that initial class on opening day I was prepared to give these skeptical adolescents their money’s worth. As I think back

today, through steadily weakening eyes, some faces are blurred and others are crystal clear. Kate Bergamo locked in at attention with her big brown eyes. Jim Becker’s constant barrage of questions. Swimmer Regina Martin sporting a damp head from an early practice, or a late shower. Mike Lettera’s quiet smile that foreshadowed the unspoken bond we would develop. That first class at PBHS set the stage for an enchanted fairy tale-like school year for me. Little did I know, that his particular year would be the most fun, fulfilling , and rewarding year I would have in my teaching tenure.

PBHS had been around much longer than me but in many ways we were coming of age together. Pine Bush, geographically one of the largest school districts in the state , unfairly had a reputation of being made up hard working farm families peppered with hard-core rednecks. In the early 1980’s a growing Middletown area created an overflow that brought more of the city types into PBHS. What on the surface looked like a lethal blending of polar opposites turned out be a potion of bonding and mutual respect. Superintendent Ed Moore had plans for turning Pine Bush into a winner in every way . He was determined to hire young energetic “superstar teachers”. He discovered these characteristics in the likes of myself, Mark Cartisano, Jerome Leonardi, Greg

MacAvoy, Robbie Greene, Carla McClaud and John Salvadore. Also on Moore’s agenda was having a winning football team. Moore heard that J. V. football coach Marsh Canosa wanted to leave the District to coach baseball professionally in Italy.

To keep his grips on the charismatic teacher and coach he cut an under the table deal. Canosa was allowed a half year sabbatical from Pine Bush to coach baseball professionally in Italy. Of course Marsh did not have to return, but if he did the deal was he had to take over as head coach of the a staggering PBHS football program. Marsh did come home, he installed the wing T offense, and with the talents of Mike Kiselak, Jack Shaughnessy , Rich Cameron, Tom Lamendola, and Joe Crisp Canosa’s first varsity team went on to win their only Orange County Championship in Pine Bush history.

Four of the seven teachers I mentioned stayed in Pine Bush as teachers another 25 years. Robbie Green went on to be Superintendent of Schools in Washingtonville New York. Leonardi stayed another 10 years , while I would depart with the class of 1987…….even though in that inaugural year I was sure I would never leave . There was one major factor that drove me to that belief. It was the students themselves and

the relationship I built with so many of them. Every day I brought the kind of energy to the classroom that opened minds, providing fertile ground for learning. I was challenged in American History by Jennifer McGregor, Jim Whittel and Kim Kelley.

I was debated in Criminal Justice by Bill Grau, Clint Knoll (some irony there) and Andrea Lunney. I was scrutinized in sociology class by Torill Hunsbedt , Mark Brennan and Alisa Lazio. I coached J.V basketball for the third consecutive year with players who slid in under the radar; Glenn Taylor, Derek Moore, and Jimmy Wright (currently the varsity football coach at Pine Bush).

I took it all in that first year, like a kid in a candy store. There was a little faculty room off the cafeteria that I don’t think many people even knew existed. Every school day myself, Steve Loturco, and Mark Cartisano exchanged war stories that

as of today I will not share. I observed student –student relationships, teacher-teacher relationships , and yes, teacher-student relationships. There are many tales that I have sworn to myself I will never retell, and so far I have kept that pledge. On the Senior trip to Busch Gardens I was awakened from a sound sleep only to be yanked out of my bed and mildly attacked by a swarm of 18 year old girls. I took it in fun and was always comfortable knowing that there was never anything more than youthful testing of the boundaries involving the interludes between myself and the students in my charge. Now the administration……. was an entirely different story.

It was a Thursday in the middle of June that I walked through the doors of the High school fashionably late. With a few cobwebs left from a day before of golfing, and a night on the town in New Paltz, I was startled when John Salvadore approached on my first step inside the

building.

“Siegs, they were paging you on the loudspeakers yesterday all afternoon. I just wanted to give you the heads up.”

The prior day had been a regent day and my kids were not testing until the next day. I had no responsibilities on Thursday but I knew teachers were required to be there for the whole day regardless. In by mailbox was a note from Mr. Colletta asking for me to see him immediately.

“I walked the building, called for you over the loud speaker several times, I got you this time Siegel,” Vito gleefully chirped. “You left the building early yesterday.”

“Sorry Vito, I had nothing to do in the afternoon, I was downstairs in the pool for two hours swimming laps.”

Vito’s veins in his neck were exploding as he picked up the phone in front of me.

“Mase,(Jeff Masionet was in charge of the school pool) was Siegel swimming laps in the pool yesterday afternoon?” I could tell there was a long hesitation on the other end but when Mase started to speak I could hear him.

“Come on Vito what do you want from me,”

“Just the truth Mase,”

“Jesus Vito, don’t do this to me, yeah Siegel was doing laps.” I loved teaching, and I loved the kids but having Wile E. Coyote chasing after me constantly was getting old fast. As Mr. Colletta stood there in frozen frustration I slowly turned and existed his office. Upon my departure, I said two words, just loud enough for Vito to hear, “Beep, Beep.”

The top was all the way down as the little red MG sped through the winding roads of the Town of Crawford. One of the few FM stations that could get audible reception was playing Asia cranked all the way to the maximum volume, “One thing is sure…that time will tell.” At 7 am on this September morning there was the slightest aura of Autumn and school books. A kid who had possessed a disdain for being a student, and an overall cavalier attitude toward academia, was cruising along headed for his first day of being an educator. Like the dark roots that hid beneath his sun bleached hair, there was much more to this young man than met the eye.

 
 
 
 
 
 
My room was sandwiched between two very distinctly different teachers: 58 year-old Doris Hambly and 25 year-old Dan Greenberg. Ms. Hambly was the “kindly grandmother- type” who was losing her grip on keeping up with the youth of the present decade. This fact didn’t seem to bother her in the least. Mr. Greenburg looked like he had just been rescued from a summer tour with the Grateful Dead. It had been only six years since “The Last Waltz” was filmed and still, his favorite rock group was the “The Band”. The two were a perfect sampling of the dichotomy that existed amongst the Circleville staff. When classes were done for the day, the young and the old, the married and the single, all mingled together in the hazy, muddled, seedy area of sex in the work place. The principal, a great guy, happened to be fooling around with the guidance counselor, the science teacher was having an affair with the English teacher, and the gym teacher was trying to score with everybody. As for me, I reserved my faculty flings for an older, recently divorced, sixth grade teacher. She was a rookie teach who taught health and coached the girls field hockey team.

I can recollect so many people and events from that year in the finest detail even today: George Coates, acting as the AV guy, pushing the film projector to my room to give both of us a chance to get out of class. Rich Cameron sitting with a smirk on his face, in the back row of fifth period, claiming he didn’t have to do any work because he was going to play pro football. Dariane Miranda sitting in the first seat of a row that included four girls named Jennifer, or as I referred to them, Jennifer 1, 2, 3, and 4. I was always relieved that she raised her hand often because I had no trouble remembering her name. Barbara Casella and Kristen Buckner, a pair of best friends, went from the classroom to the sports’ bus when they signed on to be the statistician duo for the JV basketball team that I coached; two girls that I watched grow up before my eyes as they hung around the older athletes. Diana Cook, 15 going on 25, was surrounded by rumors that she was dating former Monkees’ drummer Mickey Dolenz, which she was. Chris Schick making out with the “flavor of the week”. Jim Whittel learning the state trooper code of silence early in life by walking up on a teacher on graduation night, behind the school, doing something undeniably against the rules.

Thirty one winters have passed. A black Cadillac glides over the exact same roads that the 1972 red MG convertible did on that long ago September morning. The music was softer, the speed of the car was slower, the ride was smoother, and the sense of urgency was subdued. It is March 21, 2015 and with the ground still white there wasn’t any sign that this was the first day of Spring. The Ides of March had just passed in the unpredictable month bridging Winter and Spring, between moving on and leaving behind. As I pass one of the many beautiful horse farms, I can see the images of my former students.

I hear the buzz of energetic youth in the hallway; the young teenagers so desperately attempting to be adults. I look into the open fields and I see those faces in front of me: Chris Battaglia, Maria Mancuso, Kelley Malara, Corey White, Sue Hassler… there are many others. As it was once upon a time, they seemed to be waiting for my direction, wondering what I’m going to say next. I’m traveling down that same highway, the one where I had made so many wrong turns, the same road I began the search to find myself. Those students I see in the field now had been my fountain of youth. The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac makes a sharp turn off of route 302 into the old school. Visualizing those younger years, he wants to go back.