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 counsel
or, 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.
All of the above are clear memories of a younger time that escaped most of us too many years ago. But in the few semesters I spent at Circleville, the most vivid images in my head come from the two occasions I chaperoned the eighth grade trip to Washington D.C. It was on the road trip in the late spring of 1984 when the lines that are only talked about in whispers were quite possibly crossed. The two Greyhound busses cruised down the New Jersey Turnpike with the sounds of Iron Maiden, Tom Petty and Van Halen seeping through air-tight windows. On the first night we arrived in D.C., a poker game broke out in one of the hotel rooms. It was tame at a 25/50 cent ante game, but as the gambling was breaking down with tomfoolery, a frustrated teacher stuck about 60 bucks was heard saying, “Shut the f… up and deal the cards.” On the next night, a male teacher and a female teacher were supposedly in a room that housed five eighth grades girls when a beer party ensued. One of the girl’s parents complained about the alleged incident when everyone arrived home. Following a shallow investigation involving some “forgetful” young girls, the Teflon teacher and the potential scandal were swept under the rug. Not only did I have lots of fun that trip with my young charges, I also spent plenty of time seeing the historical sites, and hiding in hotel stairwells with my fellow chaperone, a young student teacher named Maryann. That year’s visit to the nation’s capital was quite a sendoff for me as I was moved up to the high school in the fall.
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.
It was as quiet as a fraternity house could get. The ambiguous time 
It was that time in late February when we take notice of the days getting longer. For the first time in over two months, the winter was displaying a chink in it’s armor. The month with the fewest days had been breaking records for low temperatures and high snow accumulations. The last time I had walked out of the gym without a coat was before Christmas. I stepped into the 40 degree daylight and instead of a shivered, rushed walk to my car. I strutted slowly barley lifting the soles of my shoes off the ground. Staring down at my walking surface the impact of the harsh winter was obvious. The blacktop had a white tint to it from all of the salt that had been grounded in. The parking lot area had already begun to display cracking and bubbling from the sudden and short lived change in Fahrenheit. For a moment “Old Man Winter” was losing his bite. Despite how hard he tried to hold on , it was time for a change. Even seasons must give way to the order of the universe.
“Hey Richie Siegel! I just ordered your book. Funny, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so nostalgic, and well… a writer.” There was a signature after the note. It was a person who, like the years, had slipped away and out of my consciousness . I had known her well for a short period of time in my adolescence but realized that our last contact had been nearly 40 years ago. Over the course of the last year, I have had numerous reunions with the ghosts of my past. Most have been friendly encounters and filled with adulations. I had heard from many people with whom I had powerful relationships with at one time but had written out of my life. This connection felt different because I could remember how this girl had experienced me at my height of immaturity and arrogance. Her message went on, “I can already hear in your prose on your website the sounds of the cocky, conceited, prepster- jock I remember from four decades before.”
I sat still in my car not turning on the ignition. She had come to New Paltz in 1974 from Gramercy Park with her dad and sister. Her mom had died six months earlier and her father was faced with some legal problems that had made the newspapers. Never could a young girl be more vulnerable and in need of support and friendship. Within a year she was in a serious relationship with my best friend. This is without a doubt how we became connected. Her close relationship with Todd presented me with an opportunity to show off my ugly side. That included inappropriate flirtations, derogatory comments about her dad, and judgments in reference to what I considered her promiscuity . A couple of years later when my friend and her broke up, we went on a few dates where I was able to up close and personally solidify in her mind what an asshole I was.
I am ready for another spring as much as I ever have been. I am not afraid of change and I am ready for new, bright, fresh days. One person from my past gave me the confirmation and the verification that I am still learning , still growing, and still seeking redemption. It is the time of year to start repaving the roads, opening the windows, and planting new seeds. Winter can’t hold on much longer . The circle of life assures it will come back again, but not before we get a chance to start over. Seasons change, people change.
While his opponents running on the synthetic turf were collapsing from pure exhaustion, Bruce Jenner raised both his arms high in triumph. His chest was wide and his golden hair flopped in the Canada night as he crossed the finish line of the 1,500 meter track race. He completed the final leg of the event that would give him the unofficial title of “Greatest Athlete in the World”. Jenner’s second place finish in the 1500 meter won him the gold medal in the Decathlon at the 1976 Summer Olympic Games held in Montreal. Back in upstate New York on that warm July evening, my brother and I lay on the shag rug in our family’s den looking at each other knowing that what Jenner had just accomplished was the stuff of dreams. I was only 16 years old and had really had just begun developing an idea of who I was and who I wanted to become. I was very late to mature mentally and probably more so physically. I loved sports and fantasized of being a great athlete but my body was not cooperating. At this juncture in time I had not gotten to second base with a female and was having the normal prepubescent struggles with my own sexuality. As the new Olympic champion jogged a victory lap draped in an American flag ,my brother and I headed to the garage for a game of ping pong. On that night there was one definitive thought in my mind: Bruce Jenner is a real man.
The days of boys in blue and girls in pink was no longer the standard. Openly gay men seemed to be more in touch with their feminine side. They were going to the hairdresser, getting their nails done, wearing jewelry, and enjoying being pampered. My father’s generation had never heard of such a thing. For myself, this was a time period to embrace some of the more lady-like things that my older friends scorned and ridiculed. I wore my hair longer, got my ear pierced, wore platform shoes and adorned plenty of feminine colors. My teens and 20’s were awkward from an emotional side. I had no idea of how to treat the ladies and I had less of an idea of how to be a man.
Although the word may already be somewhat antiquated, my wife refers to me as metro sexual. I always respond back, “No, I happen to be in touch with my feminine side.” Growing up in small town America in the 1970’s, there were no LGBTQ groups with an office on main street or a gay alliance club in the high school. The only exposure I had to this lifestyle was the character from Rocky Horror Picture Show (Dr. Frank Furter) and the androgynous rock stars Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. Back then, I could not adequately explain what it meant to be transgender and would have trouble expressing it even today. In the most literal sense, Bruce Jenner is a male who desires to be female. In respect to outward appearance, with the exception of his head, he is growing less hair and seems to have larger breasts. I would also assume that once the gender reassignment is complete he will dress like a lady. Were there men with woman living inside of them? Had these people been assigned the wrong sex at birth? Are there many people who have these desires and just fight them off?
Having the opportunity to have lived 55 years, I am coherent there lies a large gap in the constitutional make-up between men and women. Yet in the same breath, the difference in the two sexes is like the fine line between the darkness and the dawn. As children, there was an “us” and “them” factor. Years ago, it seemed like girls were running past me as I just dragged my feet. Despite the muddle, and my wife’s teasing about me being too in touch with my female side, I never had a physical relationship with a male nor have I ever felt like I was not assigned the wrong sex at birth. I support gay marriage, what two people do with their lives is of no concern of mine, and if somebody believes they were assigned the wrong sex at birth, I say fix it. The combination of being an Olympic hero and the patriarch of the Kardashian clan already gave Jenner attention from millions of Americans. Coming forward now with the declaration that he has been a woman trapped inside a man’s body is more fodder for the magazines and the curiosity seekers.
Somewhere in my youth I heard the expression, “Now that’s a real man.” The people who used the quote were referring to the likes of John Wayne, Burt Lancaster, Mickey Mantle, and Rock Hudson. The implication was that if you were strong, athletic, swashbuckling and handsome, you were a “man’s man”. Members of the opposite sex adorned and lusted after kings of masculinity. Over space and time, the lines between man and woman have become fuzzy. It’s not a bad thing that it’s m
ore challenging to define what it means to be man in today’s world, or what it means to be a woman. It has always been the case that as we age, gravity provides the stimulus for making men and women appear more physically similar. Bruce Jenner feels his gender was initially misidentified and has lived with that awareness for 65 years. It is courageous for him to put himself out there for all the world to see. I am sure Jenner’s announcement will encourage others to explore their gender Identity. It will leave the rest of us wondering who the real men are.
Sunday as I was watching the Super Bowl that repressed memory rushed back into my head as hard and punishing as a Marshawn Lynch run from scrimmage. Pete Carroll, of big time coaching fame, had just made the coaching blunder of the Century. Not only might it have been the worst call in sports history, it was executed on the biggest and most viewed stage that exists today. A half a yard away from immortality, and “Beast Mode” on his side ready to roar Coach Carroll decided to be fancy instead of prudent and elected to throw the pigskin for the win. The result will keep the Monday morning quarterbacks talking for a lifetime and destroy Carroll’s coaching legacy.
My interest in all of the above is not as much as the errors made, but the accountability, or lack of such, that people demonstrate in the immediate times after the mistakes in judgment have been made. Here’s what Pete Carroll should have said:” I don’t know what I was thinking, I should have given the ball to the best power back in football and game over. If I had it to do over again we would have won or lost this game on the back of Marshawn Lynch.” That simple concession and 150 million people would have cut him some slack. It is difficult enough to admit miscues on the sports field let alone missteps that result in losing lives. Coach Carroll post game explanation was filled with rationales and defenses of a his major screw up. Fourteen years later President Bush justifies the war in Iraq and despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary still nods and says ” yes , the weapons are there.”
I guess we all have trouble confessing to our poor decisions we make under pressure. The day after the Super Bowl “Johnny Football” (Manziel) checked himself into a rehabilitation center because of problems related to alcohol use. The analogy may not be perfect, but unlike the three above mentioned Manziel is taking accountability and responsibility for his actions. It takes tremendous courage to be 23 years old, have millions of dollars and admirers, all having tremendous expectations for you. By admitting to having a problem a label will be tagged on you to carry around the rest of your life. Owning who you are and your short comings is not an easy thing, especially at such an young age. Alcoholism is a disease that causes your life to become unmanageable. Surrendering to it is far different than conceding you made the wrong call in a football game.
On the occasions that I get past the shallowness of my appearance, I begin to examine the fibers of my life. I am a big believer that life is short and we are not in a dress rehearsal. I have gotten wise enough to grasp that I will never find all of the answers but the search for them is the true high. In the end, I don’t want to leave anything on the table whether it be money, good times, opportunities, or my quest for knowledge. Fortunately at some point earlier in my life I decided I wanted to be something more than a jock and a good time Charlie. I want to explore myself and try to tap into that deep well of potential we all possess. At some point I did think ahead of what it would be like to be 55 and older. I figured out back then that I didn’t want to be looking back at a past of scorched earth.
If age is just a number, come 
