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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.

This last cycle of the seasons has been the most emotional and extraordinary of my life. It seems like every day has been a magical journey of joy, pain, growing, and healing. While closing many nagging wounds, I developed fresh scars. For every inquiry I have been able to answer there came two more questions. I am finally becoming comfortable with who I am , where I am going ,and where I have been. We all attempt to store our demons away in a vault somewhere deep in our subconscious. Sometimes it is wise to not look back and just leave our missteps locked-up. Through the last four seasons, I have traveled on this spontaneous adventure holding on tight with both fists clenched . The latest jolt was awaiting me as I threw my gym bag in the back seat and began to check my social media messages.

“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 sent her back a message saying it was nice to hear from her and hoped she enjoyed the book. I didn’t add that I was praying the years had blurred her past images of me. “I read your book through chapter two. It gave me chills . Big chills that I kept dismissing as the heater not working, but in reality it was your writing. I guess I was one of those who saw the Janus face you presented with such smoothness. You were cool but I always thought of you as a snake in the grass, someone for me to be wary of. You were always ostentatious and glib, and it shows in your writing. I look forward to reading the rest of the book.” Of all the recent correspondence I have had this hit me the hardest. In that small space of time back in yesteryear, she had figured me out . I couldn’t wait to hear back from her when she was done reading the book. Would she think I had changed? Would she be able to see I was no longer a pretentious child ? Would she feel my fear and vulnerability? Would she forgive me?

The days after the brief temperature reprieve the weather turned right back to well below freezing and the cracking in the roads was more evident. Spring seemed much further away than just the next subsequent season in the cycle. Only two days had passed from the time I had read her original note and the memory of a 15 year old girl was haunting me. She had so clearly nailed the part of me I thought I had hid so well. All of the people from my past who read “You Can’t Do Both” were familiar with the “Richie” who she was describing. The little prick I call “Ego” is always interested in hearing their comments. Truth is , I want the people from my past to recognize that I have evolved into something more than that shallow jock. “ You really hit everything on the head. You capture the whole gestalt without ever coming across as egotistical (which is really an achievement considering what I remember of you,) and your escape from teaching and the daunting sense of watching the clock ticking on your life is remarkable. I’m glad you seem to have become wise from your experiences instead of bitter and cocky. It is very impressive in every way. I am really pleased to have found my way to your book.”

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 last two winters in the Northeast have quieted the hype surrounding global warming. Even for a Friday, with midnight approaching, it is silent at the Kingston Hannaford. I hustle to the express checkout line with my four or five items in tow. I am a regular customer and the get all the attention from the lady workers as such. “You’re late tonight, Rich.” I countered, “I know, I just had a couple of vodka and tonics to set me on my feet again.” We laughed as I grabbed one of the gossip tabloids that sat on the shelf close to the checkout. There had been plenty innuendo, but now it was official: Bruce Jenner desires to transform himself from a man into a woman. Over the last several months there had been wild rumors with some incriminating photos to back them up; the former decathlon champ was taking steroids and growing breasts. Nothing surprises me in this world, well almost nothing, but the whispers about Jenner turning himself into a woman could be only that-whispers in the wind. It was too much of a stretch, and as much as I like to run from the norms and stereotypes, if ever there was a “man’s man”, it was Bruce Jenner. Myself and the Hannaford gals chirped like some old washerwomen. “Girls, the world is completely off kilter. A matinee idol, the poster boy for the all American athlete is having gender reassignment surgery.” I held up the magazine with a picture of the former champion brazing the cover, proudly displaying his surgically tampered with and “botoxed” mug. Under Jenner’s picture was a quote from his mother, “I have never have been so proud of my boy.” An unintentional play on words I am sure.

It has always entertained me to observe how males and females display personal representations of their sexuality. In a 1980’s song lyric, Joe Jackson posed the question, “We wonder who the real men are?” I think Jackson was referring to increasingly blurred lines on the mores that separated the sexes in the 70s and 80s. In that time period, gay lifestyle was becoming far more mainstream and certainly had become less taboo.

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 more 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.

Jimmy Lorrichio came into the quiet of the coaches office shaking his head. His mentor sat in the dark silence with his hands in his face.” Don’t worry about it coach, one decision or call does not decide a game.” Minutes before, with the score tied , four seconds left , and the ball under their own basket the opposition scored the winning basket as the buzzer went off. Instead of laying back and heading to overtime the coach had called for the full court press hoping to create a turn-over bucket and grab the victory in regulation. The aggressive pressure up court allowed the opponents to go over the top of the defense for a easy lay-in victory. The more than questionable coaching decision turned victory into defeat.

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.

The coaching faux pas I made back in 1987 came under the scrutiny of about 300 people. The only implication I heard that my decision had cost us the game came from that one player in my office. My poor judgment is long forgotten by everyone except myself, where as coach Carroll’s will be discussed as long as the game of football is played. The Super Bowl was watched by 330 million viewers all over the world, of which at least half were Seattle Seahawks rooters, and Pete Carroll had to publically answer to them. I have in perspective this was just a football game and not a summit designed to create world Peace and extinguish famine from the planet. Although this year’s Super Bowl is only an annual sporting event and not a as critical as to being wrong about countries possessing weapons of mass destruction it did present a great opportunity to see how individuals respond when they are caught with their pants down. Unfortunately there is more talk this week about not running the beast than there ever was about President Bush being wrong about the threat of nuclear weapons in Iraq.

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.

It took until me a very long time to say to myself what I should have said that night back with my point guard Jimmy L. ” It was a stupid decision to gamble at that time and call for the press. I cost us the game and a chance to win in overtime.” I was too young and head strong, and was not wise enough to be wrong about things I was sure I was expertise at.” I was 26 years old and the head basketball coach at New Paltz High. I thought then that teaching and coaching was my passion and what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. That night I did not point the finger at myself and it started me thinking about how I pictured myself spending the rest of my life. It was the moment I began thinking that playing games and coaching games was not how I wanted my time on this earth defined. My glory days were behind me and I wanted to be identified as so much more than a jock. Something that was always inside of me jumped out . There was much more to staying young and being a glory boy than winning and losing games. Athletics had been my priority up until then . I had gotten all I wanted out of them and needed and desired to move on to real life and figuring out what else I had in me.

We all make mistakes and we all at times question our identity. Pete Carroll is football coach , always has been , always will be, who got embarrassed right before he was walking into immortality. On a smaller scale Rich Siegel got too big for his britches and saw it as an opportunity to open a door to a new way of thinking. It was the beginning for him coming to terms with the fact he was the an artist and entrepreneur trapped in the body and mindset of a sports jockey. “Johnny Football” was born to shine on the gridiron but to do so he is going to have to fight off some deep rooted demons. Admitting he has a drinking problem gives him a chance to continue to chase those dreams. As for George W. Bush, no one is ever as dumb or smart as they appear. Who knows what President Bush was motivated by when he decided to attack Iraq after terrorists flew planes into the World Trade Center. We can all be fooled in one way or the other. Do we recognize it and do we do something about it is the key. After all what did Bush famously say. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice and……….. shame on Pete Carroll for not releasing the beast.

I could not remember being this out of breath after only 30 minutes on the Stairmaster while myself and the water cooler looked an ocean apart. With very little cartilage left in my knees I felt it necessary to spread my arms out to grab a hold of the two stair case rails to swing my way down over the steps and on to the workout floor. As I took my awkward strides toward the far away oasis, I could overhear a conversation between two young men who were between sets of lifting heavy iron. “The other day I was working out with this real old guy who was trying to keep up with me. I told him to take it easy-muscles don’t recover as quickly  at his age.” His companion replied,  “I don’t work out with old people, I’m afraid they’ll have a heart attack.” “Yeah and this guy was ancient, had to be 45.”

Those words, not verbatim, hit me hard in a place only relatable to a person who has lived a half of a century. I have had my discommoding times, good and bad, about growing older and the aging process but this moment sent my brain into a swirling twister that did damage to my well-being.  On January 31, 2015, I turn 55 years old and have a mixed bags of sensitivities that are going along with this milestone. They start with the positive: You don’t look that old. The 50’s are the new 40’s. It only matters how old you feel and act.  In my own head I rationalize that I have outlived many of my contemporaries. When I was in my 20’s I didn’t even believe that I would live this long. I love life and now more than ever I yearn for longevity. I am cognizant of the fact that I have many challenges ahead and much to look forward to. “Age is just a number,” I hear time and again. “Age is just a number.”

The other half of my brain envisions an hour glass with rapidly moving, diminishing sand. That side keeps repeating to me that age is much more than a number. Seventy five percent of the population is younger than me. Less than one percent of today’s population make it to 90. As I turn 55, I am thankful the years have been kind to me. Just like those young men in the gym, when I was in my 20’s, 45 was old, and 55 was prehistoric. I am practical enough to conclude that there is less time not more. I have so much more I want to do and see that it would be unwise to believe time is on my side. As I approach the double 5’s, the emotional angst is far beyond the physical maladies that go along with that number. I continually search for the fountain of youth.  When I look in the mirror, it is obvious to me that there is not enough magic water in the well to bring back my prime years. Crow’s feet, sun spots, wrinkles, and hair growing in areas that does not grow on younger people is my stark reality. I am plagued with the curse of vanity, still, I must accept that I am a man in his 50’s, and I look the part.

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.

Since turning 50, I take a personal inventory on a regular basis. I want to evaluate myself and try very hard to be honest with myself in regards to the expectations I had set as a young man. I have never worried about judgment from a God or any living person who enjoys life acting as a moral compass. The juror always come from within each individual and the only goal is for self accountability and improvement moving forward. Luckily what I’ve done with my time has been solely up to me. I’m comfortable taking responsibility for the mistakes I have made along the way, the people that I have hurt, and some opportunities that I have missed. I’m aware that I’ve had many allies who have helped me accomplish some good things and a set of parents who provided me the avenues to be and do whatever I want.

As Saturday approached, I have a dichotomy of emotions. At my core, I want to fight the inevitable; I want so badly to beat back Old Man Time. It is obvious that only those who die young, stay forever young. The rest of us have to wrestle with the aging process and eventually fall victim to the Grim Reaper. I don’t believe in an afterlife or any kind of day of reckoning. My mom would always tell me, “Life is for the living” and those words have always resonated with me. I want to be the best that I can be everyday to the people who love me and to the people I love and to do that effectively, I have to love myself.

If age is just a number, come Saturday those digits say I have lived 55 years. For the first time since I was in my 20’s, I am looking at my life with a selfish perspective and am keenly aware that I am at a crossroads. My children will both be far away from home next year and my 20 year commitment of day-to-day parenting is done. I am in the second year of owning my own business which keeps me prosperous and gives me control of my itinerary. I have discovered new passions in literate and in creative writing. I hope I can use the lessons of my past disappointments to make the rest of my life happier and more peaceful. I have been dealt a very strong hand and I am appreciative. I see an opportunity to plunge freely, and of clear conscience, into the huge world in front of me. The life I have chosen has no formal retirement, just chaotic and exciting ventures in both business and pleasure. Although at heart I am a pragmatist, I do dream that I really am Benjamin Button. Hopefully I am still growing, still learning, and still evolving. I see a bright future of grandchildren, sunsets on the beach, winters in the sun, more writing, and more published books. Life is for the living and I am 55 years old. I am not out of breath and have lots more living to do.

The morning sun had not risen; time was standing still in that small window between dusk and dawn. I don’t remember it being car lights that got my attention, but I do recall feeling the presence of a vehicle pulled up next to mine. It would not be unusual for the police to check out an apparent vacated convertible sitting in the middle of a strip mall parking lot, especially at 5:15 am when the authorities are looking for ways to stay busy before their morning coffee. Add to the circumstances that the car was probably rocking slightly. Meat Loaf described it as “paradise by the dashboard light” but for me and my companion it was just another morning for us to work on our night moves. At 19, home from college for summer break, working in bars, it was the best accommodations I could offer any date I had just made a few hours earlier. Now, barely dressed and completely disheveled, I slowly raised my head to see what was lurking on my makeshift lover’s lane. Like a gopher rising from his hole in the ground, my noggin made its way up to get a view above the side door panel. Hit with the early morning light, I stared into the eyes of middle-aged woman wearing pajamas and a mortified look. “What is it?” asked my traveling companion. “Nothing, whatever it was is gone.”

Regrettably, my mom and I never had the courage to mention that clumsy moment in time. It was one of those, not fatal, but embarrassing situations that could have made for some good laughs. We both played it safe and buried the unintentional meeting into our “that never happened” files. My mom died three years ago today at the age of 76. I’m not big on anniversary dates or reunions, but this year as the winter lets out its’ roar I enjoy thoughts of warm, summer mornings before Autumn closed in. In the years since my mom’s passing, I still have not allowed myself to eulogize her memory. Today, my mother’s granddaughters are 18 and 19 and I can’t help to think how much she would have enjoyed watching them turn into the women they are becoming. More so, how much fun she would have had watching her son, the one who put his mom through the ringer, get his just reward. I do hope I am wrong about heaven. I hope my mom is there looking down and enjoying a hardy laugh.

After I finished by freshman year of college I came back to my hometown for summer employment. That meant doing a variety of jobs for Frankie Bets, the gentleman who owned three different drinking establishments in New Paltz. My duties varied from short order cook, to collecting money at the front door on band nights, to tending bar. I didn’t make it home before daybreak once that summer. Way, way back in those times, the band played till three and last call was at four every night. With clean up, post work partying, and other extracurricular activities, it was guaranteed I’d be driving home after the street lights went out. On many of these early mornings, my mom would leave the house and go out on what my father described as “dawn patrol”. The motivation for this mission supposedly had to do with my safety. My mom wanted to make sure I had not driven my car off the road or into a pond (which I did once). She would claim years later that she couldn’t sleep until she was sure I was alive.
That summer of 1979 my mom turned into an insomniac and years later would remind me of the many nights she went on patrol. The three year anniversary of my mom’s passing, combined with Laura and Mary Kate approaching their 20s, have me attempting to make peace with that part of my past. My mom loved the girls more than anything in the world and they loved her back equally. She would have appreciated the recent events in my house and the ways Donna and I struggle to parent through them. Over the last couple of years, the two of us have been on “dawn patrols” of our own sort. By all accounts Laura and Mary Kate are nice, intelligent, well grounded girls. Laura completed her first semester at Florida State University on the Dean’s list. Mary Kate is a senior in high school deciding whether to play college field hockey in the northeast or head south with her sister to either Tallahassee or Miami. While they are both way more focused at their ages than I ever was, they take after me in the “I want to see and try it all” category. Although my experiences on night patrol have differed from my mom’s, they certainly have brought back memories.

In the last three years since my mom left this earth my “dawn patrols” have run the gambit. Twice in the wee hours of the morning I have had to get my golf cart out of hock. Once it was mounted on the back of a tow truck surrounded by emergency vehicles with sirens flashing. Another time my cart was stuck in the mud, left for dead, in the middle of a field close to the site of an outdoor all-night teen party. In both instances I didn’t know my motorized car had been ” borrowed”. Recently, in the early morning, I have been there to pick up the pieces left from occupancies without permission, over consumption, and questionable traveling paraphernalia. I have bargained with both my wife and the authorities over challenging ethical and legal issues. In the end, just like my mom during years of my youth, I have not gotten much sleep.

For the last three years not a day has gone by that I don’t miss my mother. She has lost the opportunity to see my girls turn into amazing, beautiful, and- yes- flawed women. There is so much I would like to tell her about Laura and Mary Kate and the adventures I am having as a parent-things that only her and I could understand and get a chuckle out of. My mom raised a son with no lack of blemishes and demons. More than anyone, she understood that about me. She was an anxious person to begin with and I never allowed her a second to stop worrying. My mom saw me at my most sensitive and vulnerable times. There were many instances of her discovering me in compromising positions that went unspoken. Each time I’m on a “dawn patrol” I have a one-way conversation with my mom. I smile and think back to that one particular morning in the sweet summertime of 1979. I wish we had shared the story with each other in later years. I would have loved to hear her take on it. Last night I heard a group of girls, and quite possibly some boys, tip toe in through the front door around 3:30 am. I was laying in bed wide awake listening to the quiet whispers throughout the house as I closed my eyes. I saw a baby faced boy leering his head over a car door panel making direct eye contact with a woman with a shocked and panicked look. They stared at each other only for a split second before they both vanished. Happy heavenly birthday, Mom. I miss you so much.