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It was already the second day of January 2023. Christmas, the new year, and all the commitments that go along with the Holidays were in the rear-view mirror. Yes, the Monday after New Year’s Day 2023 was a national holiday, for me it felt like an old-fashioned day to enjoy some personal time. Over 62 years of observation has given me enough evidence to understand the planet earth is in a warming pattern. I stepped out of my car and into the bright January sunshine. The temperature was in the 60’s and it was plain to see that the good people of Kingston had not been granted a “White Christmas”.

The beautiful day was providing a perfect opportunity for me to look back to this date one year ago. A full 365 days had passed since last January 2, 2022, when I was leaving my doctor’s office having just completed my annual physical. I didn’t realize it then, but for me it would turn out to be an unexpected pivotal day. “Rich, for a 62-year male you are in above average physical condition, but there are some numbers creeping up that are starting to concern me,” said my doctor baiting me for a response. ‘What does that mean?’ was all I had in the moment. “It means if you continue your current lifestyle, you will likely have liver problems down the road.” ‘My liver? Are you telling me I need to quit drinking?’  In my head I was no where’s near prepared to go down this road. ‘Did I just hear you say I need to stop drinking?’ “No, it is not my job to preach, but it is my duty to show. I am merely suggesting moderation.”

The professional had delivered the message. I sat there quietly numb and sick to my stomach.

I returned to my car outside Dr. Smith’s office, slid down into my seat lacking the ambition to start the ignition. My truth at the time, was that drinking had become an issue in my life. My drinking habit had progressed since my children both left the nest in 2015. For the past several years my drinking had become daily and my intake in those sittings were consistently increasing. I was torn up inside knowing that some sort of direct action was needed. I was shocked that I had gotten myself into this position, yet I knew in my heart a day of reckoning was hovering. When the chickens come home to roost it is never when you expect, and it is never good timing. ‘I can’t quit drinking. But I must quit. O.K. it’s settled. I will start a dry January tomorrow.’

The ride to my favorite watering hole that night was sobering to say the least. Deep down, between me and myself it was time for a “coming to Jesus meeting”. ‘I can’t quit drinking. I said silently, this time as a question. This just could not be. I have dealt with addiction my entire life, but I was always certain I could control alcohol in my life. I knew plenty of people with a drinking problem, people who drank every day, and people who had been in and out of rehab facilities.   

My partner’s car was already in the restaurant’s parking lot. My first reaction to the recent doctor’s visit was two quick Cosmopolitans, and three coronas. Leaving the restaurant that night I had the same feeling I had when I left the golf course three years ago.‘ That might have been the last drink I have in a very long time,’ was whispered somewhere deep in my subconscious.

My daughter and her boyfriend were busy in the kitchen preparing a late dinner as I walked through the door. They had returned home the day before biding their time for a job change and seeking refuge from an inflamed job market. My daughter’s friend pushed a cold corona in front of me. “We’re making salmon tonight.” ‘I’m in for some salmon,’ I said sliding the bottle back at him. ‘I’ve decided to take a break from the sauce. I think I am going to shoot for a dry January.’ Before what I said had sunk in my daughter blurted out, “why not do a dry year?”

We had a nice dinner that night with the effect of my earlier five cocktails going without notice. We talked about the plans the kids had going forward, and how long they planned on staying in Kingston. I announced to Donna my plans to be alcohol free for the month of January to which she replied, “good luck with that.”

Laying on the couch that evening I thought about the many approaching crossroads that were now intersecting my life. Decisions and changes that go along with being a senior citizen (business, family, physicality, location, and purpose) were rushing at me all at once. It is time to deal with perpetuation plans, wedding plans, empty nest syndrome, counting money, family, and most importantly rediscovering and re-defining myself. I decided that night that these important transitions were going to be made with a clear head.

My daughter’s words, ‘why not do a dry year?’ were penetrating my physique more than I wanted. ‘It was an interesting proposal, one that I did not believe I had the discipline to maintain. I was ready to sign up for a dry January, but a year, that is not possible. Time passages add up quickly when you take your situation one day a time.

Before I knew it the doldrums of a cold winter January had passed. I survived my first martini business meeting, my birthday bash, and the Super Bowl without any alcohol intake. By February I was receiving unsolicited feedback on my status. ”Rich you look great.” “Hey Rich, did you lose weight?” “Hey Rich, I hate telling you this, but you look ten years younger.” “There’s something different about the way you look, are you doing Botox?” The litany of positive feedback was the drug I needed to determine I was going to stretch out dry January into something more dramatic. As time continued to roll on the easiest thing each day was saying to myself” ‘I am not going to drink today.’

Life is a game and I had put down the gauntlet for myself. All I had to do was not do something, and although big rewards and prizes were not rewarded it had become clear in the first few days that going through this life sober gives us all a better chance to reach our potential than not.

As the time of my abstinence kept expanding, I continued to stretch out my “back in action date”. By the time summer arrived I was still dry, and I had a new goal for myself of one year of abstinence. The test I was applying to myself was the hardest, easiest, most fulfilling, most difficult, and the most exhilarating challenge I had ever put to myself. I discovered in fast time that quitting the drink did not help dissipate any of the obstacles that were already in front of me. Your problems do not quit you. The jam-ups you got yourself into do not disappear just because you stop running from them. Drinking, for me, had become all about escaping my anxieties of growing old and being non relevant. I was drowning my sorrows until I found out they could swim.

I would speculate that in 2021, I took in some sort of alcoholic beverage 350 days that year. That means I spent at least 1,000 hours and close to $30,000 simply having a cocktail before I went home to dinner. All the hours do not include the wasted time during the next day sleeping and recovering from the so-called pleasures of the night before. The best present you receive when you give up the liquor is “time”. So much precious time with lots of options. At first there was an empty lost feeling of “what am I going to do to replace all that drinking time. Not everyone concurred, but I was confident my writing was improving and more focused. Not that my relationships with family members were strained because of my alcohol consumption yet it didn’t take long that me being sober was only strengthening bonds. It didn’t happen immediately but there was a gradual rise in my energy and ambition.

By July first I was determined to go the entire year without one iota of the sauce. I was already starting to ask myself the question: ‘why would you ever go back?’

One year ago, today I found myself amid a personal tailspin. For a few years I kept repeating the same questions: ‘What do the next 30 years look like for me?, Will my obsession with “Peter Pan” ever evolve enough to find me as a normal respectable senior citizen? Can I make sense of all the money I made in this life and how very little remains? Despite all of the regrets that go along with our imperfect lives can I find peace within an extremely unpeaceful soul?

These were vital game of the life questions of which instead of working towards real solutions ‘I was going for a cocktail to figure things out at the bar.’ “Keep maintaining your habits as they are now and you will be spending most of your old age in Doctor’s offices and hospitals”, were the words that called me to one simple action: give up the booze and one-night stands (with alcohol) and see what the world looks like through clearer eyes.

All of life’s inevitable obstacles and problems do not go anywhere after you decide to try to stop running from them. The difference is sobriety gradually brings back a facilitator’s ambition. Nothing great in this world happens without experience, suffering, learning, and then growth. The rewards of being alcohol free for a year were plentiful: Better sleep, improved skin, weight loss, and most importantly stronger deeper bonds that were formed with family and friends. This past year I gave myself a chance to look at the world in an entirely different light. What I do going forward is an unknown. I didn’t do much this year except to decide to not drown my sorrows any more. In doing so I have seen a whole fascinating new side of life emerge. The easy part is over,  there are no more excuses, now it’s only me that can get in my way.

It was the second week of September in the year of 1974. The Ali/Forman rumble in the jungle was only a month away. The country was only days away from President Gerald Ford pardoning former president Richard Nixon from going to trial due to his involvement In the Watergate scandals that had engulfed his administration. That particular autumn I was a 14-year-old, five feet tall and 105 pounds quarterback of the J.V. football team matriculating as a freshman at New Paltz Central High School. My first period class, which started at 7:44 am, was Earth Science with the famous Mr. George Campbell as my instructor. George had recently been named by the New York State Teachers Association as ‘New York Teacher of the year.’ In myself and Mr. Campbell’s case when great teacher met apathetic student there was nothing he could do, even with all his amazing teaching skills. If a stubborn me decided I wasn’t interested in the subject matter the teacher didn’t have a chance.  Mr. Campbell was a serious educator who did not like his classroom disturbed in the slightest way. But today, for the most attractive girl in the school, he made an exception. The tall young lady with hair the color of the sun was wearing tight blue corduroy slacks a beige pullover, and a sheepish grin. “Excuse me Mr. Campbell, I am on the yearbook staff, and I oversee getting teacher photos. May I please come and take a couple of shots as you teach class.” It turned out to be a morning of firsts. It would be the first and only time I saw George Campbell rattled, and it was my first introduction to the “it” girl of New Paltz High.

Cynthia D. Conner stood approximately five feet nine inches with perfect golden locks that extended halfway down her back to go along with her sparkling blue eyes. She was the hottest young woman this 14-year-old boy had ever seen. “Sure, come on in,” George, who was renowned for his tomfoolery, was now walking towards Cindi with a shit eating grin on his face. “Here sit on the couch, I want the yearbook editor to be in the picture with me. Cindi, who I would learn later, had her own affinity for shenanigans positioned herself reluctantly onto the couch. The awkward, yet still fun loving, photo appeared in the 1975 spring edition of the Huguenot yearbook. The record says fate never gave me a chance to have a conversation with Cindi Conner in high school, or anytime thereafter. Still, she was the kind of beauty and force that made it impossible to not be interested in checking her out. In the school year 1974/75 Cindi Conner was the best looking and most popular person who attended New Paltz High (believe me, she had a lot of competition). I remember thinking what is a little boy like myself doing in the same school with a full-blown woman like Cindi. All those years ago I wondered what becomes of a stunning beauty from a small upstate New York town. Forty-eight years later trolling through my Facebook feed the news flashed before me: Cynthia D. Conner, 65, of New Milford New Jersey, died in a one car accident Saturday morning in an area near her residence.

That morning, 48 years ago, I saw Cindi Conner in her prime. A tall, sexy, life of the party kind of chick. Her looks and her body left her little choice but to learn all aspects of men early. From what I could observe back than by the time Cindi was a senior in high school she had very little use for all things that us regular students were embracing. She dated mostly college boys who had been upperclassmen at New Paltz the previous few years. From everything I saw then, and hear now, Cindi was consistently the life of whatever party. It would not be a stretch to say Cindi was born into a family who was affluent and carried much influence on the local level. Her mom was the daughter of the “go to doctor” in New Paltz in the days when the local physician was the wealthiest man in town. Her Dad was a larger-than-life figure who owned and operated a full-service gas station on the corner of 44/55 just below the hairpin turn. Looking in from the outside Cindi and New Paltz was a match made in heaven.

The striking free spirited teenager and a progressive college town. According to her friends Cindi was part of the New Paltz downtown bar scene at the age of 16. I heard more than one story of her mother, in her bathrobe, storming into New Paltz bars to drag her partying teenage daughter home. She was not the cheerleader type, yet she dated the high schools’ top jocks. I know very little about what happened to Cindi after high school.  She married a guy she met at the small private college she went to. The marriage didn’t last too long, and it produced one child, a son. Some thirty years ago Cindi settled in a private gated community in West Milford New Jersey where she was well respected for her bigger than life personality and her devotion to her pets.

There are thousands of small towns across America. We do not get to choose which one we will spend our adolescence. When we start out, we know nothing about the people we will come of age with. When you attend the same high school with a group of people for four years you are automatically linked into a bond that simply will never fade. We got to see each other in our most vulnerable and insecure states. From the surface we knew everything about our classmates. We knew their grades, their friends, what their father did for a living, and who they were dating or wanted to date. We were great at judging surfaces and not so good at understanding everyone’s individual emotional circumstances. We looked to each other to find our own direction. My brother Gary was a senior when I was a freshman, so I had a front row seat to take it all in. I looked to his friends to teach me the ropes. Watching Cindi, my brother, and his classmates find their away around that last year of high school helped me put together an itinerary for my future. Sad, but true, high school for some was the highlight of their lives. For others it was just a necessary step to move on to the next stage. Still, others hated the entire process of the public schools and passed the day away in the “pot lounge.” No matter what our experiences were in high school the details stick in our mind like a heavy weight. I shake my head at how haunted I got about the past events that made the back page of school paper. I can’t help but see Cindi standing in that doorway of Mr. Campbell’s first period Earth Science class. That day it looked like Cindy was happy, but somehow misplaced. She had a bit of an uncomfortable look about her as if she had outgrown her current situation. The former classmates I have spoken to about Cindi have very little information about her life after high school. My recollection that morning was of a young lady in the prime of her life without a clue as to what her next move would be.

For the moment Cindi and I were in high school together we never had enough commonality to share communications. From where I sat, she was a superstar and I was on the bench a long way from getting into the game. It wouldn’t be a stretch to speculate that Cindi’s best years of her life may have already been behind her.  I may have been temporarily on the bottom of the high school “cool” spectrum, but I could sense that my time was coming. Everything I have read about Cindi since her passing indicates she was the last person to call it a night. Cindi was the one who wanted to not only take in all the fun, but she also was the first to participate as a major player amidst the shenanigans. Was it possible that morning back in 1974 that Cindi Conner’s best days were behind her? During the Holiday season Cindi Conner’s sudden death comes as another harsh reminder of how fragile our time on earth is. In general terms we never lose interest in seeing what happened to all the supporting actors we came of age with. What did they do for a career? Did they stay local? Family? Did they find the “whatever” they set out to find on their journey? One of New Paltz’s brightest lights was put out in West Milford New Jersey at age the of 65. I would venture to guess that her heart and soul never left New Paltz.

My personal memory of Cindi will always be fixated on that early morning in 1974. A dazzling blond was nuzzling her way onto the couch to play victim to Mr. Campbell’s lechery. It, of course, was all in good fun and I am sure I was not the only student to enjoy the distraction from the days lesson. On paper Cindi leaves behind a son Nicolas, her beloved dog Luna, and a slew of neighbors and friends who described her as a “force of nature.” Her opinions were powerful and unbending, there were no awards in the High School yearbook for her being the teacher’s pet or winning any academic awards, yet her smiling dimpled face is spattered all over the pages of the 1975 Huguenot. I received a private message from a male high school mate of Cindi. It came right at the time I was thinking about putting a story together about Cindi. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see Cindi at the reunion (New Paltz High had a big reunion this summer), and now that won’t happen. Cindi was always ready for a party. Over the years she became political and had a fallen out with some of her good old high chums over the recent political nonsense.” He went on to say: “We must come to a time of healing. We have more things in common than we do separating us.” My wiser and older friend usually has a good perspective regarding this turbulent and always uncertain world. In death we look for messages, sometimes we can see them clearly and other times we are left empty and confused. Cindi Conner lived life on her terms. Hopefully, she found the peace in her later years that avoided her in her youth. This is one time we can use a premature tragic death to gain a deeper appreciation of where we came from and what we still have left.

RIP Cindi…… You and I have a plethora of New Paltz stories to tell each other when we meet up in the next life.

I turned my body from the prone position to have a peak at what the new day was bringing. It was December 11, 2022, and the first snow of year was glistening in the early morning sun showing off its virgin cover. Christmas was less than two weeks from being an afterthought. Only 24 hours earlier I had awoken to for a morning beach walk in the warmth of the Caribbean sun. The weather in the last few days was a microcosm for my present life. Yesterday the sun was high with a strong wind blowing at my back, but today I could feel the weight of winter settling into my aching bones. After two full hip replacements rolling out of bed and into the new a day is not as easy as it used to be. At least in the recent year the aches and pains that represents my body has everything to do with age and nothing to do with the alcohol I consumed the night before. The end of vacation in Turks and Caicos marked the 11th month of my goal of maintaining sobriety. Looking in the mirror I had a decent tan, I hadn’t left anything behind, and I certainly felt rested after a week of sun and relaxation. My family went back to the place we have been approximately 15 times since 2000 when Donna took me there for my 40th birthday. We have never traveled to Turks without Laura and Mary Kate in tow and this year was no exception. In the kitchen of Flower Hill standing at the bay window my eyes squinted from the bright white reflection of the sun hitting the snow. It was Sunday morning, but not for much longer. As bright and shiny as the late morning sun was there no hiding the fact that winter had arrived.

From the tranquility of a still winter’s morning, my mind jolted back to our recent vacation. It was a scream I was familiar with. It was more of a screech, the kind of sound you hear when fingernails are dragged across a chalkboard. Throughout the years when any one of the three girls could be heard letting out blood curdling yells anytime a bug of any genre entered their space. That noise, heard over the entirety of the island of Providenciales, caused me to jump up from a relaxing before dinner read. Not only was Donna screaming like a banshee, but she was also running with hands wailing towards the ocean. My wife had looked to the sandy beach to see Nick, (Our daughter’s boyfriend the last several years) down on his knee, ring in hand, pleading my daughter for her hand in marriage. On the same Caribbean beach, she learned to swim Laura Nicole Siegel was accepting a proposal to spend the rest of her life as Mrs. Laura Carvalho. I didn’t move from my perch where I saw my other daughter, and her friend, also crashing the proposal party. I put my book down for a moment and gazed out to the vastness before me. In 2000 I made my first visit to Providenciales marveling at the dirt highways and sterile beaches. The island seemed so much bigger now, her braces were gone, and she smiled back at me like a woman who knew her way around. Our little girl, who ran these beaches chasing Sesame street characters, was back on the beach gleefully admiring her new piece of jewelry.

Two days after my oldest daughter accepted a marriage proposal, I dove into my travel gear to retrieve a pen and writing pad. Before the excitement created by Laura and Nick I was determined to block out the news from home and around the world. No matter how hard I tried there was no hiding from the noise this whacky world is putting out now days. I sat by the pool, already buried into my second book of the week. Over the backdrop of the lapping ocean waves, I couldn’t help but listen to the background clamor
that surrounded me. “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain; I’ve seen lonely days when I could not find a friend,” familiar words from James Taylor no matter the country you inhabit. The women on the other side of the pool were in full gossip mode. “Britney Griner is coming home, straight up trade for a Russian Arms dealer,” my head dived deep back into the pages of the ‘Alchemist.’ “Thank God for Elon Musk, he invented the electric car, now he is on his way to saving democracy,” I could hear the older gentleman with the German accent announce to his travel companions. For the first time all week I felt like I was back in New York, I was hearing all of the babble I had gone so far to avoid. It was time to head back to my room put the headphones in, get in a chair facing the abyss and start writing down the words of the voices whispering to me over the waves. Another Christmas was on the way despite the screams that our planet is on its last leg. For today I will dream of a future with my back turned towards the sun with a hoard of grandchildren following me down the beach. 

The second floor of the Providenciales airport was overflowing, not an empty seat to be found. The once tiny airstrip looked like a major U.S. hub on an active Sunday afternoon. The weary travelers, with their fresh tans and Coronas hanging out of their hands were headed to the outside deck for that last shot of vitamin C before they ventured back to the long winter that was awaiting them. For all the strife that echoes in our ears everyday this Caribbean airport gave one the appearance that there are still plenty of
people in the world who have the means and the time to pack up and get away from it all. This was my family’s first adventure back to the island since 2019. On our maiden voyages to Turks there was only one or two planes arriving on any given day. Now as I gazed out at the huge birds positioned against the blue of the ocean they were coming and going in 20-minute intervals. My daughters and boyfriends were already in the air; one headed to Atlanta and one to Providence. For myself, the family vacation had been a respite, but this old man was ready to get back to the grind of my ordinary life. “Delta Flight 62444 to JFK is ready for boarding,” was the announcement coming across the loudspeaker. I took one last inhale, slung my carry bag over my shoulder, stuffed away my pad and pen , and headed for the gate. There were no baby strollers, or diaper bags for us to haul as Donna and I stepped out onto the tarmac hand and hand heading for home.

The airplane pushed its way through the organy sky. The customers in first class had already downed their first cocktail and were attempting an early evening nap. There is a certain stillness on a return trip after an extended time away from the normal routine. Your mind shifts away from the sunscreen and directly on to the things that await you. “To realize one’s destiny is a person’s obligation.” The back cover of the book ‘the Alchemist’ was staring at me as I straightened up my stuff preparing for take-off. The book is the story of a young Spanish Shepard and his soul-searching excursions to the pyramids of Egypt after having dreams of buried treasure. It turns out the young man discovers that after years of crossing oceans and desserts seeking the glories of the world, he discovers his tressure was in his backyard all along. As the Delta jet glided north, I was alone with my thoughts of the future. I could see lots of family vacations in the sun, I could picture grandchildren approaching the ocean for the first time. In the quiet moments up in air I can find a clarity that I cannot find on the ground. It is the perfect atmosphere to do some serious personal inventory: Family, health, money, career, personal growth. There were now more than 11 months that separated me from my last sip of alcohol. I haven’t played serious golf in over two years. Whatever money I have has been on the sidelines since Covid hit.
The unfasten your seatbelt sign was flashing. For now, I was on way back to New York. I was coming away from this trip with a clearer picture of my personal legend. And I was coming home with a new son.

Back home it was evident that the first snow had arrived, and it looked as though the virgin white flakes had plans to stick around for a while. Already the weather man was predicting another coat for the weekend. Old man winter was settling in and despite all the banter about global warming winter in the northeast is still nothing to sneeze at. Last week, we went back to the place my family had come annually during the kids formulative years. Things were different, gone were the days of cocktails and stogies deep into the night. Gone were the days of sneaking over to the casino for a little action. Gone were the days of me calling back to my office everyday to check on clients. There were books to read, books to write, edges that needed trimming. I maneuvered my car carefully up Lucas Avenue through the freshly fallen powder. It was the second snow this week and already New Yorkers were in their full “scrooge mode.” “Hey, slow the fuck down,” screamed the flag woman as she wiped the snowflakes from her eyes. ‘No worries, Miss, I am definitely not in a hurry.’ I was heading to my office without a specific plan to check out what the week had left behind.. The last three years has changed me in ways I never expected to happen. I could not have imagined that I would still be in playing a conventional game well
into my 60′. Back from a week of sun and reflection I did figure a couple of things out. It is going to turn to 2023 in just a few days. I head into the new year with an attitude that has been three years in development. I got lots to say, and I got a wedding to prepare for. Congratulations Laura and Nick!

The squeaky screeching wheels of the gurney was the only sound that could be heard. The slab made to carry human flesh was being pushed down a hallway as long as a football field. There was only one word to describe the environment of the entire area: sterile. The corridors and the interior rooms were plastered with a shiny silver metal aluminum texture. There were a throng of worker bees all dressed in matching light blue scrubs, gloves, and hair netting. On adjacent sides of the hallways there were large glass windows that allowed a view into the operating rooms as the gurney continued on the path to its destination. If not for the bright lighting one might have deducted the setting was all part of a scene in another sequel to the horror movie ‘Hostel’. Unconscious human bodies lay in the center of each room surrounded by regiments of the light blue army hovering over them passing carving knives back and forth. Finally the ride stopped in front of a heavy steel door that was being held open for arrival. The table the work was to be done on felt cold and firm. At least seven people stood, with hands raised, in complete silence waiting to do what they had trained their entire lives to do. “What if I don’t wake up?” I whispered through the quiet. “Don’t worry, you’ll never know,” replied the woman with a large needle in her hand.

Fifteen minutes earlier the doctor who was going  to perform the surgery, his 4th of the day, was standing in front of myself and my wife. “You ready to go, someone should be down to get you in a few minutes, they’re preparing your station right now.” I gave a simple nod as Donna asked where she could secure a cup of Java. We were in the bullpen (holding tank) before being wheeled off to the cutting fields. As soon as the doctor had ended his brief visit it was time for Donna to make her exit. “There’s a Starbucks across the street, I’ll see you on the other side,” were her words of departure. ‘Easy for her to say,’ I muttered to the now empty area.

In a stable state of mind I was positive I would be seeing my wife in about three hours. Another check mark would be put down towards the ledger on the long road to a recovery I had been chasing since deciding not to give up. But left alone to wander, my mind is anything but stable. Since my dad had passed two and a half years ago this was the end of the line to what I have described to myself  as, “a time to heal.”  The death of my closest confidant, followed by the passing of my college roommate from pancreatic cancer had motivated me to rethink my priorities. Never before had I taken more than a day or two to recover from anything. But at the time of the deaths of these two critical people in my life I knew it was time to make exceptions.

Sitting alone on my gurney, waiting for my chauffeur, I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had enough recovery, if this next step goes well it is time that I start enjoying any and all options that remain.’  Therein lies my next challenge.  I haven’t made any decisions beyond fixing myself. Figuring out what steps I needed to take to increase my options going forward was relatively easy. After my dad died I lost all ambition to do anymore heavy lifting in terms of self improvement. I had spent my life always attempting to impress my father, and now he was gone. My body was literally falling apart. I wasn’t giving my business endeavors anywhere near the energy they needed. My always intense passion for golf had waned, and I felt like I wasn’t making the commitment to my family in the way I had in the past. To add injury to all of the above, I was consuming far too much alcohol on a daily bases in an effort to escape my next move. I looked into the mirror at beginning of the Covid Pandemic and was appalled at what I saw. Staring at me was a pasty bloated guy I barely recognized. My weight was up to 215, (I weighed 160 when I graduated from college), red and brown sun spots covered my face, and I was walking with a noticeable limp. ‘Look at yourself. It’s no wonder you can’t break 85 on a bet.’ As I had climbed the ladder of this life I had a motto for myself: “This life is about the climb, keep moving, never backup.”  In the spring of 2020 I was barely hanging on to the ladder and from my perspective had fallen several prongs.

The old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” is starting to make a lot of sense to me. I was mired in the “woe is me complex,” which can take you over if you’re not careful. I was physically breaking down, more than one of my closest friends had passed, my athletic abilities had dissipated, and my drive to do something about any of it was lacking. All of my self pity was in regard to the inevitable circumstances that anyone who makes it safely into their 60’s will face. If I am real with one person in this life it is myself more than anyone else. There comes a time for everybody who has does any sort of self introspection to understand that youth is fleeting, that Peter Pan is a fictitious character. The dreamers who don’t know when to let go usually end up looking more foolish than youthful. 

There comes a time for all us sun chasers when the chickens come home to roost. “If you burn the candle at both ends the candle won’t last long, sometimes the ferris wheel would be a better choice for you Richard,”  were some of my moms words of wisdom to me when I would complain about the years catching up to me. I knew the piper would come to get paid some day, it was the acceptance part that I couldn’t get past. The moment had arrived where there were two very clear choices in front of me. One was to kick back and purchase a pipe: ‘I had a good run and I’m tired of fighting. Get me a nice rocking chair and I’ll tell stories of the glory days. Or, quit all the immature whining, get off my ass and devise a plan to find an older more vulnerable version of Peter Pan.

It was obvious to myself there were certain areas that needed immediate recovery, or I’d face the rest of my days with limited capacities. Sometimes we know we need to take action but our exact plan for reformation is not precise. I gave plenty of contemplation as to whether or not I wanted to implement any plan at all. I did realize that the formula that had gotten me into the late innings standing tall was going to need major alterations. Every step I took was a reminder my body needed repair, my priorities had to change, and my attitude needed an overhaul. The guy who prided himself in making life look easy, “it’s all about the presentation, not the work”, needed to get his nose to the grind stone.

It has been two long years of doctor appointments (cardiologists, gastroenterologists, dermatologists), cat scans, and surgeons’ scopes. Not to mention two 15 round bouts with covid 19. There has been no golf, no hanging out at the usual joints, and no extended dalliances. I have not medicated myself with a drop of alcohol in nine months in an effort to give the entire recovery process a clean look. I’ve been through different recoveries before but nothing as dramatic and life altering as the last 24 months. We are recovering from the day we come out of our mother’s womb. The demons and the impediments, both physical and mental, don’t ever stop coming. They do not dissipate, only escalate as we head into the winter of our existence. It is our option to pursue a continual strategy to combat them, or to allow them to let us die a slow death.

When I awoke in a recovery room I was both drained and relieved. I was now the proud owner of “Frankenstein like” twin scars. My second full hip replacement within a two year period was complete. One more battle in my personal war against throwing in the “proverbial towel” had been won. There is a delicate balance between accepting the aging process and holding on to a weak impersonation of Peter Pan. Lying flat on a gurney and still oozy from my anesthesia induced slumber I could make out a pretty lady leering at me clinging tightly to a cup of coffee. “I guess you woke up. The doctor said you can get out of here in an hour.”

In the front seat of a taxi cab my eyes were shut and I let out a silent sigh of relief. Prior to this moment I had believed the wild roller coaster ride that had been my life had come to a permanent halt three years ago. Now, all of a sudden Peter Pan was back sitting on my shoulder. I could see myself, hands flailing, hair flying in every direction, racing through the air. I was screaming with a huge smile on my face, ‘faster, faster!!’ No one could hear me and I didn’t care. It was necessary for me to spend an extended amount of time on the Ferris Wheel so I could put myself back together.

But I was born in the fast lane. I know I can’t go all the way back to youthful days and youthful ways. I have spent the last several years in the repair shop, fixing myself, preparing to get back out on the open highway. In the recesses of my mind I want to go all the way back to days of playing competitive golf, working hard, partying hard, and sprinting to whatever I thought was next. The recovery process has convinced me that I can never again bathe in the fountain of youth, but it has allowed an opportunity to go back for a few sips. 

Allentown Pennsylvania was presenting a delightful sun drenched Saturday for the returning graduates of Muhlenberg College. The ceiling and visibility were unlimited. It was Homecoming Weekend, and the brilliant blue skies were adding an assist in helping blurred memories return to a clearer focus. Since Commencement Day it was the first time he had come back to campus to attend Homecoming festivities. Turning onto to Chew Street (address of Muhlenberg) the “butterflies” of suppressed raw emotions were occupying his usual calm stomach. It was 44 years ago that he had trepidly steered his way down the, still, immaculately decorated street in his Grandmother’s hand me down 1969 Ford convertible (freshman were not allowed to have cars on campus). He was totally alone as his head swiveled back and forth before finally recognizing the progressive looking Center of the Arts building where his first class was scheduled to begin in five minutes (Freshman English with Dr. Thornberg…. ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ was the first reading assignment).  With every possession he had ever accumulated in his first 18 years hanging out of an open car he parked between the Phi Tau Fraternity house and the classroom that awaited him. That kid behind the wheel was scared, confused , and somewhat angry about having to accept that his inevitable fate had officially arrived. At his best he could have been described as an immature, insecure young adult not wanting to leave behind the entitlement and comforts of adolescence. At his worst he was a selfish small town child with a huge chip solidly embedded on his shoulder.

In the present he walked past Muhlenberg’s famed dome towards the Frank Marino football field. As he heard the roar of the hometown crowd his stride excelerated and the ‘butterflys’ multiplied. “This will be a fun challenge to see people for who they are today, and not who I perceived them to be all those decades ago. I hope they will afford me the same benefit of the doubt,” he whispered to himself as he entered the arena. His angst was as high as it was on that late August afternoon 44 years ago, but he had already decided to let the day come to him. The old gravel track had been transformed into a shiny synthetic, neatly lined work of art with lanes defined and boldly numbered. Behind him, connected to Memorial Hall, was a new luxurious Life Sports Center that caused him to ponder “I went to this fancy looking college?” At the moment the football kicked off he leaned against the iron rail fencing behind the eastern endzone. Close by, not far, he recognized a couple of Saturday Hall of Famers from the past. “Have you heard the 1980 Baseball team is being considered for induction into the Muhlenberg Sports Hall of Fame,” was overheard a member of that team explaining to his old teammate with a satisfied grin. Unlike the grandiose makeover of the playing field there was nothing new about the chatter amongst the rail hangers. 

On the periphery of the gridiron there was a tent village filled with Muhlenberg ghosts from the past huddled in small packs. He asked himself if they had come back looking for something left behind, or were they searching to revisit their utopia that never actually existed? How much of who they are now is a result of their experiences at Muhlenberg? It takes plenty of self esteem to stand in front of college mates 40 years removed. For him it felt like a subtle final exam administered by his peers who were front and center as he came of age. Even though he had not seen 99% of his classmates in 40 years it was way past time to let bygones be bygones and attempt to begin anew while maintaining a wide open mind. For some of us the competitive nature of life does not evaporate. The comments were pleasant and polite: “You look the same”, “The years have been a friend to you”, “Oh, you’re far too kind”, “Do you have grandchildren”. To himself he muttered a few soft jabs. ‘Wow, they haven’t evolved too much’, or ‘he still hasn’t figured out he isn’t even close to being the smartest guy in the room.’  Looking over the tailgate area for the class of 82 it was easy to deduct that the Sexagenarians standing on the grass in front of East quad were content to be back among friends, that many had developed lifetime bonds with. Despite all the trials and tribulations that go along with a life well lived they were back to pay tribute to those who shared a common training ground.

The decisions made in our college days; from overcoming the colleges’ primitive methods of assigning roomies, to choosing a fraternity, or not, to deciding on a new major, or switching girl friends, gives cause to be filled with a certain amount of regret. Sitting in the one of Muhlenberg’s alumni banquet rooms Saturday night with 72 classmates surrounding him he had returned to a place he had consciously attempted, on the surface only, to leave in the dust. The place where he devised every nuiance for his strategies for playing the game of life. The learning center that quickly made him realize what a small bubble he had been hatched from. As a freshman he was a complex tortured enigma, torn between being a spoiled cocky self entitled brat and a shy sensitive capable young man.

In the first year at Muhlenberg the spoiled self serving brat had assumed the lead. He made a tremendous error in deciding to not attend the weekend orientation (really arrogant and stupid) before classes started. He kept himself separated with a flippant and uncaring attitude, which rapidly put him far behind in all aspects of the bonding department. If not for a couple of kindred souls picking him up off his ass he definitely would not have been back for his sophomore year. Scanning the room it was hard to notice any pretense. He gazed at two college lovers, both happily married to another now, staring into each others eyes and sharing a moment. Did they have regrets? He talked easily with a couple of frats brothers who he had exchanged limited words with in their college days. Sure, unlike Sinatra, “regrets, he had more than a few.”

There were awards presented to two of his classmates, one who is a world renowned neurosurgeon, and another for her unprecedented work in the field of Chinese Cultural Studies. The frat brothers and female clicks seemed to be hanging close to the packs they traveled with back in the day. They all had four years together to select the clan they would run with. Forty years into the future some cling to their comfort zone while others seemed unafraid to discover what might have alluded them. Phi Tau’s most distinguished brother, also the class of 82 graduation speaker, spoke eloquently in an effort to clue everyone in on the larger picture of the union represented in the room. The reunion committee clung tight at the head table, and the ladies of the Brown Hall Rat Pack were careful to insulate themselves from former intruders. As much as the majority of the Mule class of 1982 had evolved some old habits and kinships appeared difficult to let go of. Many of the alumni from his class have remained close from there college days and for them it was just another night of catching up from last year, or last month. While in deep conversation with an ex cheerleader his thoughts returned to the 18 year old freshman. He finally made a confession to his 62 year old self. ‘I should have done things so much differently.’ He would have attended orientation. He would not have been such a contrarian. He would have thought a lot more about what he had going for him, and less about what he was lacking. He would have been a better student, a more dedicated ballplayer, a less reluctant frat boy. He was back on the turf that had highlighted the shortcomings he had been forced to face in his small hometown. At last, he was signing a truce with his past.

It is very difficult to turn away from the past. It is where we go in the present moment to give us guidance moving forward.

We can’t change who we were back in college, we are left with the memories of what was, and a slight touch of what could have been. What if I hadn’t been so intentionally aloof? What if I had strived to extend myself to a broader scope of friends? What if I had embraced fraternity brotherhood with a stronger intensity? What if I knew then what I know now? lol. Once we finish different stages in our lives we are left with the choice as to whether or not we want to go back. All the way back “to the best days of our lives”, back to nostolgic days of laughter and lighter times that contained limited responsibility. That special time and place when all our dreams were still in front of us. He had departed Muhlenberg on a rainy Sunday in the late spring of 1982. At that time he gave little thought to ever going back. Muhlenberg had helped a broken young man patch himself together and prepped him to take on all the challenges and obstacles that this crazy world presents. Finally, forty years later he had come to terms with himself.

The skeletons will never completely leave him but the sweet memories of those blissful seasons in the sun now lived top of the mind. As a 62 year old man heading east on Chew Street approaching the Center for the Arts his chest welled up and tears flowed. He could see a confused and angry 18 year old making so many bad decisions, unwittingly distancing himself from his classmates due to his own dereliction. He wanted to give the kid a big hug, “you’ll see, it’s going to be fine. Be yourself. Adapt, adjust, evolve, and one fine day, 44 years later, you’ll go all the way back to that fragile moment in time and you’ll say thank you to your Muhlenberg family that was there for you at the most crucial crossroad of your life.

A bright light was streaming through the four ceiling window panes that are part of St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church. Seated in the back row it was easy to notice the illumination that was shining down on the 95 year old woman prepared for her burial. The congregation along with all the ceremonial paraphernalia attached to a traditional Greek funeral were right in front of me. The mourners paying their respects, the Greek priest sprinkling incense from a swinging thurible, and the extended family of the deceased woman dressed in the garments appropriate for a day of mourning. Two large scaffolding ladders were on my left in front of  pure white walls waiting for another day for the artist to finish the story that had begun to be told on the opposite wall. The honoree lay still in the light, her time had come for eternal rest after 95 years of leaving her indelible mark. All of us have struggled at times, with trying to understand what our purpose is. On this fair September day with her three sons, their spouses, and five grandchildren sitting soberly at the front viewing their mother, their grandmother, their aunt, their friend, who had left her hometown in Greece and migrated to America in 1947. The answer in regard to her “purpose in life” couldn’t be more obvious. It is not about what we gather while we live. The evidence of how well we did in this game of life is all about what we leave behind.

It is doubtful Kiki Demontheses was thinking about the purpose of life when she arrived in America 75 years ago. She had survived her hometown’s occupation by the Nazis, (not many did) as well as the Greek Civil War that took place after WWII ended in 1945. One can only imagine the mixed feelings a person must have had leaving their childhood home and boarding a ship sailing for this “dream” that was the United States. The land of milk and honey, where an immigrant had opportunities that their mother country could not provide. An opportunity to work for a living wage. An opportunity that was possible with hard work and education that one could begin a climb up the socioeconomic ladder. Her journey in America began in Catskill, New York working in the restaurant trade. She met another Greek immigrant named George Demosthenes and it wasn’t long before the two of them were committed to climbing together.

Going through the greeting line before the service began I could observe all that Kiki and George left behind was present. Three grown men well into their 50’s and 60’s stood solemnly shaking hands with the guests. Two of them still live in the Hudson Valley, while the other one has found his way to retirement in Florida and a passion for golf. You couldn’t help but find a grin when he said, “I have the bug real bad, I’m not happy unless I play four or five rounds of golf a week.” Yes America is an amazing place still. All three men were successful entrepreneurs who followed in their Dad’s footsteps in the restaurant and catering business. All three were educated with a combined chutzpah of old Greek traditions and American street smarts. Seated in the front row were Kiki’s five grandchildren ranging in ages from 22 to 30. Each of the five are formally educated and well on their way to ascending to higher heights then their parents. The oldest grandson, George, is a radiologist in Erie Pennsylvania, the oldest granddaughter, Georgia, just finished up getting her four year degree studying abroad at Saint Andrews University in Scotland, where she resides. Another granddaughter graduated from Marist college in Poughkeepsie New York. Lastly, grandson number two works in California at Apple’s mothership while his sister completed her degree in Psychology at Syracuse last spring. From all the way in the back of the room I could make out the grandmother’s smile.

We have strange ways of celebrating success in this country. Ridiculously, how much money a person accumulates seems to be the number one measurement. Close seconds are the title you had in your career, or the compromises you felt forced to make in business or politics. As the light from above began shining deeper into the congregation creeping its way towards me, I couldn’t help but think about my own life. The answer to my own success and purpose, or lack of, didn’t have much to do with my bank account, or car, or how good a salesman I was. No one who understands even the littlest things about this life, would judge themselves on any of that. All of a sudden I was seeing the light: To make sense of the scattered short lives people lead we need only look to what remains. The first place we look is offspring, your children and your children’s children. Most, but not all the answers, can be found in a person descendants. Who did they help, who did they influence in a positive manner, what words or contributions did they leave that generations to follow can benefit from? 

The last three years I have been beating myself up harder than usual. Life seemed to have passed me by. The aging process has been a difficult one for the “Peter Pan” part of my character to accept. I lacked ambition, I also felt a major reduction in physical prowess. The cumulation of it all had left me in a stalled state in regard to success and purpose. Today’s funeral for a 95 year old Greek immigrant was helping me mend my selfish malaise of “things just aren’t perfect.” The funeral, and legacy it represented, reminded myself that what was perfect today had everything to do with family. Earlier, than usual,  my wife had reminded me to dress nice, to wear a suit and not be goofy, my oldest daughter was arriving back in Atlanta after a week’s vacation on the French Riviera, and my youngest daughter, still on assignment for her job with the New England Patriots, was on the beach in Aruba working. I thought about my German immigrant grandparents, who were so proud of their American citizenship, living in a Brooklyn flat, trying to do all they could to make it possible to make for a better life for my dad and his sister. I thought about my parents, building their own house in New Paltz and having established careers in education. Suddenly I was was not doubting my success or purpose.

In the end we all lose control of our own future. All that will ever be counted on our ledger is what is already passed. Possibly some part of our energy returns in a wholly different dimension than who we were in namesake. If legacy is important to you think of your family as perpetual, they and all their offsprings are an on going circle within the larger circle of the universe. In my selfish moments I can be disappointed in not achieving great wealth or status, at not being the best I could have been on more than one occasion. But my dismay quickly evaporates when I think of my grandparents, my parents, and my immediate family. If my grandparents, who like Kiki came to America on a boat with nothing in their pockets, could only see how far up the ladder their legacies have climbed. If they could see the opportunities and options my daughters children will have that were wrought with their sacrifices. Looking back I am guilty of spending too much time counting greenbacks and calculating my next move. Kiki Demosthenes probably spent very little time doing either. She had a simple rule: ‘She did whatever was best for her family.’ In the late 40’s, as a nineteen year old girl she was compelled to escape the turbulence of her homeland to search for a dream she couldn’t have possibly foreseen. When she passed the lady guarding America’s entrance there was no hint of the success ahead and the abundance of what she was going leave behind.