Uncategorized

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.

The early August thunderstorm was over. Following several days of record breaking heat in upstate New York a sigh of relief had been let out. Driving on Route 32 North towards New Paltz the leftover water was spraying on my car causing me to use my windshield wipers for the first time in over a month. It has been said many times within the writing community that a good story is never hunted, more likely, the tale simply finds you. My goal was to stay true to that ideology as I spontaneously decided to take a lazy Sunday afternoon drive. A pure old fashioned adventure, neither thought out or contrived, just a melancholy ride on a summer Sunday. My initial motivation was drawn from a “left out” longing. I had already missed all the excitement of the big reunion weekend for the alumni of New Paltz High School (Classes of the 1970’s, 80’s, and 90’s). Adding to my blues was the fact that I had committed to a couple of friends to attend the Friday night pub crawl, but a nagging case of the fifth variant of Covid 19 caused a change in my plans. By Sunday afternoon I couldn’t resist taking the 20 minute journey back into the town I grew up in for a view of the aftermath of the storm that had passed. And just maybe something, or somebody might bump into to me along the way.

On my right I saw ‘Little Explorers’, a pre school now where ‘The Pilgrimage’, ‘Speakers’, ‘Dallas’, and ‘Legends’ once stood. At that moment my mind went from a joy ride to a more calculating scheme. The first step was to park in the downtown lot adjacent to the Wells Fargo Bank, close to a west end escape route out of the village of New Paltz. It was a routine spot for me to leave my vehicle during the 1970’s in a feeble attempt to be cautious while drinking and driving home across ‘the flats’ (that’s the way it was back then, most of us were uneducated and careless in regard to drinking and driving). Starting on the south side of  Main Street my intent was to walk up a one block area, and back down the north side, casually searching for any remnants from the weekend reunion bash.  I imagined that it was the first time I was walking both sides of Main Street in 40 years in order to visualize the changes and the remains. The restaurant ‘a’tavlo’ on the northwest portion of Main Street had always been ‘North Light’ to me. In the seventies and the eighties there was not an evening I can recall when two crafty “pros” were not on opposite sides of the bar. Jamie Phelan, the epitome of a barkeep, was a legendary fixture behind the rail. On the other side you could always get into a friendly conversation with golf professional Larry Furey as he nursed a small draft, or a bottle of Michelob.

Next to the  ‘North Light’  (‘New Paltz Tavern’), on the corner, a place called “Dancing Hands” was peddling jewelry at the prior long tenured ‘David’s Cookies’. The famed confectionary joint came to the village in the the late 70’s. When I first notice ‘David’s’ arrival in town I bet Todd Krieg 100 bucks that there wasn’t enough interest in cookies by Paltzonians that David and his cupcakes would be gone by the turn of the decade (1980). About six years ago when I attended Todd’s daughter’s wedding ‘David’s Cookies’ was still standing. It is possibly the only debt in my life that has gone unpaid (Maybe one or two more who I hope don’t read this).

“Best Pizza” read the flashing illumination on the the corner once occupied by the ‘Thesis’ and ‘Chez Joey’s’. My deep rooted skepticism when comparing any pizza to ‘Chez Joeys’s’, over my lifetime, was validated after consuming  a slice of “Best Pizza.” In full disclosure my plain slice was average at best, and reminded me nothing of those early morning pieces of greasy cheese on top of a crispy thin crust prepared by the hands of Jerry Nuzzo and his sister Marie.

Upward I climbed past what at one point was Bobby Bright’s running shoe store (I tried, but the name still isn’t coming to me).  Bobby passed a few years ago at far too young an age. Besides being a top notched competitive runner he also tended bar at ‘McGuinns’ and went on to be the founder of, the still alive, “Kingston Classic”. Leaving Bobby behind, like I never could on our occasional evening runs we would take before work, I looked left into a narrow alleyway. I could see basketball teammates Jim Barry, Dave Tucker, Dennis Rivera and Todd Krieg  walking arm and arm heading into Hannibal’s (later ‘Coochies’ and ‘Cabaloosas’) on a cold victorious late December night. “Tattoo’s” read the flashing neon sign on a more dramatic scale than “Best Pizza”.  Out of the cove and back on the sidewalk, still tattooless, I recognized the gentleman walking towards me. He had no idea who I was, but I was confident I was seeing a ghost from New Paltz past. Inexplicably, the middle aged man posed a spitting image of a 20 something young man who I recalled  tearing up the dance floor, moving and grooving, to the blues auditory of “The Eddie Kirkland Band”.  “Ron Fields?” I said in disbelief as he halted in his tracks. “Still kicking up the rug 45 years later?” I asked. A big smile crossed his face, “Yes sir, currently I’m taking ‘Swing’ lessons.”

Already at the next corner I circled around ‘Bank of New York’ onto the opposite side of the street. Pete Savago’s Insurance Agency served as a perfect place to leave your car for the late night, early morning, partier before local authorities started making the locale their own check point hangout. Faintly, I could hear music coming from ‘Zach’s’ (favorite local gathering spot in the late 70’s). It was Meat Loaf rounding third and heading for home. “I got to know right now…. do you love me….will you love me forever.” It was my cue to go downward to my transport home. The corner was still in tact on adjacent sides with two of New Paltz’s most famed landmarks. Both Elting Library along with ‘Pat and Georges’, although having noticeable makeovers, still stood as the cornerstones of the village. ‘Pigs’ appeared quiet even for Sunday summer afternoon. There was an expanded area showcasing an extended picture window. On this serene midday ‘Pat’s’ was still reverberating from Friday night’s Happy Hour  pre-game party, and all the past Friday’s happy hours over all the decades. Almost passed the newly added window panes I took a peak into the past while in stride. The first ballot Hall of Fame mixologist (Marcus C.) looked up from behind the bar. He was working at ‘P&G’s’ in 1978 when I ordered my first “happy hour” pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which cost only a dollar and didn’t require a glass. We exchanged a cautious wave that mutually said, “wow, you’re the last person I expected to see today.”

I had a split second idea of going inside but that disappeared once coming upon two commercial signs, one read ‘Manny’s’, and the other ‘Jack’s Meats’.  These two establishments were mainstays of the New Paltz community dating all the way back to my childhood. Next up, on the way down, a business called ‘Cocoon’ was where St. Blaise (Diggers) had stood. Bobby Gorsoline’s tavern was a favorite “go to” late night “sleeper” stop. Back in the day I witnessed numerous celebrated knock down fights. (Two former classmates had a real beauty one night). The fisticuffs blended with great music often spilled onto the streets from ‘The Blaise’ right in front of my blue eyes. Just past Diggers/Blaise the ‘Gay Ninety’s’ was now ‘The Main Street Bistro.’ Finally, in front of me I gazed at a crowd of patio sitters on the outside deck of the famed ‘Homestead’ (‘McGuinn’s’), today eating sushi, at a place called Lola’s. Walking to my car I shot a glance to the left considering checking out the place I had my first cocktail (Sloe Gin Fizz) in a bar that still bore the name “Bacchus”. ‘Heck, that was enough memories for today,’ I whispered to no one as I continued on my bee line to the lower bank parking lot.

Sometimes there is no intent in uncovering a story, it just bumps into you. It took a couple of days for me to contemplate that it had been 44 years since I collected by diploma from New Paltz High. As all those years have passed I have become more and more aware of how fortunate we all were to have come of age in such a diverse, cultural, and tight knit village. I reflected on all the alumni who had gone so far away, yet still yearned to return like many had this past weekend. I had missed the reunion party, but as New Paltz goes you can always go back. My hometown, where everything changes, where most things remain the same.

The little bird perched next to the bedroom window was exercising her loudest outside voice. The tiny sparrow has been coming to our bedroom casement since the beginning of the summer. But on this morning she was chattering at an octave four levels above her normal. The pale and grey bird has been arriving in correlation with sunrise serving as a “way too early” alarm clock.  She sits on a branch of a large shrub that leans against our bedroom window. Prior to this morning Donna, once out of bed, stands right up to the window and carries on a conversation with the chirping bird. Donna is convinced it is the identical bird everyday. While I was a doubter at first, I am now convinced the songbird has found a new home. Donna talks to our new guest as if the sparrow is a human. The weird thing is the bird seems to respond in fowl language. With recent weather in the area knocking over trees and causing havoc over the entire Hudson Valley it seems a flurry of feathered birds are in the market for new homesteads.

While my wife talks, conjoles, and even endeavors to feed her new pal, I have taken notice that as this tiny sparrow sings her songs a major construction project is going on all around. The other day I finally said to Donna, “Do you realize while you are focused on that one little bird her buddies and their families are building condos around our gutters up and down the entire shrub?” My wife returned a stare as if she had no idea what I was talking about. The fact is after Donna leaves for work in the mornings I have been taking walks on our back porch to access the bird situation. Two large sparrow nests are in full erection mode in the shrubbery by the corner of our house that cannot be seen from our bedroom window. My initial reaction were visions of Alfred Hitchcock’s famed movie “The Birds”, a movie that gives me nightmares every-time I happen to pass by it on the Turner Classic Movie channel. In the movie birds get scarily intimate with people before attacking them in their houses. I headed back inside the house thinking ‘that’s a fictitious story Rich, let’s be welcoming to our new mates who have chosen to nest with us.’

It was a few days later while the sparrows must have been taking a mid morning nap that I heard a repetitive loud squawking. There, in my direct view, on top of a tree in the woods behind our home was a singular bright Red Northern Cardinal staring at me. I have very limited knowledge of all things related to fowl but I do remember hearing that when a Cardinal appears in your yard it is a visitor from heaven. For myself, “old wive’s tales” are nothing more than that, “old wive’s tales”  but this particular Cardinal began showing up every morning for a week leering at me. Before long the two of us began a dialogue, well, he did most of the talking and seemed disinterested in what I had to say. I didn’t get spiritual and actually think my new acquaintance was from heaven, yet I was curious about this particular new caller. I did a bit of artifcial Intelligence research to discover Northern Cardinals got their name from the Colonists. The early settlers named the bird in reference to the deep red robes the beacons of the Catholic Church (Cardinals) wore. The male Cardinals are red and the female Cardinals sport a lighter brown color (No problems with gender identity among Cardinals). The male Cardinal loves to perch himself (mostly alone) on a high limb and sing out sweet mating calls. They are known to be excellent fathers who are not the best husbands (high infidelity rates among male Cardinals). As birds go, they are highly intelligent and extremely independent. ‘Hmmmm……sounds like someone I know.’

I am not delusional enough (or pius enough) to think the Cardinal was my dad coming  to have some type of final goodbye before flying back to heaven, but it certainly did trigger a river of emotions that have been shelved. It has been two and a half years since I last spoke to my father and heard his voice in return. So much has transpired in my life since he passed, the biggest one being the fact that I haven’t had a chance to share all of it with my best friend. In the last ten years of my dad’s life I didn’t go a day without either traveling to his house in New Paltz, or speaking to him on the phone. In the present the red bird usually takes a quick look at me before floating away into his vast horizons. I end up alone before I get a chance to ask the bird to show me a sign that he is some sort of medium. I want to tell my dad how much I miss him. I want to fill him in on all that has transpired since his departure. A random list started flowing through my mind in regard to the type of conversations we emerged in over our two hour dinner’s. My father, like myself had a keen memory (very selective though), but unlike myself a brief attention span, so I kept the list short: They still don’t understand Covid 19 (he was right), Trump lost in 2020, (he was right), Tiger Woods won another major (he’d be wrong), myself and Gary (my brother) are closer than ever (he’d be smiling), his four grandchildren are independent and thriving ( he’d be smiling even more), his beloved Mets are the real deal this year (he’d be surprised), Mary Kate is working full time for the New England Patriots. (he’d be beaming), I haven’t played golf in two years (he’d be confused), I’ve changed my perspective on a whole bunch of things (he’d be proud), I’ve been lost without you (he’d be crying).

Several days after I had recited my list to the open air I walked outside around the back of the house hoping the Cardinal would return to be a regular guest like the sparrows. But he never did, he had flown away one day and hadn’t been back. I understood he hadn’t heard a word I had said but still I hoped. The bright red Cardinal had provided me with a metaphor I didn’t realize I had been searching for. Just like Donna had her sparrows, that are now part of our home I had my Cardinal, although departed. Whether reality, or not, the song bird had conjured up the emotions that were bottled up since my dad’s untimely death in the spring of 2020.  Like male Cardinals my dad liked to say hello, sing his song, drink his drink, eat his food, and fly away without fanfare. Like my recent singing bird, once my dad was ready he would coyly disappear. When I look into the mirror the last five years my father’s physical features become more and more perceptible (yeah it kind of sucks). Growing up and being just like, or looking just like him was never the plan. In fact it was quite the opposite. My father had many admirable qualities, many of which I was able to adopt naturally. He also had a darker side filled past resentments of growing up in a rough New York City neighborhood during the Depression, one that he never fully let go of. He could be arrogant, stubborn, chauvinistic, and caustic. His personality traits never mixed well with alcohol. From a very early age I was determined to be just like the side of my father everyone loved and the opposite of the darker side I witnessed (My wife will tell me I have plenty of work to do).

In the blue hours when I can’t sleep, which is often, I watch the sparrows starting their morning work. Last Monday my youngest bird (Mary Kate) was flying away permanently from her nest. I wanted to be up to give her a final goodbye. I wanted to tell her that the last year, she unexpectedly spent with us, had helped me reshape my life at a crucial junction. Without knowing it, my second in succession had inspired me to make all the alterations I’ve been seeking in the last three years since her grandpa had left us. At 6:00am after our goodbye waves she headed down the stairs and out the door. I settled into a chair outside on the back porch. I sat in a recliner taking in the sounds of the breaking dawn. The two sparrow nests attached to our house were complete, and the parents were already moving about hunting for their families’ breakfast. With Donna still sleeping I was alone left to survey the nests of our new feathered friends outside while lamenting the empty nest inside. Scanning the tree tops I hoped to spot a bright red fowl hovering out on a limb over me. There was so much to say, but there was no Cardinal in sight to listen. After 15 minutes of gazing into the trees it was time to face the new day. For now I must find a way to take comfort and strength in all he left behind. All things die. All things come back.

Fortunately, most young people, given a chance to observe the so-rid side of this life become instinctively repelled. Of course, there are exceptions to any adage. And in the following case I am one of those anomalies. There is truth in the old saying that “there is a child in each of us only waiting to come out and play.” In the fall of 1974 I was a 14 year old heading for my first day at New Paltz Central High School. My brother, who was entering his senior year, had been approved to drive his hand me down Ford Pinto on the 15 minute trek to the high school . According to him he had important dignitaries to pick up on his way, making it impossible for him to freight his little bro along.

“I rode the bus until I was a junior. Get used to it,” he had matter of factly told me during the summer of 1974. After appealing to my parents to no avail I was forced to pay my dues and deal with a daily  (one hour and fifteen minutes) bus ride. It was under these circumstances that I found myself on a large yellow school bus everyday coming off Mountain Rest Road headed on a course that would take me through the downtown Main Street of New Paltz located on the western side of the village. I recall on the Wednesday following Labor Day 1974 a sense of astonishment in terms of the amount of activity I saw on the street at 6:45am on a week day. It was on that very first trip that I received a size-able jolt of shocked amazement. At the second corner of Main Street the bus stopped at the Olympic restaurant, where a young girl and her family resided above. As the bus came to a halt for the pick-up I pressed my face into the window and gazed into the bar called ‘Pat and Georges’ located on the opposite side of the street. What I saw has remained clear in my head for some 50 years. The rest of the day I put the early morning jaunt on the back burner and focused on all that goes along with first day of freshman year. I calculatingly decided to save all my inquiries about what I saw down on Main Street for the dinnertime discussion with my family.

“Dad, why were so many people sitting on bar stools at ‘P.G.’s’ drinking alcohol at 7:00 am?” My father, after carefully taking a long sip of his gin gimlet, looked over his left shoulder at me with a face I had not seen before. My dad seemed to hesitate and take thought, far from his usual quick direct responses. “I think those people you saw are probably getting off night shifts and are enjoying a drink before going home to bed.” For the moment I accepted that tall tale and headed to my room to read about Earth Science (I was a serious environmentalist back then). It would be disingenuous to suggest I was naïve as a 14 year old freshman, but these early gatherings down on Main Street had grabbed my curiosity to a darker side I had yet to conjure. As the September daily grind continued it became a ritual for me to read my science assignment from the day before and then position myself to get a good look at how many bar flies were moving in and around the 15 bars which occupied a two block area surrounding Main Street. It didn’t take long for me to realize the early hour patrons in ‘Pat and Georges’ (mostly men) were not getting off some kind of night shift in a steel town. The figures I was viewing were simply having their style of downtown New Paltz breakfast. The majority didn’t appear to be eating anything at all. It seemed they preferred to start their day with a couple of hooch shots backed up by a small draft beer chaser. I do remember thinking: ‘How could anybody possibly accomplish anything in this life if the first thing they do every morning was belly up to a bar?’

It wasn’t just the beer and shot guys that got my attention on Main Street back in the mid 1970’s on my trips to the halls of academia. ‘P&G’s’ was not the only establishment where there was shady looking activity afloat. The difference from the gentlemen in ‘Pigs’ and the others gathered on the sidewalks west of ‘P&G’s’ was the fact that they were on their way home after a full night of drinking and carousing. It was not unusual to see four or five coeds skipping out the front door of the ‘Homestead’, or a group of straggly looking college kids stumbling around the the sidewalk in front of St. Blaise and Bacchus.  One particular site I noticed nearly everyday were the bar sweeps, especially one white bearded man who I often spotted in front of the Thesis. I didn’t know it then but “Al the Mop” was already a legendary character of the New Paltz bar scene. I got to know Al in my later years working the joints, yet still never came to realize his full name. In 1974 Al was 49 and had four bars he cleaned each morning ( Thesis, Homestead, Speakers, and Bacchus). I became aware later on that Al rode a bicycle from his Rosendale home, usaully arriving at his first stop (Speakers on Rt.32 in 1978, in 1974 the Pilgrimage) at 5:00 am. I still can see him making his way out of the ‘Homestead’ dumping his mop bucket on the sidewalk in front of the Mobile station. I had know idea on those early morning bus rides that in just three and a half short years I’d being going home from the ‘Homestead’ (by then McGuinns) and would be one of the crew to stay to help clear out the bar and wait until Al arrived at about 5:30 am. I could have no idea that in the summer of 1978 I’d be the one at Speakers or McGuinns cleaning the bar, having a couple of pops, anxiously awaiting “Al the Mop” so I could head back up the mountain to sleep all day with the night owls.

My initial impression of my dawn school bus rides back in 1974 was far from some form of romanticism: “Wow, this town we live in is creepy,” I could not have imagined that by the time I was a senior in high school, and all through the summers of my college years, downtown Main Street would be the center of my universe. The first job I got downtown came through Todd Krieg’s dad, (Sam) who was a colleague of Frankie (Bets) Dolemescola in the biology department at the State University of New Paltz. Frankie was involved in the ownership of three bars in New Paltz….. ‘Speakers’, ‘McGuinn’s’ and ‘Thesis.’ My first assignment as a 17 year old was as a short order cook in ‘McGuinn’s’. Six nights a week I was paired with either Jimmy Carter or Charlie Silverberg, who rotated as the head chef. By summer I was working seven nights a week in one of Frankie’s establishments. You could find me cooking, tending bar, bouncing (collecting the bands fee at the door and checking ID’s), being a bar back, and helping take care of the band(getting drinks for the band and their groupies). Although I only weighed a 150 pounds soaking wet, bouncing was by far my favorite assignment. I’m assuming you can do the math as to why that was the case. At ‘Speakers’ they had some fantastic bands, including: ‘David Bromberg’, ‘Fat City’, ‘Riverroad’, ‘Buswell’, ‘The Andy Gooch Band’ and ‘Orleans’, who at the time had the number one pop song in America….’You’re Still the One’. I believe a New Paltz girl named Patricia Smith ended up marrying Orleans lead singer Lance Hoppen. My personal favorite night of the week was Sunday at McGuinn’s where it was either Eddie Kirkland or the ‘Flirtations’ performing. I loved Eddie, and his large saxophone. His big red station wagon would pull up around 9:00 pm, myself and Eddie would do the lifting. But it was a band called ‘The Flirtations’ that grabbed my heart. They had a lead singer who never knew it, but when she would sing Elvis Costello’s version of ‘Alison’ she captured my fragile psyche. She was 25 or 26, I was 18, amazingly I can not remember her first name (New Paltz High alum. Tom Impola (1970) played guitar in the ‘Flirtations’).

There were so many specific unforgettable stories and adventures in those late nights and blue hours. In New Paltz back in the day, especially at Speakers and downtown, I was right in the middle of it all. That entire summer of 1978 there was not one sunrise I beat to my house (My Mother insisted she did not sleep one wink that summer). During those eight hour shifts I got an education that both hindered and escalated my personal growth. I met a group of Vietnam War vets who were either barkeeps or just hanger-ons, (John Ginty, Donny Hines, and Dave Nichols) who all gained my respect and appreciation in a way I wouldn’t understand till much later in my life. Obviously I was witness to a daily dose of over served patrons, and too many times I allowed myself to get caught up in the party. My excuse to myself then: ‘I am simply going along to get along.’ In Ron Fields and Butch Dener I met a couple of guys who would show up at the front door of McGuinn’s just to dance and take in some Eddie Kirkland blues. I never saw either one take a sip of alcohol. At the time I could not comprehend that you could come out and socialize without getting plastered. About once a week, usually on a Monday, a big poker game would break out in the house across the street from the New Paltz Middle School just prior to the sun coming up. Some of the crew from Speakers and McGuinn’s had rented the house. In and out of the card game throughout the morning would be Frankie Bets, Bruce Kazan, Andy Somebody, Jimmy Carter, local attorney Bruce Blatchly, Rudy Neuss (part owner of Speakers, my boss that summer), Mike Millgram, (still in New Paltz and a friend of mine). A cast of colorful characters, from local attorneys to pseudo pharmacists, and one 18 year kid learning the ropes fast and understanding that this type of lifestyle, for better or for worse was coming to an end on Labor Day.

It might have been planted in my subconscious back in 1974. I felt an undeniable urge to take in what many could only describe as the seedier side of life. I’m sure on those bus trips up Main Street I wasn’t dreaming of one day being part of the local side show kids would see hanging about as they cruised on the bus headed for their first day of classes in high school. Fortunately I had parents that left me no choice but to get out of New Paltz and go away to a college in any one of the other 49 states. If it had been left up to me I would have continued traveling down a path of eventual self destruction.  A path that would have for sure sent me to an early grave. Instead I ended up in Allentown Pennsylvania, a partied out 18 year old in a city where the drinking age was 21. While many of my freshman classmates were readily abusing their first venture outside any kind of parental guidelines, Rich Siegel made a conscious decision to turn the key the other way. I scheduled an 8:00 am. class everyday and didn’t miss one for a full semester. Without a drop of alcohol I reversed my New Paltz routine to a new “Allentown Agenda”: Rise at seven, asleep by 11:00 pm. My U-turn was the most crucial one I had to make in this lifetime.

Today, in the summer of 2022, I reside in the city of Kingston only 15 miles north of my youthful stomping grounds. Next weekend the old warriors of New Paltz High are staging a reunion for the all the classes of the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. By pure coincidence I find myself in a very familiar state of mind that I had entering the Fall of of 1978. In the past year a 62 year old senior citizen has been going back in time and having conversations seeking advice from an immature 18 year old . The kid who drove his car alone to Allentown on the day before Labor Day 1978 (my first class in college was actually on Labor Day. I couldn’t believe it). In the present I had reached  a point where I was contemplating  a second reformation of my soul. ‘How did you do it?’ I asked my younger self. ‘As much as I loved New Paltz, somewhere deep down I knew I had to leave.’  The old man asked one more question, ‘how did you make such a dramatic adjustment when you went off to college?’ ‘You don’t remember? It was easier than you think, we decided on who we were going to be on that lonely late summer car ride'(got lost and the three hour ride took five hours). Currently I have passed seven months of abstinence from booze for the second time in my life, simply because I decided it was well past “time”. Next Friday night I will enter ‘P&G’s’ to see friends from my childhood. At some juncture, soon after arriving, I will end up at the bar. I’ll ask the longtime bartender, (a 50 year employee and an alum of New Paltz High) for an iced tea. His eyebrows will rise and say “Long Island?” I’ll give a smug smile and say ‘no, New Paltz’s best unsweetened please.’

The process, or a period of changing from one state of condition to another is Webster’s definition for the word ‘transition’. The word itself represents one of the most important concepts that we experience as human beings. Life is a constant circle of transitioning from one period of life to the next. How well and how often you successfully transition through phases of your life will have a direct correlation to whether or not you have a happy and fulfilled life. Even America goes through transitions based on what is best for our citizens. The efficiency of the United States for 250 years has much to do with the affective transitions we have made in becoming the lead nation in the free world. The colonists were young and naïve, yet they transitioned from a colony of England through revolution to become a major world power. As time went by our country dealt with Slavery, Civil War and Resurrection. We went from having an isolationist global foreign policy to currently competing to be the leader of a new liberal world order. As you read, our government is attempting to transition away from fossil fuels in this country’s latest attempt to mismanage priorities. While the country’s transitions are controlled by such things as the Constitution and formal government, personal transition of any sort is left alone in the hands of the individual. The truth is the average American has a hard time embracing change in their lives. It is quite natural for “the average they” to develop routines and mores that are repeated over and over through the years and never change. As I am calculatingly in the middle of what I hope is one of the final big transitions of my time on earth I took a look back at the critical transitions that were necessary in getting me to today.

The word ‘transition’ has become one of the many latest buzz words in our society today among politicians and their partners in main stream media. The transitions we are being told to make are all around us. “Higher gas prizes are part of the sacrifices we should be willing to make as we transition off of fossil fuels, says President Biden.” Or as you hear from our pols not so directly: “This is an era of globalism and we all need to contemplate our role in the new liberal world order.”  The problem with getting people to transition together as a country is the simple fact that we are far from any kind of consensus in this country on most of the issues. The transitions that many want to take place in this country have to do with a new liberal world order. The transitions that some in this country are trying to make in regard to global issues (Bitcoin. open borders, more global equity) are all collaborate efforts for the United States to be more partners than leaders in this new liberal world order. All of the above is the what I describe as  “the basis of transitional politics in today’s world.” While the transitions of a country, or a society, is more than an individual can handle, the ability we each have to transition in our personal life often is the difference between being a winner or a loser. Adjust. Adapt. Evolve.

It was September of 1978 and I did not a have a clue that I was beginning the first and most dramatic transition of my young life was brewing. As an 18 year old I had become very accustomed to having my independence plus all the comforts of home. I had my own car, some money in my pocket, lots of friends,  a town with 41 bars, a job in one of those bars with New York State maintaining an 18 year old drinking age. All of these options plus a maid, a cook, and a personal assistance all wrapped up in one person(mom). I was a senior in high school in the college town of New Paltz. I had the world by the balls and I understood that fact. I also could comprehend, that what may have looked like the perfect gig back then was merely a trap that I had to break out of. I had no idea at the time, but the drive to Allentown Pa. in the late summer of 1978 I was headed for a collision with the most important transition of my life. I guess you could say I didn’t choose Allentown, Pennsylvania as my new home, it chose me. In one intense year I transformed from a shallow, spoiled child, with a grand delusional portrait of who I was, in to taking the first steps towards being an adult. The adjustments were specific. I was up early, I went to every class, I didn’t drink alcohol or smoke pot, I played basketball and golf on the school teams, and I pledged a fraternity. I learned something valuable about what would be a trend the rest of my life. I was pressed into a new situation that left me no choice but to adapt like a chameleon.

My youth, insecurity, and immaturity made my transition from leaving my small town “glory boy” persona difficult. My back was against the wall and I was compelled to develop a strategy that was going to make me get through my four years in Allentown as honorably as I possibly could. The fact is that I built a solid enough mental foundation that got me to be a 22 year American History Teacher in the Pine Bush School District located 35 minutes from my childhood home. Again, it was my apathetic attitude that was forcing me into a dramatic change at the age of 29. After seven years of teaching and coaching I was at a crossroads. I was tenured but I had not received my masters in the required five year period in order to get my permanent teaching certificate. On top of that my contract to continue to be the varsity basketball coach at my alma mater was not going to be renewed. At the age of 29, I got married, decided to leave the teaching profession and put away my dream of being a big time coach. I spent the next 30 years staying married, raising two amazing  daughters and chasing enough money to allow me the freedom to pursue the passions I have developed over the years.

The good news is when I look back at the past thirty years, there is an honest, inward, legitimate feeling of overall satisfaction. The only bad news is that for the third time in my life I find myself in dire need of a transformation. As much as people like to claim “age is just a number,” I beg to differ. Despite all the romantics who carry on in regard to the wisdom and serenity of the golden years, the reality is the process of aging into senior citizenry is filled with a break down of physicality and a gambit of constant mental challenges. The aches and pains are not imagined. The big scar on my right hip is from total hip replacement. In October the left side will get matching stitches. I have spent the last two years attempting to get a tired old body ready for an active next 20 years. My focus has evolved into a more of a reflective approach, removed from a once hard charging, aggressive master of the universe. I used to laugh with an old, very intelligent friend, who honestly has, in my eyes, gone through life as a major underachiever. “I don’t care. I just want to have fun and not test myself too harshly.” The beauty of America is we have a choice. And my choice is to continue to grow and evolve into the person I was meant to be. My choice is to keep speaking in a voice of reason, not emotion. I am determined to continue to find ways to be ambitious and have purpose. My choice is to be a leader in a world that is facing a time when a transformation is required.

In ancient Roman myth, Janus is the God of beginnings, gates, time, duality, and transition. My senior year in high school one particular girl made me aware of Janus. “Richie, you’re never going to stop moving, you take far too much pride in being a chameleon. Your problem is nobody will ever be able to find you under all your disguises.” Wow. At the time I loved the attention but wasn’t in the mood to be in anyway reflective about my lack of stability when I was 18.  I didn’t make to much out of her analysis, but I never forgot her message. Recently I have been talking regularly to an old college bud. Two 60 year olds who met up at a time when they were both in the midst of their lives first major transition. It was about a year ago, the two of us, thanks to him, reunited for the first time in over 30 years. Our communications are all through e-mail, another form of contact that wasn’t around when we were at Muhlenberg. The recent chats have been mostly catching up and having way too much fun evaluating how all our fellow alum. made out in this life. Primarily our conversations are about how we want to write our final chapters. “I remember it was the day after I had arrived, there was this outside basketball hoop and you were shooting by yourself. I asked if I could join in. do you remember? My friend replied, “sure”, the same as he did that warm September day all these years ago.  And in that I moment I had officially begun my first and most important transformation. My inner “Janus” is ready again.