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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.

“There’s daggers in men’s smiles, Double, double toll and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble,” William Shakespeare was a master in terms of foreshadowing the demise of his main characters. The Bard Avon wasn’t a golfer, but I am certain if he lived today he would have had plenty to pen in regard to Phil Mickelson. In the past hundred years, after Arnold Palmer, Phil Mickelson has been the number one favorite of golfing fans throughout the world. This past Monday afternoon the pied piper of golf showed up at Massachusetts’ prestigious Brookline Country Club for the 122nd United States Golf Open Championship to confront his legacy.  “Lefty” arrived in Boston Sunday via London after competing in the inaugural event of the new LIV Golfing Tour. Together, with former number one golfer in the world, Greg Norman, they have led an effort to give current PGA Tour players an alternative choice in their golfing schedules.  A group of Saudi Arabian oil princes have agreed to pay 51 year old Phil Mickelson $200,000,000 to surrender in his PGA card in order to participate in eight LIV Tour sponsored tournaments across the world for the next four years (32 events). The faithful libertarians jump up and down and say “way to go “Lefty”. While the traditional old schoolers call him a “fickle traitor to the game of golf”. The big problem left for the PGA Tour is America’s favorite golfer could potentially destroy the very institution that helped build the ATM machine known as “Phil”. The press conference was intended to be about Mickelson’s chances to win the only major that has alluded him in his illustrious career. It quickly turned into a tumultuous day for all those who have a passion for the sport. The king had sold his crown.

This Monday in the pressroom at one of the most historical and affluent Country Clubs in America Phil Mickelson stood at the podium looking like a tattered General returning home after a crushing defeat. He did not resemble the usual smiling, cocky, affable “Phil”. His face, his entire demeanor was visibly responding to the realization that he had tainted his legacy and his status as golf’s fan favorite. The same guy who, stuck in a maze of trees, hit a 4 iron off the pine straw to four feet that helped him to go on to win one of his three green jackets. Today, standing with shoulders slumped Mickelson looked more like his partner in LIV golf (Norman) after blowing a six shot lead in the 1996 Masters. Phil Mickelson the guy with the big grin permanently planted on his mug suddenly looked tragically estranged. The gruffy beard, “Amy likes it” he wore symbolized a fallen hero whose body language spoke of shame and disappointment. Mickelson could not hide the defeat in his eyes. He understood now that his run as golf’s glory boy was over. With the cash spilling out of his pockets “Lefty’, who I have heard through the gossip of men’s grill rooms, is the biggest phony on the PGA Tour, was standing in front of the media trying to explain his justification in selling his soul to a couple of Saudi oil magnates. There were a lot of questions, but an ornery Mickelson babbled on with long prepared non answers. Mickelson, without stating it, obviously had made the decision that money was a bigger priority than his ranking in golf lore. Of course, that is his absolute right.

Phil Mickelson and Greg Norman accepted a total of $325,000,000 to kick the PGA Tour out of bed in order to canoodle with a country that was responsible for the American blood spilled at the World Trade Center attacks. What exactly is Mickelson giving up in exchange for the guaranteed $200,000,000? The first thing is handing in his PGA card tour. Mickelson, and all the other defectors will no longer be allowed to play in any PGA Tour sponsored events. This fact alone leaves an LIV player only two opportunities to play in two American Majors: The Masters and the United States Open, which is taking place this week in Brookline Massachusetts. Watching Mickelson stand in the front of the room accepting incoming fire on his character was no doubt fascinating theater. “Some of your fans consider you a sell-out to the American Tour. What do you have to say to them?” was the first bomb tossed by a reporter. “I respect everyone’s opinions,” a barely audible Mickelson bemoaned. “As golfers we are independent contractors who depend solely on our talents and endorsements to make an income. It was a very hard decision that I made with the best interest of my family in mind.” The press room had an aura of a trial that had gone bad. “Are you worried that your legacy as an all-time fan favorite of the golfing community will suffer because of this decision to partner with a couple of the world’s most nefarious characters (oil princes). “My record stands for itself, what happens to my personal legacy in golf remains for history to determine.”

In my opinion the entire issue is a coin flip. I could make a strong argument for and against the LIV Tour. Let’s start with why I see no problem with a competing Tour. Pro golfers are independent contractors who have an obligation to no one but themselves. The option for players to decide when, where, and for how much they play for is their final decision and theirs alone. If players have the talent to be paid large sums of money simply to show up, who am I to blame them for taking a big payday? It may be possible that two tours could thrive together, someday making golf an even more relevant game across the entire world. When a competitor comes after a successful corporation, such as the PGA Tour, there will be undoubtedly a plethora of obstacles in front of you. The first and most important roadblock is any PGA member playing in a LIV event will be banned from future PGA Tour sponsored events. There is not a question that the LIV Tour will have a negative impact on America’s already successful circuit. Endorsement deals may be severed  from the corporations who are tied in deeply with the PGA of America. There will be many fans who view Mickelson, Norman and the other deserters (Mike Reid, Dustin Johnson, Sergio Garcia, Ian Poulter) who are looked upon as traitors to the Tour, their country, and their fan base. At first my reaction to the situation tilted me more to the latter, then after some deeper reflections I said to myself ‘Give me the $200,000,000 and you all can do whatever you want with my legacy.’

There was irony in Mickelson’s fall from grace occurring at the press conference to the one major tournament that is a blemish on Phil’s record could not be lost on anyone who has followed his career. There wasn’t one question from the media discussing his chances of winning this week. It felt very much like an intervention between the American Press Corp. and the prodigal son reluctantly returning  home. “What do you say to the families of the victims in the 9/11 attacks at the hands of the Saudi’s?  Do you feel  guilt for taking what many Americans call “blood money?” The charismatic superstar had no answers, only a smug, “I’m sorry. I respect these people and have tremendous empathy for them.” We were now seeing the side of Phil that I had heard about in my travels within the golfing community. Phil Mickelson is a compulsive gambler. He has probably earned more money, and lost more money than any other athlete in modern times. The fact is his net worth is 40 million and should be closer to $100,000,000. Phil was a compulsive womanizer. Let’s say that him and Tiger Woods are in the same league when it comes to the ladies, Phil has simply done the wrong thing more discreetly. Phil is a compulsive phony. His continual flashing smile, his thumbs up from inside the ropes is seen by many as the play acting of a manipulative narcissist. For myself, the worst fact about Phil is that he turned state witness against a friend who, along with Phil, were under FBI investigation for “insider trading violations.” Smiling Lefty gave up his friend, and others for immunity (Mickelson also paid a $1,000,000 fine). His buddy is now serving three to five years in state prison.

Yes , Phil is a rich man today. He has secured his family’s financial security for several generations. And for the average person, it would give ample reason to feel satisfied and comfortable. But Phil Mickelson isn’t you or I. He’s had it all: talent, privilege, fame, fortune, good looks, five majors, $40,000,000 net worth, beautiful family, and the adulation of 90% of the golfing fan base. Shakespeare would have been drooling if he had been present at Brookline last Monday afternoon. The Bard would have feasted on the ammunition that Mickelson was handing out. The plot wasn’t complicated:  the story of a broken hero trying to hold on to his “almost” glorious legacy. Shakespeare wouldn’t have missed the vast hubris in Phil, the ambition in him to be not only the best golfer in the world, but the most popular one also. Shakespeare’s prose was inspired by human flaws and how those weaknesses potentially lead to tragic endings. It is hard to paint a dark picture of a man who, on paper, looks like the perfect swashbuckling movie star. Phil Mickelson is blessed with blue bred good looks and born with his collar turned to the sky. His 45 tour wins, five majors, and 975,000,000 in career earnings certainly puts him in consideration as one of the top 10 golfers of all time. William Shakespeare brilliantly used real life characters as metaphors to the universal condition. Phil Mickelson arrived at the United States Open in a new tax bracket. After finishing miles below the cut line Lefty departed the pearly gates of Brookline Friday without a shower or a cold one. He had to be wondering if he was ever coming back.

The graduates were still donning their caps and gowns as they spilled out from New Paltz’s downtown watering holes and onto the sun drenched street. The third Sunday in May is the traditional time slot for  all S.U.N.Y. colleges to give out professional degrees with a bill attached. Scattered in my path, as I attempted to make my way uptown, were parents, grandparents, and siblings, all suited up for a day of “old fashioned” pomp and circumstances. The graduates were wearing that special Sunday smile, along with enthusiastic gleeming eyes making their youthful faces shine. For 90% of the them it would be their last rendezvous with formal education. All the exams, SAT’s, and class rankings, were simply a warm up, a walk through before the official scoreboard gets turned on. Tomorrow morning, this same crowd with fancy letters now attached to their names will awake to the first chapter of their autobiography:  ‘What I Did With My Life’. On a day my personal musings were developing endings, these baby faced generation Z’ers had yet to open the book. At 22 it is a rare happening to be capable of understanding how your future opportunities stacked up against the opportunities that were presented to the proceeding generations. In the moment of Graduation Day we take time to recognize the dramatic step we are taking into the rest of our lives. From this day on our identity in this world will be solely determined by ourselves.

It is a 40 year gap between the day I graduated from Muhlenberg College and this May day on the streets of New Paltz. For all practical purposes my hand has been played, the dealing is done, it is time to count the money and evaluate what is left in my tank. Whether we like it or not, if we live into our sixties it becomes impossible for us not to reflect on how we played the game of life. We arrive at a time, much quicker than we could have expected, when we look back and ask ourselves the tough questions. ‘Did I take advantage when opportunity presented itself?  Did I understand that education is power? By now a majority of the evidence is in on the choices I’ve made in this life. It was very early on that I bought into the idea “you only get one shot at this life, this life is anything but a dress rehearsal, there isn’t a formula for success, or a singular person who has the answers for you. On Graduation Day May 25th 1982 it became record of the court that that I had made it through my youth unscathed with a four year degree in education to pursue my passions. Unlike a majority of my college chums, heading into the summer of 82’, I had no job. Also unlike my peers I wasn’t sweating it. I was cocky enough to think ‘one way or the other I will make this life work.’ I recall waking up in the bedroom of my childhood the day after I returned home from Allentown Pa. In a strange way I was ecstatically proud and a bit numb I had arrived at the starting line ready to run my race.

Regardless of our formal education we make decisions in terms of what we want to do with the rest of our lives at a very early age. In High School we are led to choices when it comes to career path. Do we want to go to college, or maybe we want to be a tradesman, or maybe our dad and mom have a family business, or maybe we are bold enough to want to create our own start-up company? It can be a stressful time, especially if you are aware that 50% of the workforce stay in the same career till they are dragged away. In May of 1982 I didn’t have a classroom, or a team, but I was resolve in my aspirations to be a history teacher and basketball coach. I am a person who will go to great lengths to avoid commitment, but pursuing a long career in education seemed like the right path for me at the time.  All the decisions I made back then were centered around me trying to avoid the inevitable: an ordinary life. On Graduation Day 1982 I would describe my state of mind as a “blank slate”, ready to start none, yet take less. I am certain there was not a grand scheme for success. My plan was to find a teaching job at my earliest convenience…… no rush. In the meantime golfing, drinking, sleeping and following the sun were the only things on my schedule for the summer of 78. I was playing golf with a frat brother from Muhlenberg at Montclair Country Club the day I got the call from Pine Bush High School offering me the positions of Varsity Basketball Coach and 11th grade ‘American History’ teacher.

At 22 years old there wasn’t even a tiny bit of me that was looking into the future past tomorrow. I was completely focused in the moment preparing for my coming out party. I was ready to revolutionize the public classroom and to hone my coaching skills in preparation for a call from the Knicks. It has worked to my advantage that many of my friends growing up were successful adults. (teachers, lawyers, insurance men, and politicians) They gave me enough good advice back then that would have made my life much smoother if I had listened to any of it. We anoint ourselves geniuses the day we graduate from the hallways of academia, only left trying to figure out how we became so dumb, so fast a few years later. In September of 82′ I stood in front of my first history class brilliantly dissecting the New Deal, but not having a clue on how to balance a checkbook. When I look at that kid now it is easy to see he was just an ambitious boy, passionate about making an indelible mark. The algorithms was aligned: my grandmother was a teacher, my parents were teachers, some people close to me even said I was born to teach. I didn’t doubt their observations but I decided fairly early on that there was no way I was going to stand in front of classroom and teach five periods of history everyday for the next 40 years. My pragmatic (some say condescending) world view, my lust for the “good life”, and my unwavering desire to be in control of my time made the decision to depart the classroom inevitable.

I would never trade in the seven years I spent education. There were many days I regretted leaving the school gig and wondered ‘what if’. At the same time I didn’t shed too many tears the day I jumped  of the classroom and into the business arena some 33 years ago. It was getting around that time on Graduation Sunday when reality sets in. The weekend is over and it is time to put all the travails you hid from yourself on Friday and Saturday back into the forefront of your agenda. The following Monday morning is the first day of your life in the “real world”. In 1982 that Monday, the day after my glorious return from Allentown I arose at 6:00 am ready to start collecting more worms than anybody had before. I put on a the pink shirt and tie combo, given to me for graduation by Mr. A to Z, drove to the hamlet of Wallkill and substituted for John Monihan’s 8th grade social studies classes. “Hey, who is that?!” I could hear the giggling from the young teens as I searched for Mr. Monihan classroom. And just like that I wasn’t a cocky, wiseguy, conman, hustler Richie Rich anymore. It appeared likely that my identity into eternity was going to be Mr. Siegel, or Coach. My dreams were all in front of me, the last thing  on my mind was some sort of hypothetical finish line to push across 40 years down the road. The only plan or goal I had simply was to leave a permanent impression on as many people as I possibly could.

The line of cars on Main Street trying to make their way up the hill to the New York State Thruway was at a complete standstill. The passengers had at least a half hour before they could get a glimpse of Route 87 where the Sunday afternoon traffic heading south was building to a jam. The SUNY graduates were pouring out of their college towns riding off to the rest of their lives. It had been a celebratory day for all that had been accomplished, it was a day to reflect on what was left behind before the hour glass gets turned over in the morning. On Graduation Day 1982 I arrived home back to New Paltz and headed directly into town by myself to a bar called McGuinn’s. I had worked at McGuinn’s the previous four summers, the place had become my primary hangout spot when I found my way back into town. John Ginty,  a local guy who returned from three years of hell in Vietnam and found his way into the bar business was making his way down the long rail. “Now what big guy?” he chuckled pushing a cold PBR in front of me. ‘I don’t know John. I’ll teach some school, find a girl, settle down in a quiet little town, raise a family, give up the booze and the one night stands. After I do all that I’ll see if I got some time left to save the world.’ Forty years have past since my college graduation night of 1982. One moment the world is right in front of you, ripe for the taking, and the next thing you know it is 40 years later. All of the in-betweens blur into the essence of my life. Those of us who make it into our 60’s can’t help but look back and see ourselves frozen in time standing in cap and gown whispering one question to yourself: ‘How did I do?’

An unforeseen happenstance forced me to change direction. Sometimes we end up back to where we started from without even trying. As I turned from Springtown Road onto Mountain Rest a sign flashed in front of me: “Freshly paved highway, proceed with caution.”  Those words were the green light to turn the playlist up, apply more foot pressure, and to place my brain on “cruise down memory lane mode.” Most of the titillating stories of the glory days growing up in New Paltz occurred in the town located now directly behind me. Today I was starting my journey to Kingston from the West side of the Wallkill River. Over the mountain towards all things that mean home to me. Not that there usually is, but today  there certainly wasn’t a premeditated plan, simply a quest for a bit of self therapy. When my tenth grade English teacher said to the class, after giving us our first creative writing assignment was, “write about the people, places and things that are foremost in your mind.” On this beautiful cloudless May day it felt like everything was alright, and even if it wasn’t it would be real quick. Since my dad passed the trips on this ride are not getting any less emotional. This pavement was filled with bittersweet memories of my life before adulthood. The windows were up, radio blasting, and air was cranked up high. ‘Damn, you never stop wanting to go back,’ said the guy who never really left.

I was traveling on the road that held the secrets of my life. If Mountain Rest Road could talk this new layer they were putting on would drown out the noise coming from the layers below, but it couldn’t obstruct the view, though the steam was trying to. The haze rose off the pavement pushing for the sky. Through the smoke I could see all the vibrant blues and greens of a perfect spring day. The pavers hovered atop the mountain passageway appearing to be some sort of alien gladiators flying singular aircrafts. Realizing I was still sitting still, a bit of road rage began to brew. “They pick today to pave this highway? Look at these county worker’s; three guys working, three guys standing around… Unbelievable.” I declare punching down on the steering wheel. The conversation I was engaging myself was in need of a pile of enthusiasm and hope. ‘Stop it Rich. It’s the kind of day dreams are made of, traveling  on a freeway that runs through the sacred grounds of my childhood.’

After my mental reboot I looked up to see the head flagman waving the parade on. Following the stream of vehicles, it took only two minutes for my mind to find myself in a mental malaise moving past 138 Mountain Rest Road in virtual slow motion. The solar panels were still in the field, a new basketball hoop had risen and there was a kids playground near the stone wall. I saw myself and brother Gary having a classic battle of “don’t make an error baseball” against the driveway’s retaining wall. There was John Schulte, my mountain road best friend hacking my limbs as I drive in for another two. ‘Come on, man this ain’t wrestling,’ I pleaded to the massive young man that always had my back, “that was no foul you little pansy.” There was my dad throwing the football with his two sons, just like back in the day his passes to Gary were perfect and the ones to me sucked. Those times were truly “the days” only nobody let us in on the secret and even if they did we wouldn’t have heard it. My eyes remained on the left preceding passed the New York State Aquaduct. In a house, 100 yards north of the pipeline, that only a keen eye could spot, lived my first “dance with romance.” In the summers of the late 1970’s I made numerous night strolls up the mountain to the waterway. “Over here Richie,” I would hear, and quickly retort “Where?”

There was still another mile to the top, and the gateway to Mohonk Resort. Passing the Spies’ home brought back visions of ‘Dark Shadows’, capture the flag, and my friend Erich Spies’s mature (voluptuous) older sisters. Erich passed last year at the age of 62, but today he was 15 with his shirt off running for a touchdown like it was his God given right. Up the road approximately 100 yards away sits the entrance to the old Mohonk Ski Center. Back in the 70’s Friday skiing was all the rage for 12-18 year olds in search of fun and romance on a chilly winter’s night. Right before Mohonk’s hairpin turn, practically out of sight, was the Westin’s house. Leslie, who was a sophomore when I was a senior, was one of the top “unofficial” social directors at New Paltz High. The Westin house had it all for teenagers looking for a retreat from downtown. There were great views, a sauna, swimming pool, refreshments and usually a bevi of underclass damsels (I heard). Approaching the pinnacle of the mountain, right before the official gateway to the resort, you can’t help but notice some golfing flag poles. On this bright May day a crowd of golfers was milling around the first tee in what looked like the first day of a summer golf league. The small gem of a golf course was the training ground for me learning a game that turned out to be such an integral part of my life. When we were kids myself and Todd Krieg carried our clubs up and down the hills of that course some days from sun up to sun down. I looked over to see two kids, with wild dreams dancing in their eyes discussing if they had enough light to go around one more time.

On the other side of the the road from the golf course is the official gateway to earth’s closest thing to heaven. The Mohonk Mountain House established by the Smiley family in the late 1800’s was the backyard of my youth. One mile from my house was one the most unique and well established resorts in in the entire world. The 260 guest room framed Victorian hotel resides next to a glacier lake, both peering up at the famed landmark tower. My brother Gary left New Paltz permanently when he was 18, but almost every year he brought his growing family back to the mountain for a week. Mohonk adventures included getting through the lemon squeeze, rock rift crevice, the granery, and the massive putting green in front of the hotel.  There were the summer nights quietly skinny dipping underneath the sleeping vacationers. I would guess close to 50% of the kids who grew up in New Paltz worked at Mohonk at some point. Some of my friends lived on the property, most of them of high I.Q. It was definitely exciting to have a world renown resort in our backyard. My dad used to laugh about the guests that inhabited the getaway to, and, for the stars, “a bunch of newlyweds and almost deads”.

Sometimes a story falls right into your lap: when the date, the month, the weather, and the place, come together with a force of intensity and clarity.  We spend a lifetime driving on a litany of roads on our way to the next destination. Mountain Rest Road is the road that takes me back to my own home. It is also the road  thatI took when I needed to escape. By the time we reach the zenith of the mountain the paving had stopped and the caravan of cars had broken up. Now I was heading down the hill, away from my old hometown. The visions of the past were sprinting towards me, I was becoming desperate to stop and scribble down some notes to rekindle the images.  I pulled off the side of the road searching for my pad and pen to pin down the story. I realized the last time I was parked in this pull off was a summer night in 1977. John Ferrante was driving faster then he should have when we collided with a deer sending us, and his blue Pontiac spinning into a bed of rocks causing a flat tire. I was sitting in the same spot I was in 44 years later writing “code words” onto the front of an old newspaper.

We don’t stop going back, no matter how hard we try to run from our past we inevitably can not escape.. We grow up, have families, chase our dreams and perpetually challenge the plethora of obstacles that stand in our way. For me, Mountain Rest Road is a slow and mirandering ride back into the times of my life.  It has always been the road that takes me home.