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When you’re a ten year old fanatical Met fan Sunday afternoons are all about baseball and nothing to do with Mother’s Day. On this particular Sunday back in 1970, myself, and my brother were glued to the Mets/Giants first game of an afternoon doubleheader. Tom Seaver, was 3-1 already in a season he would end up 25-7 as he and his teammates basked in the glow of their amazing 1969 World Championship season. But on this Mother’s Day Seaver was in a jam. The bases were loaded in the first with no Giants out. Heading to the plate were three of the best hitters in baseball  (Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Jim Ray Hart. As Mays stepped into the batter’s box I heard a 1967 Ford Convertible come rumbling down the steep driveway leading to my house. A woman with all the accouterments of the “Little Old Lady from Pasedena” pounded the breaks just before nearly slamming into our garage doors. ‘Hey Gar, did you hear Grandma pull in the driveway?’ “Yeah, I’ll go out, Seaver’s getting bombed anyway.” Gary and me were blessed with two special, yet very different, grandmother’s. We went down to the car where we knew Grandma had the goods that were far more satisfying than the Mets. “Happy Mother’s Day” we shouted to the beaming white haired granny who was finding her way out of her ride. Her hands were filled with 20 dollar bills and a bag filled with our favorite Easter Peeps. In the backseat was the biggest bouquet of flowers for her only daughter. My Grandma, mother, and Gary were on our way to a very memorable Mother’s Day.

Every Sunday, in good weather, Grandma would drive over the Old Storm King Mountain Highway which overlooks the United States Military Academy at West Point enroute to our family’s home in New Paltz. My Grandmother and mom would sit at our kitchen table and have what they called their “secret mommy daughter talks”. Gary and me never discussed it but as the years passed  we became familiar with some typical family dysfunctions. Our guess was that the main topic of their conversations centered around the men in their lives. Gary and me went back to my room to discover that while we were gone, my favorite baseball player of all time, Tom Terrific, struck out Mays, McCovey and Hart to end the Giants threat in the first. Oh what our heroes could do. On her usual Sunday visits Grandma would leave our house around 3:00 pm, head towards the Bear Mountain Bridge, then make a pit stop at her favorite restaurant.  Her routine was consistent: two straight up Beefeater’s (gin) martinis to go along with her one two pound lobster. On this Mother’s Day in the year 1970 the plan was for our family to follow Grandma over the river and through the woods, all the way to Milton New York to encounter a dining experience at ‘The Ship’s Lantern Inn’. Our grandmother had told us all about the vibrations, the professional wait staff,  the oak bar, and the fabulous food. The two mates hopped into the back of my Mother’s bomb of a Buick off to the Ship.

Before that day I hadn’t given much of a thought about Mother’s Day, or why it was given more than one look. There wasn’t a moment of my life that I ever doubted the greatness of my mom. But a full day to celebrate her doing the job that I assumed she was put on this earth to do seemed excessive. My excitement on our way to the restaurant had less to do with Mother’s Day then the idea of me having a lobster in a fancy restaurant I had heard so much about. I am less than 100% sure but I would speculate myself and my brother were dressed in some style of Sears kids suits. I had not yet heard the expression “ignorance is bliss” allowing me to present myself with adult dignity. The highlights when dining at ‘The Ship’ were plentiful for a young lad with delusions of fame and fortune. ‘Why don’t they have waitresses here?’ I whispered in my mom’s ear. My mother leaned down and lightly said “because males are better servers.” It would be years before I understood how married to “old wise tales” my mom was. Everything about my dining adventure that day was memorable; from the “table-side salad,” to all the “very good choices” George our waiter kept telling me I was making, to Grandma showing me how to crack a whole lobster, all the way to a fire lit dessert. Most of all I recall the hug my mom gave her mom when we went for our cars. Beyond the hug, the glow in my mom’s face was a painting for two boys…. a picture of Motherhood.

In the present , Mother’s day of 1970 puts a big grin on my face. That exact day didn’t start any traditions, more importantly it gave me a perspective of the way I perceived the person formally known as “Mother”.  I sat in both awe and embarrassment as my grandmother dissected a two pound lobster, sucking the last minuscule of meat out of each leg. My vision will forever be etched seeing ole gramma balancing sips of her martinis between bites of her, oh so good, morsels. She handled her martini like one of her lover’s from the jazzage, sizing it up, staring it down before taking control. She caressed the rim of the stemmed class gently before pressing the rim to her lips enough to take a few nibbles. My grandmother, the so-called pampered rich girl who was only guilty of allowing her husband to piss on her dreams. Seeing opportunity in gloomy times 45 year old Winnie Vail stood tall and pursued new found dreams (college, teacher, administrator). She didn’t say much that day at the  Ship’s Lantern’, her smile and her eyes displayed a proud independent woman who never expected to get to this moment. It was easy to witness the pride in her face and the smile she wore.  It was even easier to see the kinda of love my mom and grandma had for each other. It was the kind of love myself and my brother grew up around. The little old lady from Peekskill always found her way home despite her intake of a wee bit of high octane. I watched her drive off in the very automobile that I would be making high school memories in seven years later.

The car ride home from our fancy dining experience was quiet. It was Gary who broke a long silence  “Hey mom, I forgot to tell you Happy Mother’s Day”.  Not one to be left out. ‘Yeah Happy Mother’s,’ I quickly stated before making a request. ‘Mom can you put on the Mets?’  It was normal procedure for my mom to oblige nearly any request without fanfare, or ever looking for something beyond thank you in return. ‘Why did grandpa die Mom,’ I blurted out. My mother looked perplexed, after a pause she started to speak. “Your grandfather was quite the individual, he had so much love in him….. Richie you and him are two peas from the same pod. I loved my dad more than anything in the world.  He let the demons he possessed (gambling, hard drinking, smoking and women) destroy him.  The lessons I was learning on this Mother’s Day 1970 were aplenty as I reflect back.  That day was the first time I  ventured into contemplation in regard to how fortunate I was that my mom was my mom. There is no one in this life who gave me more unconditionally. My mom didn’t say much that had to do with introspection or philosophy of life, but when she did I usually stored it away in the brain compartment marked ‘don’t forget’. “Richie always be patient and kind to others, especially those not as fortunate. But it is also important to put yourself first. It is impossible to help and love others until you understand and love yourself.”

The “oldwise tales” tells us that we marry a woman that meets the approval of our Mother. In selecting a bride I never for one second put “what kind of mother they will make” into my formula. I was looking for a tall, hot, smart, ambitious girl, never once speculating about what kind of mom they might become. I eventually chose a girl named Donna Susan Burnham, or as she will probably more correctly  say, “I chose him.” While Donna had all the traits I was looking for, neither one of us were unselfish enough to even mention kids. Both, without trying, or preventing, Donna became pregnant twice without us having one conversation mentioning parenthood. Donna, the stunningly independent career woman took to motherhood like a duck takes to water. Hopefully both parents play equally important roles in raising children. That said, a daughters’s relationship with her mother is priority one or two. The greatest gift Donna gave our girls was the example of herself. All Laura and Mary Kate had to do for 18 years was watch how their mom lived her life. My two girls had the perfect role model who they ended up mimicking instead of repelling.  My daughters only needed to observe the work ethic, her commitment to family, and her financial and emotional independence. On this day, Mother’s Day 2022, my two independent daughters will be doing their thing in Atlanta and New York City respectively. Myself and their mother will have a lobster tonight, sleep late tomorrow, and go our separate ways in the afternoon. There will be several times tomorrow I will take a breath and appreciate all my blessings so far in this crazy universe. There is will be plenty of thanks to go around for the women in my life who gave me everything.

Just like events and people in the annals of history, our personal legacy goes through critical transitions and interpretation.  For reasons I can’t explain Spring has been a time through my personal history when my mind finds its highest efficiency. There is no hedging the fact that The Covid Pandemic and our manipulative government gave us all a chance to reconfigure our priorities over the last two bizarre years. On the down side, Covid 19 stole the headlines, as well as the countries attention the last few years. Covid stifled our children, killed our elderly, made us completely lose our confidence in the main stream media, and went a long way to destroying the trust that the American people have for any government institutions. But this spring America is more than ready to put covid in the rear view mirror and appreciate the enchantment  they remember from the spring times of yesterday. There are very few who came of age in the northeast that don’t relish the majesty of April May, and June. We hear the sounds of mowing machines, the click of a Titleist golf ball colliding with the head of giant driving club, and birds serenading our waking morning hours with sweet songs. After the shut downs, school closings, athletic events cancelled, people working from home, and overall restrictions, this Spring represents a new beginning. While I am busy vaulting ahead, to an adjusted tune and beat, I like to reminisce back to the times when springs were full of eternal hope. Every single dramatic and transitional time of my life have songs whose lyrics stimulate me to re-visit the old friends and memories of my history.

April Come She Will: (Simon and Garfunkel) “April come she will, When streams are ripe and swelled with rain. May, she will stay resting in my arms again.”

Last Sunday standing on my back porch, working the grill, I had a good view of the golf course through the still leafless saplings. All the signs of spring were right in front of me and for the first time in a couple of years I was ready to soak it in. We all have reflections from our past that make spring both inspirational and magical. Tis the season that never fails to give us unconditional hope despite the fact that we have lived through more than one disappointing summer. When the cold winds of March have subsided even the strongest of pessimists has hope, everybody is undefeated and improved. We feel the stability of being in a place where our dreams have not yet bumped into reality. No matter how bad the crash was in the prior months we hold on to a strong belief that our scars are healing, and that this summer will repress the wounds of all that has gone before. In the spring we are treated with the anticipation that goes along with preparing for opportunities the summer has in store for us. Most of us get off on the expectations of what is ahead more than what actually is going to come to attrition. The springs of my youth were filled with; baseball and golf, studying for exams, being a teacher, and facing all the highs and lows which go along with the romantic pursuit of the opposite sex. Shakespeare wrote “April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.” For me, spring represents new beginnings, a chance for renewal and redemption. Spring is a time for stepping out, for finding a new stride that you’ve been working on while the competition hibernates.

Betcha By Golly Wow: (Stylistics ) “Never thought that fairy tales come true, but they come true when I’m near you.”

When spring is in the air love cannot be far behind. An old friend of mine, who nicknamed himself, ‘Dr. Love’ had an explanation. “I wanted to get my doctorate in a field that was unexplainable.” For a moment in the spring of 1972 I thought I, had both, discovered and conquered love. Kristen Grant’s family moved to New Paltz in 1969 and by the time we were both in the same sixth grade class at the New Paltz Campus School a romance had begin to bud. I had been smitten with her from the first day she stepped onto my school bus. By the spring of my twelfth year on earth any lust I had been contemplating was now all about love. Our first date found us on an April Friday night at a make-shift amusement park that was set up in the Barkers Mall parking lot. Two kids, walking hand in hand dodging the carnival barkers on their way to the top of the ferris wheel. That same year after  I was the star pitcher for the Senators of the New Paltz Little League. On the night of the championship game with the Red Sox I noticed Kristen sitting on the hill taking in the game. What could be better than a May day on the mound winning titles with your girl looking on. The Senators hung on for a 7-4 victory, and afterwards me and my girl went for a walk before the presentations of trophies. “I am breaking up with you, Kyle Peterson is taking me to the movies Friday. You’re a good friend Rich, let’s hold on to that.” The tears were falling on my trophy on the car ride home with my mom. “What’s wrong Richie, happy tears?” I nodded, but we both knew it was a lie.

Baker Street: (Gerry Rafferty) “He’s got this dream about buying some land, he’s going to give up the booze and the one night stands.”

Frank Sinatra never wrote a lyric, but man could he deliver one. “Riding high in April and shot down in May,” that might have been the appropriate words for my life in the spring of 72, but ten years later the spring was setting me up for the adult I wanted to become. I had been through a challenging, yet rewarding, year in the the final season of my collegiate basketball career. I was injured in the autumn and was faced to come back to a new coach who did not have a plan for me. In the course of battling in basketball arenas throughout the winter I discovered a different person developing within me. A person who wanted to throw away all shelter and fight for what was mine. In the spring of 1982 I was starting to understand all the nuisances that went along transitioning from child to man. My life was coming into focus, not unlike the recent day standing on my back porch. I was committed to being a history teacher and a basketball coach. Standing in front of my classes as a student teacher at Allentown High School I was confident I had found my calling. I was a master teacher in the making. Somewhere imbedded in my DNA I am a teacher and I was experiencing all the intrinsic rewards that go along with being pied piper of the public school hallways. It had taken me till my senior year at Muhlenberg but finally I embraced the concept of being a fraternity brother, partaking fully in the social activities that go along with Greek life. I was financially impaired (could have cared less about money), I had no job waiting for me in the fall, and I was single, yet never had I been more assured about my future. That spring of 1982 the world was my oyster and all that I could see in front of me were endless summers.

“Steppin’ Out”: (Joe Jackson) “We are young but getting old before our time”

In the spring of 1985 I had completed my third year at Pine Bush High as the the J.V. basketball coach and 11th grade history teacher. From day one I loved everything about Pine Bush. And for my first three years, Pine Bush loved Rich Siegel. During this time period I was awarded tenure for my efforts in the classroom. Right around the same time my High School Alma Mater, New Paltz, expressed interest in me being their varsity basketball coach. That spring I took a few Friday ‘Personal days’ that included full days of golfing and partying on the road. It was the first Friday in May of 1985 as I stepped out of an Armonk N.Y. steakhouse at about 8:00pm after a great day golfing in the sun, a few pops of suds, and a solid meal. Stepping out of the shaded ambiance of a fine dining establishment I was expecting the weather to still be damp and dark. To my astonishment the bright warm sun hit my face and I recall saying to myself, “I am going to write about this moment some day.” It felt as if I had stolen spring, at least a few hours, from the grip of winter. I had a nice buzz going and was bubbling with the excitement that the night hadn’t even gotten started. “Let’s head back to New Paltz and get a day-cap at P and G’s,” I said laughingly to my traveling partner. By 11:00pm I had found my way uptown to Joe’s East West where occasionally I would be fueled with enough alcohol to cut some rug. At the bar getting a club soda was a tall beautiful blond who I had never met but she looked familiar. ‘Do you want to dance?’ saying words that didn’t usually come out of my mouth. The blond and I walked towards the flashing lights in silence. I didn’t see her again for five months until she showed up in the gym to pick up her brother from basketball practice. Four years later Donna S. Burnham changed her name to Donna Siegel.

Pieces of April: (Three Dog Night) “We stood on the crest of summer Beneath an old oak that blossomed green”

In so many ways the seasons are metaphoric to the life we live. If we’re clever in our reality I believe it’s possible to embrace all four seasons with the spirit of spring. Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall collide into each other seemingly faster and faster with each passing year. I like to think of myself as one of the original boys of summer, but on closer self-examination I find it was in Spring that I discovered my best self.  My energy and emotions have always been far more intense with the renewal of spring and a chance to start over. If there is a fearless season, one lacking regret, and filled with promise, surely Spring would be swimming in lane four. Spring brings us more heat and light creating a propensity for us to loosen our step and attire (“Spring Fever.”) The fever of love, attachment, commitment, and spirituality were in full bloom during those special Springs of my youth. April transports me back to lighter times of green grass and ballfields. It ushers back memories, and the moments that we will find comfort in as we make the turn for home. When I am alone at the typewriter, or driving the glorious mountain roads of the Hudson Valley the music of my lifetime echos around me. My days as a “front man” for the band ended the second my mouth opened, still, I sing the words with the same passion of the smooth crooners. As the words come out the visions join them. I find myself in places I haven’t been in decades. Places where forgotten friends have a way of showing up. The songs are the codes that open the doors of my soul. In the spring of 2022 the words continue to spin in my head often tumbling to a new perspective.  All I need to do is hear the song. Somewhere in the first three or four notes I have the code that unlocks the story. 

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you,” said the famed 17th Century German Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. I was first introduced to Nietzsche, and this quote, in an elective Philosophy course I took at Muhlenberg College back in 1980. In one of the earlier classes of the fall semester the professor gave the class an assignment to pen an interpretive essay in regard to Nietzsche’s meaning in his prose. When I was a 20 year old sophomore in college I barely knew what the word interpretive meant, leaving me to agonize for the two weeks we had to turn our analysis in. I searched hard, but there was no where for me to copy the answer out of some encyclopedia or microfiche. There was no google search back then, only your own original thought. I was rewarded with a D for my efforts on this task which, at least, gave me a very good idea how little I understood about Nietzsche or his philosophies on life. Despite my unimaginative self, and the grade I received, I had discovered a healthy curiosity about different philosophies the class had exposed me to. It was rare for me to save my notes or tests after a course was over, especially ones that I struggled with, but for this class I made an exception. As the years grew between my bad start in “Philosophy 101” and the present I have referred back to the quotes we dissected back in the halls of academia, always with the intent of inspiring my personal evolvement.

“Life is more fun if you can treat the entire process as a game.” This is a simple philosophical quote that I am sure some great mind has uttered before, but for now I am attributing it to myself. It was approximately 25 years ago that I developed a strategy of turning in-cumbersome challenges into a game. Whenever I got myself into a jam, or was getting prepared for an adjustment in business, I turned the situation into some sort of contest played between myself and me. I played games and gave tests, all organized by me with the strict intention of a rewarding outcome for myself in the long run. Most recently my challenges and goals are centered around making a concerted effort to implement life style changes that are appropriate for my age and health status. The adjustments include; less alcohol input, more family time, better diet, and more of a focus at work. The light and optimistic side of myself says the motivation for these changes is preparatory work to be in my best possible condition entering the golden years. The darker and more tainted side of myself was bitching about the purpose, if there was any at all, for me making changes. ‘What do these doctors know? I’m in great shape for my age, I only need to keep doing things my way like I have always. Regardless of purpose, my future was in the balance and I felt an urgency to give myself a self examination of the most difficult magnitude.

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” Songs, quotes, books and our personel history take on different perspectives and meaning as we grow older. Today, my interpretation of the Nietzsche quote is totally different than the garbage I wrote back in college. Nietzsche could have meant that we can only overcome our most harrowing fears, we can only defeat the demons that torment us by staring directly at them. A high percentage of us spend a lifetime slaying personal dragons, no matter how often we put the fires out, a tiny spark seems to find a way to remain. Last week I went on a mission to administer a self exam that included a trip to a land where my dragons live. There I could face my opponents eye ball to eye ball on their turf. I was partaking on a four day, three night excursion to Hollywood Florida’s Hard Rock Guitar Casino. Being a person who has, at times, fought to control a gambling problem and more immediately has put himself on a strict non alcoholic diet since the turn of the new year, a gambling joint in South Florida can be an extremely dangerous place. A fair analogy would be offering a person with a fear of heights $5,000,000 to rescue Faye Ray in the grips of the mighty Kong from the top of the Empire State Building. The odds are slim that a person who panics at high altitudes could save beauty from the beast. Last Monday I arrived at the Hard Rock to spend some quality time with my favorite person. The test was for me to ask myself two questions at the end of the trip. 1. Did you consume any booze? 2. Did you gamble?

From the moment I put my suitcase down inside the big guitar….the game was on. I thought Ft. Lauderdale Florida was the right location for me to find out if I could regain control. The many compulsions that had gotten the best of me were never going to completely disappear, but for now, I needed to stand up to them. The mission was to send my demons a reminder that I was the commander of my ship, not them. After checking in Monday night I made a bee line to the bar in the Sushi Restaurant where I ordered a club Soda and the short ribs, sushi style. There is no doubt that I was craving a good steak and martini, but I was not on a vacation of the usual sort and I don’t like starting out behind when I am wrestling myself. In a past time I would have hurried my dinner only so I could spend the next 24 hours watching my beard grow in the mirror as I grinded away at a green felt table. In more recent years I would have passed on the gambling for a couple of Cosmos, and then a couple more Coronas. But those were the days when I didn’t have a game plan to protect me from the self inflicted pain of booze and betting (laughing at myself). This trip I was alone, the only game of chance I was going to play was going to have nothing to do with the exchange of C-notes. I grabbed a chocolate milk shake at the snack shop, purchased an expensive cigar, and proceeded to the 24th floor to think things over. I put in a wake up call for 8:00am to be prepared to get a good seat poolside. By 11:00 pm not a creature was stirring in room 2414.

“There are two great pleasures in gambling, that of winning and that of losing.” I was having less anxiety about the not drinking part of my plan than the not gambling part. By late Tuesday night I developed an urge to play some blackjack. I have done limited gambling in casinos or sports betting parlors in the past 20 years. By the time I decided on comfortable gaming table it was about 10:30 in the evening. I choose a seat that was on the main floor where the minimum limits were 4 times less than what I normally wagered. I bought into the game for $1,000 and asked the one other player sitting alone on first base if it was O.K. to join him mid shoot. “Come on in, you’ll be sorry,” he chuckled. I pushed my first two chips on the board as the pit boss made his way over to me. “Do you have your players card sir,” I was hesitant realizing I didn’t bring the card I had. ‘I haven’t been here in a while, I forgot my card,’ I said meekly. “No worries give me your license and I’ll print you a new one.” The Hard Rock has three classes of gamblers with three different player cards so the suckers can be clearly identified: Black is for “high rollers”, Silver for “almost high rollers,” and Red is for “average schmuck.” I was involved in two hands, which both caused havoc with numerous splits and double downs. The two hands probably took 10 minutes as the dealer made change, welcomed a new player, and told me to pull my mask up through the barrier between us. Truth was I felt bored, impatient, tentative, and reluctant. The pit boss handed me a red players card and said “Good luck” Although I said nothing, I must have worn a bewildered look. “I guess you’ve been downgraded,” smirked the pit boss. I stayed quiet as a new player showed up on my left. That was my cue to call it night. I pushed my chips forward which were cashed with one $1,000 chip and one 100 dollar chip. I was content to accept my new “regular schmuck” status so myself and my new red player’s card headed upstairs to my room for another good night’s rest.

“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.” Correct. That is Nietzsche again bringing me back my personal War. Last week’s battle was a premeditated test, a check-up to find out who was in control of my soul. I had traveled into my personal abyss. Like a dragon slayer in mythical times I went into the beast’s belly. I willingly entered the abyss, it was my decision (part of me says courageous, part of me says far too brazen). I faced off with the monsters that I believe have gotten in the way of me reaching my maximum potential. To have goals is a positive thing, but to predict the future is something I leave to the soothsayers. An old college friend of mine talks often of the skeletons he hears rattling around in his closet. He told me he freezes when he thinks of addressing the past and the discomfort it causes him. Over the years he is usually the one who offers me advice, but in regard to my dilemmas and his skeletons it was me with the recommendation for him. “The only way your monsters can defeat you is if you do nothing.” Isn’t the essence of what Nietzsche was trying to teach us about ourselves? The easiest route in this life is to ignore your demons, to keep moving as if they do not exist, hoping that someday they will go away and die. It is urgent we come to terms with the fact that as long as we live our skeletons live. I went down to Hollywood Fl. to see if I have the fortitude, determination, and ambition left in myself to fight the final battles of my life. I arrived home last Thursday night. “How did you make out,” Donna inquired upon my arrival home. “It absolutely sucked, but I think I won.”

It was long ago, and not that far away, in a time well before anyone understood “Sweet Sixteen” as a basketball reference. In the late 1960’s my dad would often take myself and my brother to the United States Military Academy at West Point. We attended many events at the Point at a variety of venues, but basketball games at the old “Field House” were our favorite. The three of us got to observe the pomp and circumstances of a “full dress parade”, we saw fall football spectaculars at Michie Stadium, we were there a day in the spring of 1968 when Mickey Mantle hit a home run off a pitching plebe in a spring exhibition game the Yankees played at West Point on an annual basis. I don’t know where he got the pull but my father even got myself and my brother to eat a meal in the Army mess hall. For years later we would have a blast mimicking the fork to mouth ritual the cadets endured. As a young eight year old I fell head over heals with the idea that someday I would walk among the echoes of Generals at the place where future leaders of the world were developed. Even at that naive age I was practical enough to realize I was not West Point, or any kind of military, material. There are very few things in my personality that have not evolved to some extent. One of those exceptions is the concept of taking orders from authoritative figures, with no questions asked, was never going to work for me.

Up until 1982 Army’s men basketball team played in what looked like a dilapidated barn. The Gillis Field House was built in the early 1900’s, and since being refurbished is still used by the Army track and field team. My family always referred to it  as the “Old Field House”. I recall feeling a large adrenaline rush walking to games through the blustery winds coming off the Hudson River that bordered the “Field House”. The first time I entered the building I was surprised by the overall vastness of the darkened building. Off in the distance were bright shining lights that I immediately recognized as the arena. Before making our initial trip to an Army basketball game my dad prepped myself and my brother on what to look for. “They have this very young guy who gets extremely excited on the sidelines as their head coach. He rants and raves at his players, the officials, and anyone else who would listen. I hate to say it, but I love the way this guy coaches his team.”  It was 1968, I was eight years old, I was going to turn nine the next day. Walking towards the light of the Basketball court I felt like I was in my own personal Magic Kingdom. “Hey, Richie keep a close eye on the Army coach tonight.” The coach he was talking about was a 25 year old kid in the infant stages of becoming one of the great coaches to ever lead college basketball teams into battle: Robert Montgomery Knight.

I followed my dad’s advice and checked out the spectical that was Bobby Knight, but there was another person in the building who made a far greater impression on my influenceable self. A lean, awkward looking kid with a oversized beak would turn out to be who I talked about on the car-ride home. “Did you see that guy ‘sheshefski’, both his knees were bleeding from floor burns.” The ‘sheshefski’ I was talking about was Bob Knight’s senior Captain Michael William Krzyzewski.

Yes, that’s correct, the cadet’s name was Mike Krzyzewski who would go on to be the greatest college basketball to ever lace ’em up. Mike Krzyzewski came of age on the hard streets of Chi-town, ending up being the first recruit for a man who would come to be known as ‘The General”. Once you understand the historical connection between the two men you could fairly deduct that the famous Coach K. was bore from the womb of one Bobby Knight. Although the two would be tied at the hip for much of their careers the record books will clearly say that the pupil reached a higher mountain top than his mentor’s best day. On that ride back from West Point on that long ago January night there is no way we could have imagined that we just witnessed two kids who would go on to be arguably the number one and two greatest teachers of the game of hoops in a big old barn hanging on the edge of the Henry Hudson River.

This coming week-end  Captain Mike Krzyzewski, West Point alum. with the big snooze has his 42nd Duke Blue Devils roster headed for the final four for the 13th time. Mike Krzyzewski, now 75, announced his retirement as basketball coach at Duke University before this season began.  After completing his military duties in 1973 Coach K. spent one year working as an assistant at the University of Indiana under his mentor Bob Knight (1974-75), five years as West Point’s head coach (1975-1980…. his record at Army was 73-59), and the remaining 42 years at Duke (1980-2022…. record at Duke 1,129-308, overall 1,202-367). In those years Coach K’s teams won five National Titles, 15 Conference Tournament Championships, 13 Final Fours. His win number stands at 1,202 which is the most of any men’s NCAA basketball coach in any of the three divisions. Most casual hoop fans are aware of Coach K.’s record of brilliance in  terms of victories and championships, but few know that his roots were grown on the windy tough streets of Chicago and the United States Military Academy at West Point. Somebody better get started now if they think they are ever going to touch the incredible resume he built.

Growing up in New Paltz, New York we were a 45 minute car drive to West Point. In the time span from 1975-1980 I found my way to the old Army “Field House” probably 20 times. It was on these occasions I observed a ‘Maestro’ in the making. I’ve been a big fan of the hardwood most of my lifetime, I played college hoops at the Division III level, and coached for seven years in the public school system. Still, to this day I never witnessed any coach who could take any group of lemons he was given and make great lemonade.

Mike Krzyzewski teams at Army were in better condition, better drilled, more prepared, and played the most consistent defense than any other team I observed in my trails as a basketball connoisseur. Back in the late 70’s and early 80’s I was convinced my future was as a teacher and basketball coach. I thought as a coach I wanted to be a blend of General Bob Knight and his star pupil. Every game competed for in the “Field House” was filled with off the charts intensity.  The energy that the Army team put out overflowed to the 5,000 fans that packed around the make-shift basketball court. My favorite part of attending the games came about five minutes before the tip. The Black Knights locker room was located in what appeared to be the rafters. The players would be on the court finishing their final warm-ups. From a place high in the air a single figure could be seen making his way down the longest staircase in the entire universe. Coach K.’s attire included a thin 1960’s tie, a crew cut hair style, and a royal blue suit. The hair on the back of my neck would rise as the new young General sauntered to the battle field in front of him. The crowd roared but I was sure Coach K. couldn’t hear a sound.

This week-end the final four tips off in New Orleans and the big story is Coach K. hunting for a “swan song” sixth National Championship. My compulsion for professional and college sports has waned in the past decade, but Saturday at 8:37 pm I will be glued to my television rooting hard for one more game Monday night. To get to the final on Monday Krzyzewski’s Blue Devils will have to find an answer for Coach K.’s long time nemesis, and Duke’s arch rivals, the North Carolina Tar Heels. If ever there was a more anticipated college basketball game I can not recall it. When Coach K. moves towards the bench to do his duties, for possibly the last time, I will not see a bloated, limping, 75 year old grandfather sprinkling positive energy everywhere as if he were the zen master “Yoda.” My eyes will look past the screen in front of me and back to my formative years where I’ll see a Black Knight wearing number 12 diving right at me going for a loose ball. I’ll see a 27 year old man pounding his palms on the floor imploring his team to find an even higher level on the defensive end. I’ll see myself in the “field house” as a little boy focused on the bench jockey’s every move, thinking that one fine day I would be coaching a team with the same unlimited passion of Mike Krzyzewski. Still, today when I visit “The Point”  I hear the echoes of the great Generals who made their bones on the shores of the Hudson. I often reflect on the band of legendary coaches spawned at Army: Vince Lombardi, Bill Parcells, Bob Knight, and Earl Blaik. Now the kid from Chicago is walking away after 50 years of working his craft with more efficiency than all that went before him. Late Monday night, in the bowels of a New Orleans arena, after winning his sixth National Championship, a reporter will ask Coach K. where he honed his skills. I think the old Captain in the Army will give the reporter his classic friendly smirk before saying: “A old barn down by the river.”

Far off in the distance, beyond the horizon, the sky was flashing with explosions of light. It was a rainy night in South Carolina as I sat high in the sky (15th floor condo) taking in the unscheduled luminosity. Stevie Nicks claims “thunder only happens when its raining”,  but tonight the heavens were crying the blues without accompaniment from the boom section. It was the 15th of March (The infamous Ides of March) and after much personal trepidation and contemplation I had committed to my first golfing vacation in several years. This was the second day of the excursion and I was physically and mentally feeling the affects of reaching the other side of sixty and all the baggage that goes along with that. I was part of a group of seven long time golfing buddies, who combined, I have known for more than two centuries, along with one other gentleman, who, at 47 was the kid in the contingent. Andrew Rankel was a 16 year old sophomore who worked in the pro shop of Osiris Country Club of which I was a member for some 30 years ago. The kid from Walden New York by way of Valley Central High School, the kid who used to carry my golf bag. The friend who would be the designated driver on golfing adventures all across the east coast. He was also the psychologist who stood behind at the poker table shaking his head at my “erratic” play. Through all the in-betweens of decades he was in Myrtle Beach standing next to me waggling his own clubs.

The year was 1993, and on this particular day the May flowers were getting their fill of nourishment. Even the most avid of linksters had headed home for an early supper. My group of degenerates desire to compete and gamble could not be deterred by a half inch of standing water on the putting surfaces. The skinny youngster with the long blond locks was busy going about the process of closing up the pro shop and getting ready to go home himself. “Hey Andrew, my man, you want to hitch my sticks to your shoulders, grab two umbrellas, and go make some cash?” It was evident to me the reluctancy the young man was wearing directly on his sleeve.  I could hear his brain trying to decide the next move, “what am I getting myself into, I think these guys are on my parents list of unsavory influences.” After approximately a ten second pause contemplating my proposal Andrew decided to take his chances. Finally, he let out a weak “sure”. This was the beginning of a friendship that would span the next 30 years. On that gloomy May afternoon a 32 year old wannabe big wheel and a lad looking to make some bucks strolled down the fairway, meshed together undercover seeking the next adventure.

With myself and Andrew it was never a case of a wise mentor taking a neophyte student under his wing and leading him to the promised land. Andy had a wonderful set of parents with solid reputations of high morals and ethics. Andrew’s smooth touch made him a favorite amongst the members of Osiris. Based on my lifestyle, there were many members of the club,  that behind my back, would say that my influence on this young man would not be in Andy’s best interest. At the start of our relationship Andy was just an employee who on special occasions carried my clubs around the golf course and was paid handsomely to do it. Our bond was forming at a parallel time of the O.J. Simpson murder trial (1994). There were a cast of characters that came with this O.J. television circus. The trial and all the machinations that went along with it gave rise to the early reality T.V. stars. There was Judge Ito, Johnny Cochran, Lee Bailey, Robert Kardashian, Marcia Clark, and several others relishing their moment in the spotlight. Of all these blossoming no talent famous people O.J.’s friend and house guest Kato Kalein was the most entertaining.  At the time, in the year 1994, Andrew Rankel bore an uncanny resemblance to this latest pop culture phenom. So, within our golfing group Andrew Rankel was forever more known simply as: “Kato”.

It did not take long before “Kato” was a regular toting my clubs where ever and when ever I was hitting the little white ball. I discovered I was enjoying my time walking in the green grass more having a friendly ear to lean on. Golfing competitively can be a loney experience. You are out there on hilly, windy terrain fighting the golf course, the elements, and your fellow competitors. In the years from 1993-1998 there weren’t too many rounds I played without “Kato” , who in time also developed into my muse striding with me step for step. One day at Saratoga National Golf Club “Kato” came along for the party, but the rules of the course required the player to take a golf cart. We were on the fifth hole when a golf course ranger approached my cart which Kato was driving. “Gentlemen, fivesomes are not allowed at Saratoga,”  he shouted at “Kato”. Myself and three playing companions walked in the other direction to avoid controversy. “I am caddying for Mr. Siegel, I am not playing.” “Mr. Siegel has a cart,” shot back the befuddled golf police. “When Mr. Siegel plays golf he prefers a cart, and a caddy,” said my partner in crime. “Oh, a cart and a caddy,” I could hear Ranger Rick mumbling as he drove away shaking his head.  It was a usual occurrence for the group to go out for a big dinner after a road golf outing. On these occasions no one accused “Kato” of being late for dinner. Needless to say those dining adventures were filled with lots of libations, laughs, tomfoolery, male bonding, and an entertaining recap of the days golfing escapades.

By the the time Y2k (the threat of computer glitches as the calender roled into a new century) arrived I was married with two children. “Kato” was trying to find his way through Winthrop University, but didn’t quite make it. Through those years we kept in touch and saw plenty of each other in the summer months. After atriculating as far as possible “Kato” started working for a radio station in Poughkeepsie selling advertising. It was only a few years later that “Kato”, and a partner, opened an office cleaning service called “The Green Janitor”. I wrote the insurance for the account and helped them secure one of their first lucrative jobs cleaning for a bank where I was employed. “Kato’s” dad owned a substantial wood counter manufacturing business in Middletown, New York (ADF Designs). His biggest client was City Bank for whom he made all of their teller counters. “Kato” opened the door for me to do business with his dad. I wrote the insurance for Mr’ Rankel’s business shortly after meeting him. I also was a co-owner of a lubricating company called “Slipit” and Mr.Rankel’s company began to contract “Slipit” as his businesses’ lubricant of choice. It was right around this time that Kato’s dad was diagnosed with a form of brain cancer, Mr. Rankel passed in 1997, I was 37, and “Kato” was 23. Andrew was extremely close to his dad and I worried at the time that his tragic loss could cause him to grieve away many of his prime years. Looking back “Kato” used a pivotal moment in his young life to turn into a full fledged adult even if it happened much earlier than he had wanted.

The storms on the horizon were settling as I took another drag on my Macanudo stogie and starred out into the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. The circle of life has been rotating at a high speed  for me the past few years. It has been a full time job for me to keep up with the adjustments that have been necessary to make entering the late fall of my life. I looked up from my note pad to see “Kato” standing in front of me, cigarette in hand, looking for a light. ‘You taking a break from the card game?’ I said to my old friend happy to have the company. “Yeah, I got to hurry back, I’m winning,” “Kato” said with a grin. ‘You’re beating everyone on the golf course, now the poker table too, they aren’t going to invite you back,’ I added in a semi serious tone. “Kato” pulled up a chair next to me before he took out his wallet to show me pictures of his family (wife of 20 years, daughter 10, and son 16).  We were an unlikely pair, who strangely came of age together, now peers in the game of both golf and life.  All these years later our history together was playing out in front of us and the words were mostly unspoken. The 62 year old having a bit of a pity party for himself, and 47 year old strutting in his prime. Despite my terrible golf, wobbling physicality, and overall fall from grace I was happy to see “Kato” in the limelight of his life smelling the roses. “I got to get back in there and go to war,” he quipped snuffing out his cigarette. “Kato” disappeared past the sliding doors leading him back to the action. I continued to stare off into the South Carolina night still searching for serenity while at the same time gaining strength from what remains behind.

There are moments in our lives that we to come to the realization that we need to make adjustments to our personal game plan. We are at a crossroad and the moments are sending their message. They are telling us it is time to either walk away, or it is time to take that first step in a new direction. In these moments we communicate to ourselves that it is time to make changes because we know we are headed into a deep abyss. We grasp that something we thought routine has become anything but. Every time I have had one of these moments ( it has been numerous) a giant pit forms in my stomach. I understand when a moment hits me it represents a call to action. There was the time I was playing third base in the New Paltz Softball League when all of sudden I was fearful of the ball being hit to me. In that moment I went from confident athlete to retired athlete. There was the time I stood in front of a group of slower learners trying to teach them Global Studies.  As I stood in front of a classroom filled with young minds while I was talking to my charges, a voice inside my head was speaking to me: ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ There was a moment in my dormroom the day I drove myself to Allentown Pa. in the fall of 1978 to start my journey free from supervision. I stood alone with my belongings realizing that this was the beginning of my life and  the time had come for me to go it alone. In that particular moment I gave into my emotions and let out a good cry in a memorial to my childhood.

These are moments that we hear a voice whisper to us something we had already sensed. They are personal revelations that help us with the direction of our path going forward.  These moments are for sure a case of confidentiality with one’s self. These moments are not open for discussing or for gathering advice, they have purpose that only the individual can make decisions on. The sum total of all your special moments are our secret map of how we got to the place we are. Sometimes we need to say good-bye to labels that have identified us for so long. Nothing has to be final, but in these powerful moments we know radical change is on the horizon. The processes in constructing our evolution involves consideration to the people in the world that surround of most closely. The process is bittersweet; we feel the relief of ‘we know it is over’ or, ‘a new chapter is just beginning’ and we must take that first step in the opposite direction. But there is painful sorrow when we leave behind the cornerstones of our lives. When the tensions build there is relief in knowing there must be a call to action, of course the sorrow is seeing dreams being compromised. It is sad because the plan you had as kid are, at the very least, is tarnished.

There was a moment at my dad’s wake that the finality of his presence being lost sunk in. I would never have a direct conversation with the person, who at different times in my life was my muse, my confidant, my pal, my trusted advisor, my biggest critic, my biggest fan. I recall thinking before I went up to give the eulogy that a man isn’t really a man until their father passes. I still go to call him approximately once a week, only to quickly getting busy before my memories get the best of me. If we are fortunate our parents pass before we do. We all know that death is a part of life, yet we struggle with its permanence, especially if we are convinced we are not bumping into anyone in some sort of after life. Myself, and my dad found opportunities to talk often in his last five years on this earth. In our relationship I spent far too much time criticizing  my dad’s shortcomings. I thought he could have been so much more, until the end I couldn’t come to terms that my dad was content on how he played the game of life. How could I not respect it was his to play? Before I went up to deliver the eulogy to man that brought me into this world I could hear his voice resonate inside of me. ” I have no regrets, I will never be completely ready to die, but I am aware the time is close. For a poor kid from Brooklyn I accomplished some pretty good things in my turn at bat, but it is easy for me to say that you and your brother were by far my greatest hits.” 

 When you are possessed with a compulsive personality, like myself, you face many difficult dilemmas and out of them come what I call “moments of reckoning.” Playing high stakes blackjack and betting football were my flavors of choice when it came to gambling.  Throw in local poker games and hard-line gambling on the links. It wasn’t hard for me to recognize that gambling was a very big part of my life. There was a night in 1991 I was walking through Atlantic City’s Tropicana lounge after dropping a little over $10,000  at the high roller blackjack table. I had the deep pit in my stomach that would show its’ ugly head after a big gambling loss. “Well I think I’m going out of head,” I heard the words coming from the main lounge’s stage. It was Little Anthony and the Imperials, in the flesh, playing the Trop. Mainroom. I pulled up a stool at one of the corner bars and ordered something to drown my sorrows.  The song was over and Little Anthony found his way to the bar and pulled in next to me. “Bourbon, neat, Makers Mark”, said the man with an unmistakeable voice. “How’s it running,” he said without looking my way. ‘The only good thing that happened tonight was bumping into you.’  Little Anthony gave a snicker before he spoke again “another Bourbon.” then he said something I never forgot. “Yeah man, gambling and alcohol are two false friends.” Before I could say anything back Little Anthony disappeared into the darkness of the early morning. It was the moment for me to say enough is enough with my out of control gambling problem.

That moment led me to a Gamblers Anonymous Meeting where I found a semblance of spirituality that turned out to being instrumental in finding a new perspective in terms of who I was and who I wanted to be.  I did not quit gambling cold turkey, but learning to control my gambling gave me a chance to live the next 30 years dealing with the normal challenges of life that don’t include gambling. Flash forward to the present and my internalist’s office awaiting my latest bloodwork results . “The numbers are now up into the dangerous level,” were the first words out of my doctor’s mouth. I was not ready to hear the rest. “I want you to cut way back on your alcohol intake. If you keep it up you are looking at diabetes, and possible liver failure in your future.” I remained calm and mostly silent, but I was shook. My moment of epiphany did not come until after I was in my car getting ready to find  a watering hole. ‘This is it Rich, forget about the rest of the world you have got to stop fooling yourself.’  My thoughts went from ‘that’s it I will never drink again’ to ‘Ah fuck it.’ It was January 4th, 2022 and I wasn’t prepared for this kind of clarity. I immediately drove to one of my favorite spots to have my fill and talk it over with myself, or anybody who would listen. I wasn’t sure what my plan was but I felt the urgency of developing one. I will, someday go back to enjoying a libation, but for today my name is Rich S. and I had my last drink on January 4th, 2022.    

It is late on a Saturday inside the Siegel residence. The backdrop of my life is serenading me via my playlist Samsung: Gordon Lightfoot, Leon Russell, Sinatra, Elton John, Carly Simon. I am prone to reflect back to the innocence of my earlier days. I like to drift in and out of half sleep, letting the stories come to me. Back to the moment: The Seekers Judith Durham is singing ‘Giorgi Girl’, the news channel is on the big screen, but muted, Donna yells from the kitchen, “Turn the music down I’m going to bed.” It is 11:44 pm. on a wintery February evening in Kingston New York. I look around at the entrapments and accoutrements that surround me and ask myself, ‘Did I get to where I was headed all those years ago, it doesn’t seem like I traveled very far? Am I where I am suppose to be?’ The beauty of this life is that there is no answer for these questions. For me it is the questions that matter, only the individual can speculate on their solutions. For sure, as long as I live I will keep asking myself the questions. It is 1:30 am, I have heard so many of the lyrics that inspire me and I allow myself one more question, ‘Did you get from this life what you were in search of?’  As if I am having a near death experience the events and the people of my past flash before my eyes. After a minute or two of contemplation I say “yes” to the empty room. For the moment I am where I want to be.

‘Hey Donna, have we ever discussed getting a generator?’ “Yes we have on many occasions.” ‘And what came out of those discussions?’ “I don’t know the lights came on.” At the moment of this conversation neither of us we’re in a laughing mood. My exact position at the time had me laying flat on my back on our living room sofa. I was wrapped, mummy like, in a myramid of house blankets. Donna was close by looking for candles in the kitchen that adjoins the living room. Outside the temperature hovered around zero. The early morning isolated ice storm that wrecked havoc throughout Ulster County was displaying its damage. In my numerous years of residing in the Hudson Valley I had not witnessed this kind of apocalyptic look to the landscape. I was not feeling in the mood to break any records (my personal nevers) of never staying in a house overnight that was experiencing a power outage. There were large trees down across just about every road in Kingston. There were also wires hanging on trees and laying in our neighbors lawns. This mess created by electricity meeting fallen ice from the sky was for sure to create a very extended outage. I am a dreamer yet I recognize reality.

I was still not moving after my exchange of words with Donna. She had already headed up the stairs to crawl into her self made bunker protecting her from all the hazards that lurked beyond its’ reach. I was alone with my multiple personalities…… and I mean alone. ‘What do we do now? O.K. first move let’s catch up with facebook. Reel through some posts and see what is happening around the town. Maybe I’ll send out a few messages. Eww, on second thought no, that’s so desperate. Come on Rich, haven’t you sunken low enough? The lights, T.V., internet, and my trusty Miss Pacman machine were all out of commission. I mean talk about a Friday night with zero options. It appears to come down to two choices: I can pout, think about how low can life go. I can think about how cold it is inside the house, how numb my toes feel. I can do the full “woe is me”, what will I eat, how will I ever survive the night. This was no time for self pity. What is my other option: I can admit that I am a classic procrastinator who will search high, low and everywhere to find distraction instead of purpose. The time had come to take the first step to recovery; admit to yourself you have a major problem with procrastination.

In these instances I do not make final decisions immediately, but tonight I took very little back and forth in making a call. I was going to get off of this couch and be productive. I was in a place where I knew it was time to give myself an ultimatum; I must will myself out of my hopeless position lumped on the couch. I must get out of this malaise right now, get pen and paper to scrawl a short story about the “Ice Storm”. If you don’t execute you’ll know for sure you lack both the drive and the ambition to better yourself. Live with that fact Jack. So get out of your cocoon of blanketry and jot a fun story about what you learned from this most extraordinary weather event that had just occurred. It couldn’t be a more perfect night to tell a story. There is absolutely nothing in the way. All I need to do is focus on what I’m writing.  Once you go to your chair and sit down you cannot get up until you have written the first word right through the last paragraph. Now my inner me was talking: ‘ You know darn well you have never sat down and written for more than an hour straight. You know you can’t focus that hard for that long. You know you’ll get a grand idea, write a few words, and say that’s enough.

Yeah, I have another inner me that will argue with inner me # 1,  and that voice was making itself heard: It is time for you take a test young grasshopper. Let’s see if you still have something to say. Let’s see if you can still challenge yourself. If you are going to prose about the Ice storm it will be much better if it is written in the midst of the event. I often play minds games with myself as a motivational tool. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, in both cases I am the winner and the loser.  But tonight all systems pointed to only victory. The stars were aligned, and all the icicles were still freezing the internet lines. It was a perfectly strange night. This was the first time I was roughing it through a power outage. Call me lucky, or understand that when our children were growing up if there wasn’t power we went directly to a hotel. I wrap the blanket around me a bit tighter as I write away. Donna is bunkered in her kind of heaven: peace, quiet, and a good book. I am alone downstairs only able to see within a three foot radius while scribbling under a makeshift lantern. It wasn’t many generations ago that tonight was a typical winter occurrence in the northeast. There was obviously plenty of time (I am finding out tonight) to read, write and build closer relationships with your family.

The reality is I have always enjoyed my distractions. I am a spoiled American who loves baseball, apple pie, the flag, and my 84″ flatscreen television. I spend too much time on facebook and there is a Miss Pacman machine in my basement that I am far too good at. None of this is any kind of apology, simply my truth. There is nothing wrong with distraction if you can avoid excess. While that is easy to comprehend we all know it is easier said than done.  The crackling trees outside were still popping and breaking on the icy ground. The temperature inside the house was dropping. For the first time since sitting down I turned on my phone to discover it was 9:44. Typically I would be preparing for ‘Real Time with Bill Maher’. But of course, that was not an option tonight. One of my inner voices alerted me I was losing my outside voice and should return to my inside voice. The only sound I can hear is the trucks whizzing along the New York State Thruway.

‘Where will I be showering tomorrow? When will I have my beloved technology back? lol. How much damage will this record breaking Ice storm have caused when all is said and done. When will everything be back to normal? If we live long enough time gives us the answers. As I begin working on the final paragraph I am feeling pretty, pretty good about myself. I have successfully completed the gauntlet I laid down for myself. Completely out of options I have sat down and met the challenge. I was breaking so many “Never before” records: First time roughing it through the power outage, first time sleeping with four layers of clothes on and first time sitting in a chair writing a short story to completion without indulging in any distractions. I had seen opportunity and pounced.  When I had finished congratulating myself I heard Donna yelling from her tundra shelter: “Are you coming upstairs?” ‘Yeah, I am just finishing up?’ “Finishing what?” “A story that was suppose to be about the Ice storm.” ‘What is it about?’ Oh boy I thought to myself that’s a tough question. ‘Hard to say….. man vs. technology, finding purpose, discovering opportunity in adversity.’  “Sounds boring, good night.” Donna went to sleep, the story was done, and a lesson was learned.