The yellow school bus made its way up Main Street , glided up the hill past the downtown bar section of the village of New Paltz. Pete the bus driver was paying no attention to the 30 mph speed limit, or the deafening sound of the screaming chants. “Pete is a dope , he ate a bottle of soap, bubbles here, bubbles there, bubbles in his underwear!” It was early September 1974 , and I was staring out the window into the morning light headed to my first day of high school. Not a single cell phone, iPad, or computer was occupying the attention of the passengers. Their focus was directed toward the chorus of taunts they had created for certain individuals as we reached their stop. “Pee-you, pee-you, pee-you,’’ as the Depuy family of four climbed the entrance steps. “Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt,” for Matt Robertson. “Hain is a pain, Hain is a pain, Hain is a pain,” was the greeting for John Hain. 
Further up Main Street was Pat and George’s, one of New Paltz’s most famous landmarks, on the same side of the street as my window. For 7 am I’m perplexed that the bar appears crowded with mostly men who aren’t exchanging any dialogue but merely glaring down at the shot glasses in front of them. The big yellow vehicle continues rolling through the village finding its ways to North Putt corners and my immediate future.
My big brother Gary was entering his senior year and drove his 1972 Ford Pinto filled with friends to school, but refused to make room for his little brother. He had spent the summer abroad as an exchange student in South Africa and the sudden change in his demeanor and physical appearance was staggering. My undersized, gawky bro had returned home a handsome young man–confident and much bigger in every way. Two days prior to the opening of school he hosted a big beer bash at our house. I couldn’t believe my prepubescent eyes-beer kegs, roach clips, and a seemingly endless stream of 17 year old, soon to be seniors. 
Lucy Schaffer and Patti Ralph stood out the most at that pre-high school celebration. They were the two girls in particular who paid a lot of attention to me, or at least that’s what I thought in my new found alcohol- infused state. Two days before I began high school, I was drunk for the first time, fell in love twice, and learned the early lesson that both alcohol and girls were false friends.
That first day at New Paltz high school I was like a kid entering the Magic Kingdom for the first time. The village of New Paltz had always maintained a reputation as a progressive, liberal environment where booze, drugs, and sex flowed freely. 
Still, I was surprised by the independence that the high school seemed to allow its students. There were “open” study halls which meant there wasn’t a teacher on duty to keep track of where you were. If you were on an athletic team you could opt out of gym but still get credit for it.
The cafeteria was full of a wide variety of food options including complete breakfast for those who had open periods in the morning. The most shocking thing, looking back, was our smoking lounge, a space just outside the classroom area where students of all ages to go out and light up. In the early fall with the windows ajar, I could sit in Bert King’s Economics class and breathe in some second -hand smoke in an attempt to get high on the other clouds that filtered through the air. On my first strolls through the halls of New Paltz High, I got the feeling that they had just moved the recent party at my house inside the walls of the school.
The 1960’s and all that went along with those years was still fresh in the minds and attitudes of the teenagers of New Paltz. Our hair was long, the big bell bottoms protected us against high waters, and both girls and boys sported a lot of rawhide jewelry. At 14 I was fascinated with free love, drugs, and the easy going attitude that went along with the “hippy” culture. 
But being labeled as a jock coming from a conservative family made it challenging for me to get closer beyond the fringe to all the exploration of that era. Staying in tune with the times, there was a general assembly every year on the first day of school. Ken Salinger, our on-again, off-again principal, welcomed us to the lazy and hazy world that was our high school. In that particular assembly, I remember seeing the larger than life Seniors, who I had watched on the athletic fields and party at my house, gather to demonstrate to the underclassmen what cool looked like. Pete Sciascia, Jay Egan, Roger Plantier, and Mike Beck were Godlike figures as they sat in the back row adorned in their football jerseys. 
But what I recall the most about that assembly was when the English and Theater teacher, Richard Cattabiani, got up to announce the few students who would perform their artistic talents. Amy Silverman sat on a stool in front of the student body with only a guitar in hand and started to sing. “My father sits at night with no light on, his cigarette glows in the dark, the living room is still, no reply,” began the lyrics of her inspiring rendition of Carly Simon’s hit song ‘That’s The Way I Always Heard It Should Be. ‘ It took me 30 years to act on it, but after hearing Amy’s voice echo through the auditorium, I knew I wanted to be an artist.
They did have actual classes and some good teachers at New Paltz. My brother was a very good student and the game of school came easily to him. He was very sharp in the math and sciences and was headed to the Ivy League to be an engineer after graduation. I always looked up to Gary and was proud of him but his academic prowess placed a self-imposed pressure on myself that took many years to overcome. My first period class was Earth Science and despite the fact that George Campbell was an excellent teacher, I had zero desire to understand what made the world go round. Next came Ron Noelle’s Algebra class. Considering I was a whiz in mathematics through middle school, I was amazed at how fast I became ignorant in math. On the first day, when Mr. Noelle put (A+B) = C on the board, I could see my days as an honor student were done. Going into Miss Hick’s English class I got a glimmer of hope that my academic career wasn’t going to be a complete disaster. 
She put the syllabus of the book and paper assignments on the blackboard and the class let out a collective groan. While my classmates moaned, I focused on the reading list: The Lord of The Flies, The Great Gatsby, Animal Farm, Atlas Shrugged, Macbeth. I had heard of them all, and over the year I read each one cover to cover. I very much liked each one of them, but Gatsby was by far my favorite. It didn’t take me long to figure out that English was my favorite subject, Miss Hick was my favorite teacher, and I was an “in the closet” bookworm.
It was mid-afternoon and my ride was now making its way down Main Street in my hometown. Like the morning, Pete was back at the helm, but the mood on the bus was very different. No one was calling Pete a dope, there was no more chanting “pee you” as the Depuys were dropped off. Everyone sat with four or five books in their laps. For a school bus full of high school students, it was eerily quiet with only the sound of reflection. Our bus got caught up in traffic right in front of Pat and Georges. I peered through the window as I had hours before, and it was obvious the bar clientele had rotated. The crowd was younger and happier. The doors were open and I could hear the music coming from inside. Unlike on the ride to school, the street was filled with young college students navigating their way around their new domicile. 
Right before we were through town and entering the flats across the bridge I looked to the mountains and at the old familiar site of the Mohonk tower that loomed above where my home was located. It was September 4, 1974, just another day in the little college town of New Paltz. It was clear to me that this day had been the precursor to how much my world was changing. But for that moment, on that day, I was going home.
