What I Have Learned So Far

“Welcome To Your 60s” said a sign somewhere on the long haul between here and there. It caught me so off guard, I thought of making an illegal u-turn and heading back the way I came. With my abysmal sense of direction a shaky tour guide, I decided to stay the course. Being hopelessly lost but making good time isn’t as fun as it’s cracked up to be.

Besides, at this advanced stage of the game, a man is bound to have learned a few things – some gracefully, some clumsily, all of value for a work in progress. Here, then, are a collection of thoughts from my first 64 years. They may not always be profound, but I can promise you this: they capture pretty accurately what I’ve gleaned so far from the school of life. (By the way, I hear there’s a test tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.)

1.) Making each day in your life count is an admirable goal. You get bonus points for making each person in your life count.

2.) Since the effort we put into things is all we can control in life, our efforts themselves represent moments of success in our journey. Celebrate your efforts, regardless of the outcomes.

3.) Life isn’t short – we just waste too much of it. Use your time and energy to love, learn, help and create.

4.) Goals and dreams add meaning to life, but don't overlook the value of moment-to-moment enjoyment. Talking with a friend, taking a walk, enjoying a book or a meal or some music all have their pleasures. And you don't have to wait for "someday" to reap the rewards.

5.) Live with gratitude, compassion and a sense of wonder and you'll earn the biggest rewards no matter what you do or where you go.

6.) The news of the day is often disturbing. But we can all take heart in the presence of good people everywhere who make the world a better place with their intelligence, humor, integrity and compassion.

7.) It's a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you enjoy a quiet appreciation for many things. (I’m there and I do.)

8.) We cannot be a source of strength to others unless we cultivate our own strength. Value yourself. Feed your mind healthy thoughts. Develop your gifts and talents. Nurture your spiritual growth. You are worth it ... and others will benefit from your commitment to get the most out of your life.

9.) If you try too hard to strengthen your weaknesses, you’re likely to weaken your strengths. Embrace who you are and what you’re good at and find the joy in playing that role of a lifetime.

10.) Protect and enhance your supply of spiritual energy. You’ll need it to love yourself, love life, and live fully in the moment.

11.) Love and laughter are the two most positive forces in the universe. If you make them a priority, you will find a way to make the world a better place.

12.) The loved ones we lose always stay part of us. And the love lives on.

13.) The Signs of Human Beings At Their Best: Acts of kindness; Laughter that uplifts; The instinct to help; Doing the right thing when no one's looking; Creating more, consuming less; Choosing love over hate.

14.) About popularity: It’s nice when people like you. Make sure you like you.

15.) A little self-criticism is good. It’s that voice in your head that says “I can do better.”

16.) Learn from all your experiences. Grow from all your experiences. Then nothing is wasted. Nothing is lost.

17.) Don’t make mountains out of molehills. You’ll reduce stress and save energy for the issues and situations that really matter.

18.) It’s nice to be important, but more important to be nice.

19.) We are asleep until we fall in love. With someone. With something. With Life.

20.) Be curious. About people. About places. About things. Live a life fueled by curiosity and you will find yourself on a journey of discovery and growth that will enrich you in unimaginable ways.

21.) Every day you make your partner laugh is a good day.

22.) The best people to hang with are smart, funny and kind. (I’ll accept two out of three as long as one of the traits is kindness.)

23.) Our life is a battle to fill our subconscious with good news instead of bad. Give yourself the good news: You are unique, you are needed, you are loved.

24.) When all is said and done, perhaps the ups and downs of our lives are secondary to being able to say without hesitation: "I really tried. I did my best."

###

MITCH MICCOSUKEE, MANGO KING P.I.

The Case Of The Missing Mrs.

It was 8 a.m. at Dottie’s Downtown Diner and the counter and booths were filling up fast. Mitch Miccosukee slid into a booth set back from the bustle and waited for his client, Horace Lutz.

Within seconds Dee Dee popped into view, an old-school waitress who never wrote anything down and always got everything right.

“Morning, Mitch. Whacha having?”

“Morning, Dee Dee. Give me two eggs over easy, sausage links, hash browns, whole wheat toast and black coffee.”

“You got it,” Dee Dee chirped, already kitchen bound and moving fast.

Mitch looked toward the front door just as Horace Lutz lumbered in. A meaty man with a bowlegged gait and downcast gaze, he was a familiar sight around town shopping or dining with his wife Olga. They’d been married for 42 years, becoming one of those couples that achieve a kind of brand identity – Horace & Olga, Olga & Horace. No one ever thought of one without the other. That is until a couple days ago when Olga went missing.

Mitch motioned to the empty seat across from him. “Morning Horace, how you holding up?”

“Surviving,” Horace grumbled. “Worried sick about, Olga.”

“Of course you are,” Mitch said consolingly. “You have my word that I’ll do everything in my power to help you find her.”

“I appreciate that,” Horace mumbled. “The police were no help.”

Just then Dee Dee popped up tableside with Mitch’s breakfast. “Can I get you something, Horace.”

“Just coffee, black.”

“Coming right up.”

Mitch picked up his fork and took a tentative poke at his hash browns while eyeing Horace intently.

“Tell me about the day Olga went missing. It was Wednesday, right?”

“Right. We were out for our morning walk,” Horace recollected. “Well, I waddled, she walked.”

Mitch smiled at the mental image.

“After a mile or so, she was still feeling pretty peppy and I was pooped.  I told her ‘happy trails’ and headed back to the house to wait for her return. I’m still waiting.” 

“Is there a way she would have gone out of habit – a specific street, direction, route?”

“We stuck to certain streets within the neighborhood, ones with less traffic, better scenery, friendlier dogs,” Horace indicated.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in the area that day?”

Horace looked up at the ceiling for a moment, running through the streets in his mind.

“Nothing that stands out,” he concluded.

Mitch jotted some notes down as Horace talked.

“What about Olga? Did she seem like she had something on her mind that day … something distracting her?”

Horace put his coffee cup down and slowly sat back.  “The truth is, Olga had something on her mind at all times. She was always thinking, daydreaming, brain-storming. I can’t count how many times I’d have to yell for her to stop right as she was going to step in front of a bike or runner or something.”

“Well, the good news is, if she was in an accident, we’d know it by now,” Mitch assured.

“So what do we do now?” Horace asked glumly.

“You are going home to get some rest,” Mitch asserted. “I’m going to get to work.”

With his worried client’s words fresh in his head, Mitch Miccosukee drove over to Evergrass Groves to search for clues on the missing Mrs. Lutz. A working class burb in the central Florida town of Mosquito Lake, Evergrass is an unassuming cluster of modest homes with an abundance of kids and pets and an absence of crime and commotion.

Mitch traced the route Horace and Olga had covered together on the day of her disappearance, then canvassed a web of streets within a three-mile radius beyond where they parted ways. Other than a cordoned off area protecting a sinkhole and some construction at a home being remodeled, everything appeared neat, tidy and empty of explanations.

“Where you hiding, Olga?” Mitch muttered as he surveyed the world outside his windshield. “Are you off somewhere daydreaming while your husband waits and wallows?”

Needing to clear his head and regroup, Mitch decided to swing by his house to pick some mangoes off the freakishly large tree in his backyard. He often bragged to friends that during the peak of the season the tree was capable of feeding every squirrel, bird, iguana and human in the known mango-eating civilized world.

His favorite part of mango season was using “the picker” to pluck high hanging fruit from the upper branches of the tree. The picker is an eight foot long pole with a molded plastic basket on the end that allows normal sized people to pull down mangos like a fruit-loving giant from a children’s fairy tale.

The thrill of luring mangos down from their lofty perches was a real adrenaline rush for Mitch, and when he spotted a rare beauty about 20 feet up the tree he moved in for the conquest. Just as he maneuvered the picker into position, a squirrel with impeccable timing boldly leaped from a nearby branch and clasped onto the prize fruit deflecting his picker with its long bushy tail and strong hind legs. Momentarily stunned, Mitch regained his balance using the picker to joust and jab at the mango-crazed rodent.

“Stick to gathering nuts and seeds, you mangy tree rat,” he taunted. “How would you like to spend the rest of your life in a small cage spinning around on one of those little wheels?”

After a frenzied battle that dislodged a couple dozen mangoes and coated Mitch and the picker in sap and fur, the insurgent squirrel begrudgingly gave up and took flight. As he disappeared over the fence, Mitch raised the coveted fruit to his mouth, chomp off a hearty bite and bellowed triumphantly, “Who dares challenge the Mango King!?”

Glancing at the picker in his juice-drenched hand, Mitch had a connect-the-dots moment that made him view an earlier sighting with fresh eyes. It was time to pick up Horace and circle back to Evergrass Groves in search of a prize more rewarding than backyard mango.

The light of day was in twilights’ last gleaming mode when Mitch and Horace pulled up to the barricades encircling the sinkhole.  With its moist tropical climate, Florida was particularly susceptible to these collapses in the earth’s surface layer. Their scope can range from a pot-hole-size depression to a crater that eats a three-story building like it was a burrito.

Mitch grabbed the picker out of his SUV and skirted around the barricades to find a sturdy spot. With Horace holding his feet, he slithered down on his stomach thrusting the pole out in front of him and down into the hole.

“Olga! Olga Lutz!” he shouted. “Are you down there? My name’s Mitch. Your husband Horace hired me to look for you.”

Silence hung heavy in the air as the sinking feeling of a misguided hunch began to wash over Mitch.

“I’m here to help,” he added, as if assuring a hesitant homeowner that he wasn’t trying to sell something. “Your husband is here with me and he’s a nervous wreck.”

“We’ve come to take you home, darling,” Horace croaked hopefully. “We ain’t leaving without you.”

The unbroken silence brought Mitch to the brink of despair. But then, just when all appeared lost, he felt … something.

Looking down at the picker he saw a tug, like the moment a fish is caught on the line. He tightened his grip and pulled up on the pole as if to reel in a snapper or grouper. Or a 79 year old woman named Olga.

“I’m here!” Olga cried out. “Thank you, thank you.”

Horace let out a jubilant roar. “Yessss! Thank God!”

“Here, give me your hand,” Mitch instructed.

Olga clutched the picker with one hand and reached out to Mitch with the other as he hoisted her up and over the sinkhole’s edge and into Horace’s waiting arms.

“Are you alright?” Mitch gasped, massaging his throbbing arms.

“I think so,” Olga speculated. “How long was I down there?”

“Two days, 14 hours, 26 minutes,” Horace pinpointed. “What the heck happened, honey?”

“I was walking along and felt a rumble like a big truck was coming by. Only I didn’t see any truck and then I felt the ground crumble and cave in. I just tucked and rolled with it until I hit bottom.”

Mitch listened in amazement. “Did you call out for help?”

“I was afraid if I yelled I might trigger another landslide. So I just laid low and daydreamed about what I would do when I got out.”

 “You are one cool cookie,” Horace observed glowingly. “And you must be starved.”

“Well, now that you mention it, is it my imagination or do I smell mango?”

“That’s just my fruit picking pole,” Mitch said sheepishly.

“Let’s get you some real food,” Horace chuckled. “Care to join us at Dottie’s Diner Mitch?”

“Thanks for the offer, but you two have some catching up to do,” Mitch begged off. “Besides, I’ve got some mangoes to pick, and if I don’t do it the squirrels and iguanas will. Rain check?”

“Rain check,” Horace and Olga echoed in unison.

As Mitch pulled in his driveway that evening, something in his field of vision looked out of whack. Feeling a vague uneasiness, he slung his picker over his shoulder and walked around the side of the house to the backyard.

There, where the mango tree had been, was an enormous sinkhole. He threw the picker in and drove to Dottie’s.

###

 

DEAR ALAN ...

COMMONSENSE ADVICE FOR 
THE CURIOUS AND CONFUSED

Dear Alan: My husband and I are having a baby girl and are thinking of naming her Odette after my beloved grandfather Otis. Good choice?

Dear Naming Novice: The results are mixed when you try and turn a male name into a female name. Just ask Edwina, Henrietta, and Alberta. (Be careful approaching Henrietta though. She's very sensitive and may even insist you've made a mistake and that her name's Gabrielle, you bonehead.)

Dear Alan:  I’m concerned that I’m watching too much television. How much time on average do people spend in front of the TV?

Dear Couch Carcass:  FACT: Americans on average watch close to four hours of TV a day. FACT: Those who skimp on personal hygiene and sleep are able to watch six hours of TV a day. FACT: Overuse of the word "fact" as an attention-getter causes readers to glaze over and wonder what's on TV.

 

Dear Alan: Is it true that drinking coffee can boost my productivity?

Dear Buzzy: A well-timed cup of coffee has been proven to spike cognitive function and elevate productivity for an hour or more. This explains the morning I ran 5 miles, detailed my car, built a guest cottage in my backyard and helped police solve a string of robberies, all before 9 a.m.

 

Dear Alan: How can we make the travel experience safer for airline passengers?

Dear Soaring Eagle: Currently, before a plane takes off, flight attendants instruct all passengers in the use of emergency equipment and check to see that seatbelts are fastened and seats are in the upright positions. 

Let’s also have them make the following announcement: “Before we take off, we ask that all passengers please check fellow passengers in your immediate area for any screwballs, weirdoes, wackos, misfits, haunted drifters or fidgety religious fanatics.”

 

Dear Alan:  Whenever I’m posing for a group photo, I get a sickening feeling that I’m going to ruin it. Any tips?

Dear Shutter Bugged:  When someone’s taking a picture and you’re on the far end of a group shot, ignore the fear that you’ll be cut out of the photo and refrain from doing an exaggerated lean-in. If you get partially cut out, the photographer will be the one at fault. If you lean in too far and ruin the photo, you’ll forever be the bozo who blocked out Aunt Adeline on her 100^th birthday. So relax, smile, and don’t block out Aunt Adeline.

Dear Alan: I get annoyed when I hold open a door for someone and they don’t say “thanks.” I’m a gentleman by nature, but what can I do to let them know that’s not cool?

Dear Door Dissed: A gentleman will always hold the door open for someone coming along behind him. If that person passes through without saying thanks, the gentleman may throw a cross body block on the individual, pin him or her to the ground, and dangle spit in their face until they acknowledge the gesture.

 

Dear Alan:  I've been told that when we sneeze it's to clear allergens or irritants from our nasal passages. So why is it that I sometimes sneeze when I walk outside into bright sunlight?

Dear Nostril-domus: What you perceive as a sneeze is actually a solar powered propulsion of tiny aliens who've been conserving energy in your nostrils and are now beginning their flight back to the planet Sinus. So next time you look at the sun and sneeze, yell "Goodbye golden nuggets," and wave vigorously until it's time for you to go back inside and lie down.

 

Dear Alan: When I lift weights at the gym, I have a habit of grunting like a hippopotamus in heat. What’s the proper vocal release during an intense session?

Dear King Thong: In the midst of even the most strenuous workout, a considerate gym member does not grunt more loudly than necessary. As an alternative, he may yell out "Yo Yo Ma!" but only if remaining silent would risk injury to himself or others.

Dear Alan: I love to grill, but I’m tired of the same old steaks and fish. Any advice to shake things up?

Dear Smokey: Shish kabobs are a great way to add variety to your BBQ menu. Just throw some shrimp, pineapple, chicken and a few miscellaneous items from a junk drawer on a skewer and watch your guests swoon!

Dear Alan: What’s your take on life and love?

Dear Starving Wisdom Seeker:  Life is a mystery, love is a riddle, hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle. (Sorry about that, but once you use the word "riddle" in a poem you've pretty much unlocked the door to diddle.)

###

Mellowing Out With Karen, Gordon and Lionel

I was driving around town listening to the radio the other day and I heard Kenny Rodgers sing “She Believes In Me” followed by John Denver singing “Sunshine On My Shoulders” followed by the Captain and Tennille singing “Love Will Keep Us Together.” 

Looking for a logical explanation for this odd string of oldies, I came to two possible conclusions:

1)    I had hit a pothole that somehow triggered a time-travel episode landing me back in the 1970s.

2)    A new easy listening station had invaded the airwaves.

Since a quick reality check confirmed I wasn’t wearing bell bottoms or flipping the hair out of my eyes every 10 seconds, I latched onto the new radio station theory. Of course, I use the word “new” loosely when referring to a station where Olivia Newton John and the Bee Gees are topping the charts and Lionel Richie is still dancing on the ceiling.

Frankly, I have a dysfunctional come closer/go away relationship with easy listening radio. On the positive side, there’s that irresistible thrill one gets when an all-time favorite song pops up, like unexpectedly running into an old friend. That’s how I feel when I hear “Operator” by Jim Croce or “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt or “Handyman” by James Taylor.

On the negative side, easy listening can quickly turn into queasy listening when sappy slush begins to crowd out the joys of timeless musical gems. That’s how I feel when I hear “Can’t Smile Without You” by Barry Manilow or “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valli or “Sometimes When We Touch (The Reality’s Too Much)” by Dan Hill. Copy that, Dan.

The worst moments come when, in spite of your self-image as an enlightened connoisseur of music as a dynamic expression of the human experience, you find yourself singing along to some gooey slab of schmaltz like the Carpenter’s “They Long To Be Close To You.” 

Before you chalk it up to a harmless moment of weakness, let’s recite a snippet of the actual lyrics, shall we?

Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you.  

Still skeptical? Here’s more . . .

Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?

Just like me they long to be close to you.

 Call it a “guilty pleasure” if you like, but the ability and willingness to sing along with this or any other Carpenter’s song is a sign that your connection to any form of cutting-edge, contemporary music is hanging by a thread. What’s next, swooning to the silky smooth croonings of Canadian songbird Anne Murray? Dancing to the slick pop stylings of Tony Orlando & Dawn? Partying to the power ballads of Minnie Riperton?

As I teeter between this time-warped world of seductive simplicity and today’s plugged-in power surge of life-in-progress complexity, I see the slippery musical slope before me. 

One minute you’re privately cranking up the car radio to hear an endearing piece of 40-year-old fluff like Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited,” the next you’re telling some mystified 20 year old about Peaches and Herb, or the Fifth Dimension, or Air Supply. What’s that, punk? You never heard of Air Supply? Now don’t make me sing one of their songs to jog your memory. Oops, too late.

I’m lying alone, with my head on the phone,

thinking of you till it hurts.

I know you hurt too, but what else can we do?

Tormented and torn apart.

Not ringing any bells? Here’s the chorus . . .

I’m all out of love, what am I without you?

I can’t be too late to say I was so wrong.

 

Look, some like the breathless zeal and simpleminded worship of easy listening songs and some don’t. Judging from my tendency to turn the radio up at the first sign of any Gordon Lightfoot song, I probably have a higher tolerance for it then a lot of people. But I still worry about the addictive perils of prolonged ballad abuse.

There’s a line that must not be crossed and pretending that line isn’t there is dangerous. For some the line is drawn at Karen Carpenter. For others, Neil Diamond. For others still, it’s any duet involving Tony Bennett, even if he’s paired with Elvis Costello or Bono. For me, I’ll know I’ve reached the point of no return when I hear the DJ say:

“Stay tuned for more soft and mellow favorites to ease you through your cheesy, breezy life.”

 

Adventures In Motion Detection

Some things you outgrow as you get older – like acne, idolizing athletes, and giggling when someone mentions the planet Uranus. (Okay, I still snicker when Uranus comes up, but faintly and only for a moment.)

One thing that I had hoped to grow out of but have now accepted as a lifelong affliction is motion sickness. I’m told that as a small child I once begged my parents to leave me by the side of the road after one of my frequent back seat barf fests left me drained and pessimistic about the future. 

I suppose I’ll never know how close mom and dad came to honoring my proposal, but I have had a disturbing dream through the years of being raised by wolves after getting lost in the woods near the interstate.

In my adolescent days roaming the amusement-filled boardwalks of the Jersey shore, I endured an endless succession of stomach-churning incidents. This merriment-marring pattern was fueled by my inability to remember that, for me, climbing aboard anything livelier than a sedated dairy cow was a wrong turn down Queasy Street.

While other kids my age sought high-velocity thrills on the rollercoaster or tilt-a-whirl, I occupied myself with more levelheaded pursuits such as trying to amass the 30,000 tickets necessary to win a plastic harmonica by playing arcade games.

Inevitably I would get complacent and allow myself to get coaxed onto one of the tamer rides like the merry-go-round or Ferris wheel . Even in those situations it wouldn’t be long before I’d be making desperate eye contact with the ride operator who -- to add to my misery -- would usually be in the process of shoveling a greasy sausage and onion sandwich down his mustache-framed pie-hole.

Just as I’ve gotten to be a good judge of which amusement park rides have chunk-blowing potential, I also proceed with savvy caution in circumstances where rapid or rhythmic motion holds sway. These situations include, but are not limited to:

• Any commercial or private air travel where the aircraft is required to actually leave the ground at some point.
• Cruises, pleasure boating, charter fishing excursions or any other offshore activity where water tends to relentlessly move up and down until you taste the feta cheese and spinach omelet you had four days ago.
• Movies, especially of the super-sized IMAX variety, where sophisticated cameras strapped to skiers, skydivers and other adrenalin-addicted movers and shakers become your eyes, ears and stomach pump.
• Dances, such as polkas, where prolonged and vigorous spinning make you break free of the Earth’s gravitational pull and carom violently off of walls and other stationary objects before coming to rest in a lightheaded la-la land where accordion players with suspenders and beer breath rule.
• Revolving rooftop restaurants where you leave your table to go to the rest room and when you come back out the spot where you table was is now occupied by a family of five from Yokohama who mistake you for the waiter and ask what kind of beef you use in the sukiyaki.

Suffice it to say that motion sickness has its hardships. But the world keeps on turning, and as long as it doesn’t turn any faster then its present pace, I’ve learned to enjoy a relatively puke-free journey through life. I just thought it was time to shed light on this awkward affliction that millions suffer from in silence.

Thank you for letting me spill my guts. And sorry about your carpet.

OCTOBER ROAD: My Father's Journey Home

"Fathers don't need much," my dad would sometimes say. "A visit or phone call is more than enough to make my day."

That, of course, didn’t stop me from numerous wild goose chases through the years trying to wow him. More often than not I whiffed on the mission, drawing dad’s standard “very nice” response to the unwrapping of another John Wayne video or coffee table book on horses.

When he passed away this year a month shy of his October 10th birthday, his “fathers don’t need much” message came back to me, but with a whispered final request: “Bring me home if you can.”

Though a resident of Florida for the last 30 years, home for my dad is a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s there that the mountaintop ranch house my dad dubbed “The Ponderosa” sits, still a family focal point with my brother Bob and sister-in-law Jill holding down the fort.

While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, my dad left his heart, soul and long underwear in West Milford. Before age and alarmingly bad knees caught up with him, he would go back for hunting season in the fall. Some years, before autumn’s festive charms gave way to winter’s tortures, I would join him for some October hiking.

How could I go wrong? October is a time in northern New Jersey known for mild, sun-splashed days and cool, crisp nights. A time where nature’s Crayola box of primary colors erupts into joyful celebration, causing grown men to stop on the side of the road and tear up in worshipful wonder.

Except that some years, winter decides to hold a sneak preview. I flashed back to one of those times, recalling how dad and I exchanged diverging views during a hike. 

“I hear it’s supposed to get down in the 30s tonight,” I mentioned as we made our way into the woods and onto the white dot trail.

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” dad asserted, a contradictory droplet of snot dangling from his nose. “Only a la-la would be cold in this kind of weather,” he teased.

We followed the trail deeper into the woods, occasionally using our hand-carved walking sticks like a third leg to maintain balance over wet leaves and loose stones.

“I like having the walking stick in case we run into any black bear,” dad said casually. This made me shiver for other reasons.

“Have you seen any black bear out here?”

“Not this trip. But they’re out here. The mounds of bear scat are everywhere.”

“I always heard that you’re supposed to lie down and play dead if you cross paths with a bear,” I ventured, seeking confirmation.

“That’s for grizzlies,” dad clarified. “Black bear will just bend down and start digging into their happy meal. Of course, if you hit them in the face just right with your walking stick, you might be able to daze them long enough to get away.”

“What if you miss?”

“Then your best shot is to poke yourself in the face with the walking stick and hope the bear thinks you’re crazy.”

The highlight of many hikes was angling up the mountain across from the house and stepping out on the open rocks for a breathtaking view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was dad’s favorite spot … and the only place worthy of spreading his ashes.

Joined by my brothers Bob and Jim, my nephew Robert and my Uncle Allan, we climbed the steep, boulder-strewn trail to reach the scenic lookout and say our goodbyes on sacred ground.

As I thought about my father on this picture-perfect October day, there was a sweetness in everything visible: the woods, the water, the sky. And reflecting on him and how he lived, I couldn’t help but see all these things through his eyes. I sensed that his had been a search for peace all along. His search had sent him down some dead ends and detours, but in nature he found comfort, beauty and an inspiration he could embrace without reservation.

Groping for words as I slipped from the group to a private spot on the rocks, I invited my now departed dad to “reach out to me in any way he could” in the years to come.

“Sons don’t need much,” I pointed out. “A feeling, a presence – a cameo appearance in a dream.”

As we made our trek back down the mountain, it struck me that my father’s final journey wasn’t a once-and-for-all goodbye. The loved ones we lose always stay a part of us. And the love lives on.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” I heard a whisper in the breeze.

“Only a la-la would have kept you away,” I whispered back.

My Cowboy Dad

On the surface, my father was a family man, a working class guy, a foreman at a chemical plant.  But that wasn’t what made him tick. Above all, he was an outdoorsman. A hunter, a horseman, a hiker – more cowboy than community member.

When I was six, he moved the family to a rural part of New Jersey, to a house on a mountain, on a dirt road, surrounded by woods. He called the house the Ponderosa and that said a lot about who he was.

He converted a dilapidated shed in the backyard into a barn and kept horses throughout my boyhood. He and my mom rode them on the trails near the house. For a while dad would enter small town harness races with a two-wheel carriage called a “sulky.” He won some ribbons with a horse flamboyantly named “Fashion’s Golden Flash.” And no, I didn’t name him.

When he wasn’t indulging his inner cowboy, dad let his inner farmer come out and play. He had a big chicken coup and a garden in the summer where he grew tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchini. My God, the zucchini. Bowling pin size. Baseball bat size.  Guinness Book size.

When I was in my early 30s, my parents retired and moved to Florida. For an outdoorsman like dad, living in suburban Port St. Lucie was like a captured white Bengal tiger trying to blend in at the bingo hall. He never completely adjusted to living in Florida, but he and my mom spent many good years there, with trips back to New Jersey and visits from friends and family. I personally was a fan of the Florida move because it meant I got to see them more and create new memories through the years.

Speaking of memories …

I will remember the great hikes we took when he would go back to New Jersey for hunting season and I would join him. The highlight was always navigating our way up a mountain near the old house and emerging out on the open rocks for an amazing view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was his favorite spot … mine, too.

I will remember how we would watch old movies – usually westerns – and test each other’s knowledge of actor’s names and what else they were in. Remembering that James Garner started in westerns and wound up playing a private detective in The Rockford Files earned you a special kind of respect with my dad.   

I will remember going on father-and-son walks and smoking cigars with him when he and mom would visit my wife Sherry and I. It’s the only time I smoked cigars. I’m sure dad could tell by the fact I couldn’t seem to keep them lit.

I will remember that he lived in Florida for over 30 years and never once wore a pair of shorts. Now that’s a cowboy.

I will remember how uncharacteristically silly he would get when we played dominoes, making funny voices, whistling, singing – it was not the Big Al most people got to see. I loved that side of him.

I will remember his genuine love for me, my brothers and my mother, a love that he got better at expressing in his later years. He said it a lot.  It meant a lot.

My dad passed away on September 2, 2020 from a blood clot following surgery for a brain bleed. He was a month shy of his 88^th birthday and his departure has left an unfillable hole in my life. He will be with me every day in my thoughts, my memories, and the very essence of who I am.

I picture him now young and pain free, riding high in the saddle of a spirited appaloosa on a clear mountain morning. He pulls in on the reins and the horse clomps to a halt as he turns to say one last thing to me.

Dad: “Love you, buddy. Love you lots.”

Me: “I love you too, dad. See you back at the ranch.”