beloved – The Tao of Bill

Winter Nostalgia: Childhood Memories and Change

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Snow drifts as far as the eye can see. Entire windblown fields are smooth, perfectly white and devoid of any tracks, human or otherwise. The wind beats the side of my apartment building and the smell of wood stoves fills the air. The rumble of plows interrupts the serenity. Soon, the landscape, as fresh as off the pages of a Robert Frost poem, will change. It will be tarnished brown by the taint of people again. We’re getting a “real” winter in New England. By “real”, I mean this is how every winter used to be when I was a kid.

For whatever reason, Winters aren’t what they used to be. Yes, I know this sounds like the musings of an old man, one who starts with, “Back in my day”. But I’m only 60, and there is no question that winters are not what they were. With rare exception, Winters for the last 20 or so years in New England have been hit or miss. Snowfall levels, despite some large storms each year, have consistently fallen. Despite some periods of extreme cold, average temperatures have risen consistently. Here in NH, snow amounts vary. They increase the farther North you go. However, even the Granite State doesn’t get what it used to. Massachusetts can go entire winters without any significant snowfall.

I hate snow now. I’m old, and I get cold easily. Shoveling kills my back. I hate driving in it. It just makes me want to go to Florida with the snowbirds. The years have changed my love of winter. As a kid, I loved it.

The first thing I think of when I think of snow as a kid was the Snow Day. They were a treat. In the late 60’s and early 70’s, canceling school was not what it is today. Today, the mere threat of a storm will close schools. Then, the school system did everything they could not to. Snow coming? Maybe we’ll let them out early. Snowed overnight? Better put the chains on the tires and wear your boots. My school was on a hill. If the Bus feasibly climbed that hill, then school was on.
One of the most nerve-wracking experiences then was waking up to snow. We waited patiently for the local TV channel or the radio station to call off school. Even when surrounding towns closed, often my town didn’t. Sometimes I would get up and wait with my Mother for the announcement. Other times, I would listen to the radio with fingers crossed. More often than not, I would end up going to school in the snow. Trudging up the hill to school was a nightmare. I would fall constantly in the really bad stuff. The insult was added to injury. The kids on the bus mocked me as the bus struggled up the steep hill to school.
I was bullied, did I mention that?

The days when school was called? That was the best feeling ever. I would go back to bed for a while. Alternatively, I would get up and watch some daytime TV on one of the 5 available channels. Then, I would load up on sugary cereal. If the snow had stopped already, I would shovel our driveway. Our driveway was very wide and long. Looking back, it was a hell of a big job. My young body could take it, but I would be sore after. But I had no time for pain. There was money to be made.

I had several neighbors that were loyal to me. One thing you don’t see after a snow storm today is kids with shovels over their shoulders. They used to knock on doors. When I was a kid, I had competition for my driveways. So, I had to be prompt. I also had to demand loyalty from my customers. These were the same people whose lawns I mowed in the summer and whose leaves I raked in the fall. I took good care of my neighbors. I was actually quite enterprising in those days. I would revel in making $ 6, maybe $ 10, a driveway!
The shoveling would sometimes take all day. But if I was done early, there was sledding and tobogganing to do. My hometown had several great hills within walking distance. My friends and I would try to hit them all. Looking back, what I wouldn’t do for the energy that I once had! Going downhill at breakneck speed is thrilling. Walking back up that hill several times took quite a toll on us. Despite being tired, we kept going. Fitness was stressed back then, we didn’t sit in front of screens all day. We were outside doing things. We only stopped for candy cigarettes, PB&Js, and hot chocolate in the winter. In the summer, we drank water from the hose.
Many kids today won’t understand being outside all of the time. Our parents knew that by being outside, we would not only be active, but bonds were created. Good habits were formed. An appreciation of Nature was obtained. As a child, I fondly remember the ethereal silence of the woods after a fresh snowfall. It was only interrupted by a falling branch or the movement of wildlife. I remember those rare moments when I felt warm despite the harsh cold. I felt incredibly at peace with the space around me. The sweat under my jacket was warm and comforting. The world was at peace. The blanket of snow had somehow muted the ugliness of the world. It was just for a moment.

I sometimes experience that same peace when I shovel. I find myself looking around. I am keenly aware of how uncomfortable the weather has made my old body. Yet, I marvel at the tranquility of a major snowfall and find peace in it. I wish that I loved winter as I used to. My youthful enthusiasm has been replaced by cynicism. I forget about the beauty and dread the cleanup. I fret over upcoming heating bills instead of appreciating one of New England’s most beautiful seasons.

I think of going to Florida, where it’s everything I hate: hot, flat, and full of bugs. I don’t think I can ever leave New England, the land of the true 4 seasons. Instead of running from winter, maybe it’s time to embrace it. I’m confronting everything else in my life right now, maybe I can challenge my hatred of winter. After all, isn’t the dark of winter metaphorical to the approach of death? By challenging the cold, and in particular my disdain for it, maybe I’m challenging my aging mindset.

Cynicism and Faith: A Journey of Belief

I was recently asked if I believed in Miracles. 20 years ago, I would have answered this question with a flat, fast NO. Now, after several incidents that defy logical explanation, it’s a firm and steadfast maybe.

A miracle is a powerful thing that defies the physical world and all of the laws of probability. There’s a reason that it requires a panel of very stodgy and high-ranking Catholics to classify anything as a miracle. In that light nothing I’ve witnessed in my life fits the mold.

Perhaps it’s the religious implication of the word. Miracles are largely attributed to a Divine entity. I believe in a higher power, but in the most undefined of ways. I struggle with the notion of an interactive deity. Instead, I chalk belief in such things as miracles up to the human need to explain the unexplainable.

I’m a cynic. I question everything.

I was always uncomfortable owning that. Being a cynic is often mistaken for being challenging or disagreeable. It may be aligned with my trust issues. My favorite saying is, “Trust but verify.” My distrust of people is surely related to my need for proof in matters of belief. Despite having Faith, Hope, and Charity on my right forearm, faith is very elusive to me. The tattoo merely represents hope. With Faith being the struggle that it is, Deity is a constant challenge. Consequently, miracles don’t exist in my world.

Did I mention that I am a fair cynic? I admit to being a quasi-believer at best. I also don’t presume that everything needs an answer. I’ve already admitted my belief. I think that religion is man’s way of explaining what his mind cannot grasp. Prayer plays a particular role in this. I’m not of the same school. I am okay with not knowing the answers to the great mysteries in life. I will continue to question the very meaning of life until my last breath. I will be okay if I never truly understand. I am insignificant, a grain of sand on an eternal beach. I am perfectly content with the possibility that I am not expected to know. Maybe I am supposed to trust the process, as everyone is so fond of saying these days.

As an aside, I constantly question the larger questions in life. I do this not to dismiss the notion of a God, but to come to peace with it. I want, more than anything, to believe. I’m just not there. In the spirit of an inquisitive being, I seek to be wrong. Almost everyone else will retreat to be right in their own minds.

If anyone should believe in miracles, it is me. I have come out on the other side of tragedy and death more than a few times. I have been in a coma, had sepsis, severe accidents, and chronic disease. More than once, I entered a hospital that most thought I wouldn’t leave without a toe tag. I’m still here. Maybe it’s a miracle. But I don’t think I’m important enough, in the grand scheme of things, to warrant one. My life is good and well-intentioned. But the ripples of my actions don’t cross even a duck pond. Instead, I look at my continued presence as the result of good Karma. Everything is energy, after all, and I know I put out good energy into the world. My reward was getting to stick around a little longer.

Living Life Beyond Complaints: A Stoic Perspective

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Roman Emperor and Stoic, wrote the above quote over 1800 years ago. Who knew that “Suck it up, buttercup” was a thing so long ago? Are we to surmise that the great Toga-clad Roman society was no more free from complainers than we are today? I suppose this oversimplification fails to do the quote justice. It’s not about complaining, it’s about strength. Marcus Aurelius, as a Stoic Philosopher, believed that the quality of life is determined by how well you face adversity. In short, not everything requires action or a response.

Still, it is refreshing that, as early as 180 A,D complaining was a thing. It tells me it’s not a lovely side effect of a population growing less resilient.

I’m particularly familiar with this quote because I live it. To be clear, I am not special, nor do I want a cookie for having a challenging life. I don’t know anyone whose life isn’t. We all have problems, and it’s not a contest. One may view another’s issues as insignificant compared to one’s own. Still, that does not change the fact that everyone’s problems matter a lot to them. People need to understand this. Some choose to talk about it. Others keep it to themselves, comfortable in the age-old notion that nobody really cares. Or out of not wanting to burden others. And then others, well, they complain.
Not me.

As a person who has consistently dealt with setback after setback, I don’t talk much about my challenges. I was reluctantly “the sick guy” for a long time. Whenever I encountered anyone I knew, there was an inevitable, “How are you feeling?” coming. Please don’t take this as unappreciative. Good words are not guaranteed from everyone. Take them when you can. I simply struggled with the fact that my illness was the most definable aspect of my persona.
The most positive trait I can offer is that I am not a complainer.
I would rather be known as the opposite of a complainer.
Content. Stoic. Strong. Positive. Optimistic.

Have you ever heard someone refer to another as a survivor? “Oh, he/she’s been through so much. What a survivor. I can’t stand that. We are one of 2 things. We are alive, or we are not. Being present enough to be called a survivor means that you are alive. Logic thereby dictates that you have survived. My attitude is that while above the dirt, go out and live while you can.
Life is to be endured.

The mistake we make is to expect life to be fair or happy. The Declaration of Independence offers us the right to pursue happiness, but there is no guarantee of it. Yet many think that happiness itself is guaranteed, and any other outcome is thereby a disappointment. My attitude is that life is a series of obstacles, challenges, disappointments, and pivotal moments. Mixed in with everything entailed in surviving, we have moments of happiness. Brief periods of joy. Those are to be looked forward to because they justify the struggle. Strong people find something to be happy about. Others complain. They fail to recognize that the very breath they use to complain is something for which they should be grateful.

The choice is simple. Endure in silence, or find something in your particular situation to be grateful for. I’m facing another health challenge after only 4 years of relatively good health (my second longest streak). I’m sure that I could find many things to complain about. But I never will. Not only do people not care, but they also don’t like it. They appreciate someone who makes the best out of their situation.

I have a great life. To focus on what I can’t control is just the wrong way to live. Instead, concentrate on what I have in front of me and what lies ahead. Your stone will someday display a date of birth and a date of expiration. The dash, well, that’s everything in between. Live for that.

Self-Love in Dating

Maybe showing up for yourself was the love you were looking for all along
Anonymous

I saw this this morning, Valentine’s Day. Or as undatable people such as I call it, Saturday. It hit me hard, not due to any particular poignancy. It affected me because of the timing.

I have been abstaining from dating for many months. The disappointments that came one after the other led me to remove myself from the situation. At first, I licked my wounds. I then analyzed, overthought, and ruminated on how many ways in which I could blame myself. I mean, after so many disappointments, it had to be me, right? For the longest time, I believed that.
Then one day I stopped. It may have been partially me, but not all of it. It’s a combination of being out of practice, age-related urgency, and forgetting that I was never really good at relationships. Even before someone was willing to marry me, I had a pretty rough history. After 22 years of marriage, I was truly ill-equipped to be on the playing field. I had forgotten how to be tender. I had been conditioned to not feel or expect love or intimacy. I forgot the importance of looking and being the best for my partner. I no longer knew how to give love and support because the role of support network had fallen on another. The excitement of starting a new day with the love of my life had changed. It evolved into a routine. It turned into unspoken sentiments and a lost desire to make improvements. In the place of longing and a shared bond now sat quiet disappointment and bitter resentments. How does a man lift himself from that place? How does he find the courage to enter the Lion’s Den of dating? And how can he do it without being bound by the shackles of his failed marriage?

Looking at it from such a perspective, my lack of success in dating makes more sense. Bottom line, I needed to get myself straight before sharing my life with another.

After reaching that conclusion, it became easier for me to accept my single status. I have always believed that to have a full and complete life, one needs a companion. It logically followed that because I was now alone, I needed to be unhappy about it. I forced myself to take a hard look at that mindset. I learned that there are many single men my age, and they’re not all unhappy. They, like me, find dating in today’s world too difficult. Also, I have heard that many enjoy the freedom of not having to share their lives with someone. At this age, not having to answer to anyone and doing what they want is liberating. I have come around to that. I have a very full life. I have many friends and an active social life. I do what I want when I want. Not out of selfishness, but because I can.

During this self-imposed hiatus, I think I have made great progress in making myself whole again. The cannonball-sized hole in my abdomen left by my marriage is closing up little by little. By not dating, I have been able to reflect on past attempts at dating with a clear and analytical eye. I am more able to recognize my own culpability in things. I also see what was beyond my control. I have distinguished between what I want vs what I actually need. I am better at being alone without being lonely. I have evolved to a place of wanting a companion but not needing one. I no longer feel compelled to force the issue by looking for love on dating sites. Instead, I plan to stumble upon it naturally. Like anything else of value in my life, I will find it as I go about my life. Someone has watched over me, ensuring I get what I need for this long. I’m comfortable trusting the process a little longer.

In the meantime, I plan to continue to work on myself. It’s a constant process, and I’m headed in the right direction. I’m no good to anyone if I’m not good to myself.

A sobering reminder

I wrote this 6 years ago. I scan my previous writings for perspective on what my life is now compared to before. This was written in a very dark time in my life. At the height of my illness, I was lacking purpose. I truly struggled with the return on investment of continuing on. Everything felt hopeless. I remembered a conversation with my youngest. She told me that I was her favorite person in the world. That memory got me through it.
It really is amazing how much things can change. And how things can get better when you feel that all hope is lost.

I’m currently dealing with a tragic suicide within my circle. So many have been devastated by it. An entire extended family, as well as an enormous circle of friends, have had their lives forever altered. Instead of love and companionship, they now crave answers and understanding.
Talk to someone, folks. The poem below is real. That is how close I came. And why I didn’t do it.

When you were young

your favorite line

was “Dad, you don’t know”

well did you know?

there was a night

not long ago

I sat on the edge of my bed

or was it the universe?

one in the chamber

cursed glass of whiskey

liquid false courage

in the other hand

disgusted with yesterday

bored with today

uninterested in tomorrow

desperately seeking a reason

to carry on

I’d lost my joy

and the will to seek it

where once was strength

a cavernous

anguished

aching gash

Where was the zeal?

I’m missing the real

existing but not living

tears of pain roll

down my unshaven cheek

one, just one

fucking reason I seek

to not end it all

the safety off

just drunk enough

sick enough

to call Bullshit

on this timed-out
worn-out
overplayed phase
I call my life

then I think of you

my precious child

your first steps

the sun in your hair

your infinite

infectious smile

golden and pure soul

my heart yearns

stomach turns

my mind scolds me

at the thought of hurting you

if I was to shed

this mortal shell

in the throes of my selfish pain

I would crush you

my dear child

I had forgotten

in a selfless moment

your love

ceaseless adoration

and your words

that I am

your favorite

person in the world

I couldn’t pull it

the beckoning trigger

for I had vowed to myself

in a lighter hour

I would never

cause you

a life of pain

in the name

of ending mine

80K in 30 days

Suicide is a National tragedy. 80,000 suicides in 4 weeks. Why isn’t mental health a priority?

I’m very close to the subject of suicide. My Masonic Riding Association Chapter dedicates its charitable activities to Suicide prevention through fundraisers such as charity rides. The president of our Chapter lost his son to it.
I have lost many friends over the years to it. There have been so many funerals. More than I care to count. It’s always the same. Nearly all in attendance were thinking the same things. They asked, “How did we not see this coming?” and “What could have been done to prevent it?” You wish for that one last chance to remind someone that they matter, and what they are going through will pass. Instead, your only option is to stand over their mortal shell and say the things that you wished you had said when they were alive. Then the realization sets in, your words are unheard now, and mean nothing anymore. It’s just too late.

I have struggled with thoughts of suicide as well. Greatly. It started when I was on dialysis several years ago. I struggled through some very dark, sleepless nights in which my thoughts attacked me. Feelings of despair, worthlessness, frustration, and exhaustion washed over me, standing guard so as to not allow any conflicting voices of hopefulness intervene. I was convinced that life was not worth living. That I was of no use, in fact a burden to everyone. I didn’t feel needed, wanted, or useful. I was sick, broke, isolated from my support network, and generally feeling that there was no reason to keep fighting. It was such a confusing time for me. I managed to get through each day. But I always knew that I had another battle in store later that night. The one thing that kept me from actually doing it was knowing what it would do to the people who love me.
Eventually, those nightly battles ended. For a while, I believed that they were gone for good. I chalked them up to a phase. I was wrong. I have battled suicidal ideations many times since. Recently, I am sad to report.

Never again, after the events of last week.

A close family friend hung herself last week in a house full of people who loved her. 12 people to be exact. Not to mention the throngs of others who have just found out. She was a mother of 5, a Grandmother of 5, a devoted wife, and a friend to all. She listened with ease, cared without end, and loved everyone in her life. She was my ex-wife’s best friend in the entire world. Now my ex, as well as her enormous family and network of friends, are left holding a giant bag of unanswered questions.

My ex became friends with Lisa when our children were very young. That friendship evolved to include Lisa and her husband. It also included her sister and his husband, along with the third brother and his family. We would congregate as 8 adults and 14 children. Restaurants were fun. I say that sarcastically, but they actually were fun. The adults were as silly and fun-loving as the kids were. For years, we spent almost every occasion with them. Summer days were spent at the pool and lakes. Weekend nights were full of raucous laughter and the joyful sounds of children. I am hard-pressed to think of many nice family days that weren’t spent with their families. Until our divorce, when I wasn’t much a part of things. Unfortunately, the memory of Lisa is a bit tarnished for me. Her friendship with my ex became problematic for me late in our marriage. I felt that the friendship was too much, a bit excessive, and I pushed back some. But I need to be clear, I had no issue with Lisa, only with the situation itself. Even after stating that, I feel awful now. I don’t know if I ever told her that my problem wasn’t with her. I am only comforted by the fact that Lisa probably didn’t hold grudges against me. She just wasn’t like that. I could have learned a lot about forgiveness from her.

The funeral is Friday. It is going to be a very hard day for all involved. The family is one of the closest families I’ve ever known. They love hard and play hard, it logically follows that they grieve hard as well. I anticipate one touching, tearful eulogy after another, each more difficult to process than the last. I plan on providing a shoulder for my ex, if she’ll take it from me. I hope she will because it is the only thing that I have to offer. It won’t be enough, but it will at least be something that I can do for her. She is devastated; there is no other word. I feel just awful for her. She will carry this with her forever. Her mental health, while never great, will be forever affected. For that I am deeply sad.

Seeing the damage done to the living, I now believe that suicide is a terribly selfish act. No one should ever have to go through what Lisa’s family is going through right now. The good memories will prevail. However, the present moment is full of whys, what-ifs, if I had only knowns, and what are we going to do’s. For context, she became a grandmother again just last month. A child that will never know how awesome her Grammy really was.
I can never do that to my family. No amount of pain or despair is worth doing such a thing to them.

Mental health is a crisis of unchecked proportions. See, Lisa was unwell. Despite her ability to help others without limit, she was unable to help herself. Her family was unable to help. My ex, who loved Lisa as much as her family did, was unable to do anything to help.

How many families must endure this pain before we realize we have a problem? I am aware that I am doing a small something by engaging in charities dedicated to this. But the irony that I have thought about ending my life in the same family-crushing manner is not lost on me.

We need to have a national conversation. NOW. https://projectsemicolon.com/

Support the Semi-Colon.

Facing Heart Surgery: another challenge of my resilience

Well, I shared my news with some close friends as well as on here. I don’t know what my expectations were regarding reactions, but it’s out of the bag nonetheless. As my goal is always selflessness, I’m glad nobody is making a fuss. My family and friends are there for me and that’s all that matters. They’re processing it just fine. They are all offering their help and I’m doing what I always do: downplaying it. It’s not that I’m outright refusing help. I just don’t know what to do or say because I haven’t processed it yet.

I have vowed to be brutally honest in this space. I have gained a readership because I do not hold back. I put my vulnerabilities out there for consumption. That won’t end or change today. Here it is, at first I was scared. That’s natural, I think. I don’t embrace it, but I can accept it. I worry more about people seeing me scared than anything. It’s the reputation that follows me; I’m known for resilience. For taking every punch life has thrown at me and getting up each time. It’s all I have going for me.
But when I was told that I needed open-heart surgery, I was enduring a Cancer Scare. It occurred to me that I have met an opponent that I couldn’t overcome. All I could think about was the same 2 words, Four years.

4 years of uninterrupted good health. 4 years of getting back to living my life. 4 years of not being the “sick guy”. That’s the one that gets me, the “sick guy”. I was hoping that guy was gone forever. You know the sick guy. He’s the one who, whenever someone sees him, automatically gets the obligatory, “how are you feeling?” Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with people inquiring about my health. It’s kindness, awareness, sometimes sympathy but more often empathetic, all rolled into one. It exemplifies the best in people and I’m a staunch believer that people are good. But after a while, it stops being warm and fuzzy and begins to overshadow recovery. Since I was 42 years old, I have been the sick guy. I had a brief respite in 2011. During this time, I had my first transplant. I bounced back most spectacularly. I was back at work in 33 days. I was exercising, socially active, excelling at work, and truly enjoying my new life of saying YES. I almost got to the point where the “how are you feeling’s” stopped. Then the kidney failed and I was that guy again. 5 years later I got another shot. It was a great kidney. My body adapted to it so well. It was clear to all that it was not necessary to ask me how I felt. Anyone could see that I was doing great.
When the prostate issue arose, I was nervous but kept going. The news of the heart surgery, not so much. It’s a big surgery and a long recovery. It shook me a bit. After all, I can hope for but cannot have guarantees that I will be 100% after the surgery. And I’m sorry, but I’m trying to make up for much lost time. And I don’t want to break the run that I am on.
Despite not giving myself permission, I felt bad for myself for a few days. I feel compelled to go into detail, to fully convey the extent of my angst. It lasted days as I battled an increasingly common enemy, the urge to give up. I am/was/will continue to be very troubled that this enemy has established a foothold in my psyche. I can only attribute his presence to one simple fact, part of me just doesn’t want to do it anymore.
I am asked at every Physician appointment if A)I feel safe, and B)If I have suicidal ideations. I have been answering “YES” to part B. It leads to a conversation, of course. I am forced to explain that I don’t want to actively end my life. I just don’t care if something else does. As I said, it stems from just plain being done. My mind was allowing me to entertain a notion I have fought with every fiber in my body, giving up. The news that I received last week could have easily given more weight to the notion. In fact, it almost did.
Then I remembered who I was.

I’m the guy who has always smiled and given a thumbs-up for the camera when things were grim. I have a collection of photos taken in hospitals after my many surgeries. In every one of them, I am clearly thumbing my nose at what could have been. I am openly defying it. I’m the guy who reacts to recovery times like I do to GPS arrival times. I scoff and say, “I can beat that.” I’m the guy that says, “I’m good”, even when it is very clear that I am not.

Well, one week later, that guy is back. That pussy worried about surviving? Fuck that guy. I spoke to my dear friend Pedro recently. I told him that I am no longer scared. I am going to fight this as I have been, stubborn and confident. He calls me C Brown, named lovingly after my hero Charlie Brown. He knows and remembers when I don’t, that I got this. And I do. There really is only one choice here, to get through it. I’ve survived 100% of my worst days, my money is on me.

Now, where the hell is that football?

Dinner with My Dad: A Reflection on Life Lessons

I recently came across a writing prompt that interested me.
“If you could have dinner with anyone past or present, who would you choose?”

To pick just one person that I would want to have dinner with, alive or dead, is a challenge. Most people might choose a celebrity, a poet, a musician, or a politician. I can surmise that this is the point of the exercise for them. How would I begin to pick the one person whose contribution, ideas, heroic deed, etc. inspired me to select them over any other? Another question, would it be considered trite or a wasted opportunity to choose a family member, such as my Dad?

Well, I am picking my Dad.

Dinner with my Dad would be a very particular scenario. It would be a recreation of a lunch I once had with him when I was 23 years old. I can remember only one time as a young man when he and I ever went out as just guys. We had a beer. It was special in many ways. Obviously, spending time with my dad was special in its own right. But it was also one of the first times he stopped being in “dad mode.” He was just a regular guy. As an aside, I call this the dad hat. It’s my nickname for Dad’s tendency to act based on his perception of ‘Dad’ as a role. This happens rather than him acting as a person. I admired his dedication to it. Often, though, I wished he could have just been a friend when I needed it. That day, he was just that.

I remember that I was really struggling with some heavy shit that day. He was very helpful in listening intently. He only offered advice when asked. Of all of the conversations that day, I fondly remember him saying his famous line to me. He truly believed in that line. One that I never came around to until after he died. He said, “ Bill, believe it or not, everything will work out.”

Today, if I were to sit across from him at the same restaurant, I would struggle. I wouldn’t know what to tell him first. I mean, where do I even begin? He has been gone 12 years now, and I have spent so much time talking to his headstone. I would tell him that I miss him more than words can describe. I would tell him that the world makes less sense without him around. That men like him are a dying breed. I would apologize for so many things. I would save the best for last. I survived some mind-blowing shit. I would tell him that sitting across from him is a miracle in itself. I have come around to his trademark saying. Everything, in fact, will, does, and did work out. That in no way means that my life is what I wanted it to be. It means that I understand, and that it worked out a helluva lot better than it could have.

I realize that I have described a very one-sided conversation. It’s because I have so much to tell him. I want to honor him. I will tell him how much he was right about. I have come to value his simple yet poignant take on the complexities of life. I remember the quiet disappointment in his eyes as he dispensed valuable wisdom to deaf ears. It would mean everything to me to set the record straight. I want to see the satisfied, redeemed, look on his face. A humble man, who, like his dedicated son, only wants to know that he made a difference by sharing the wisdom accrued over a too-short, hard-scrabble life.

Finally, the check would come. He would try to pay, as expected. But I would insist. It would be one more payment towards the inequity of all that he gave me, which would be frittered away. He would insist on paying the tip. At that moment, I would remind him that he has also given enough tips in his time on earth. All of this is a feeble effort. I want to show him that his generosity of spirit and wisdom are not lost on me after all. He never knew just how much his sage advice has guided me through life. It has helped me face the most difficult challenges posthumously.

Finally, we will walk out to the parking lot and walk towards the setting sun. I extend my right arm and place it on his shoulder as we walk. I say, tears welling up despite my strict no-cry policy, “I love you Dad. Thank you for everything you didn’t know you gave me.”

Suddenly, my arm was resting in the air. The persistent force of gravity pulled my arm to my side again. It is a calm evening, still and warm. I realize that he is gone, back to where he came. Disappointed at the sudden conclusion of our visit, I walk to my car. A brisk breeze breaks the stillness, blowing my trademark scally cap off my head. I laugh, pick it up and smile broadly. He never liked scally caps. He was a ball cap guy.

Quiet victories

I am 1 year free of alcohol. I am somewhat impressed with myself that I took this long to mention it. Conversely, I am annoyed with myself that I feel the need to tell anyone. Confused? So am I, and I’m the one writing this.

For context, allow me to introduce one of the most poignant sayings ever stated regarding sharing.
“Keep it to yourself because at the end of the day nobody gives a shit.”

Those who care about what’s going on in my life can always check in here. My friends, they can ask me. But overall, I have found that staying under the radar is the way I want to go forward.

Perhaps it’s callous to say what I said above about nobody caring. It’s not entirely fair. People care, but they have their own lives to contend with. I firmly believe that everyone is going through something right now. Even the ones we think have it all together. There is only one certainty in life and that is life is hard for everyone. With regards to sharing, it’s not going to mean to them what it means to you.
Additionally, I am now a convert to the notion of disappearing. You see it everywhere on social media: “disappear for 30,60,90 days and reappear stronger.” It calls upon people to work on themselves, without the benefit or distraction of the advice of others. To not be visible during the trifling changes, but to seclude until you rise like a Phoenix, visibly and decidedly better and stronger.

I bought into that mindset a while back. I desperately wanted to immerse myself completely in the idea. I daydreamed of no contact, no worries, no obligations other than what is essential, and just working on myself. But my life doesn’t allow for it. I have commitments that I need to uphold as a man. I have a family and friends who will worry about me if I’m not heard from. When I decided to tackle my drinking problem a year ago, I decided to do it relatively quietly.

Normally, when I attempt self-improvement, I put it out there for reasons of accountability. It’s a bold, risky, and potentially problematic approach unless you are truly serious. But I only do so when I am truly serious. When I decided on January 1st,2025 to stop drinking, I avoided telling everyone. Not that I didn’t have plenty of confidence that I could do it. That’s how I am wired. I get to the point where I am completely done with something, and I summon the will to vanquish it. I didn’t need to tell people because I was doing it for myself, not for them. I could care less what they thought if I failed, my own disappointment would be enough to deal with. I told family and a few friends. I then disappeared as much as I was able. I wanted to rebuild. I wanted to accomplish something I have wanted for a very long time. To regain control of my life from those things that were controlling me. It’s a logical progression after all: conquer that which makes my mental health unstable, and then conquer the mental health.
One year later, I am leaps and bounds closer to conquering my demons. The cessation of alcohol has made a tremendous difference. It was a wonderful decision all around.

I would never say this in an AA meeting because I feel that it would minimize the struggle many are going through. But I really didn’t need the program. I went to a meeting a day for the first 30 days. After the first month, my attendance was sporadic. I had learned to value the celebration of the sober life, and that’s what meetings did for me. As for the steps, despite my background in Recovery Case Management, they just didn’t apply. I know the alcoholic min,d and I know the commonalities in alcoholics. I also know that I am not like them. I was never a “blackout” drinker. I suffered a few embarrassments, but didn’t destroy my life as others have. I didn’t have any resentments to work through. I only resented the power that alcohol was gaining over my life, so the control freak in me reasserted dominance.
It wasn’t that hard for me to stop drinking because I was done with all of it. Done with arguing with myself. Done with thinking about my next drink. Tired of the inevitable self-loathing that followed.
And it’s been the best decision I have made in some time. The blessings continue to manifest.

My health has improved dramatically. My blood work is stellar. All of the inconsistencies in my labs were alcohol related. I tipped the scale at 199 this morning, which I haven’t seen since I was sick. I am down 35 pounds. I have a spring in my step and can do things once lost on me, like touching my toes. Was I surprised that I could do that! Other major concerns, such as stomach and skin issues, simply disappeared. And dare I say it, I look much better. While I can’t say that it’s the only source of good things in my life, it was the catalyst. I showed myself that I was not too old or too far gone to improve myself. That’s what is at the center of everything that I do. Self-improvement.
In a quiet, non-public manner, I disappeared while in front of everyone and came back a better, stronger me.

So when January 1st 2026 arrived, I resisted the urge to go on social media. I did not tell people of my accomplishment. The one ones that I reached out to were a Brother who is 20 years sober and my youngest son. My Masonic Brother confirmed in a single text that he, as predicted, didn’t really give a shit. My son, well he gets me well enough to know what this accomplishment means to me and why. I was fine with that.

I overshare. It’s one of the things that I have learned about myself. Keeping this milestone between just us is both new and good for me. That is who I am working towards being. Not silent but not loud. Self-assured but not cocky. Available but not transparent. I want to leave a little mystery. The world fears a quiet man. The quiet man strikes fear in the petty and inspires the rest. This milestone is my accomplishment. Done by me and for me.

So here I am, 4 days late telling you that I completed one year of Sobriety. If you give a shit, great. If not, that’s also great. Because at the end of the day, we all have ourselves to take care of before we can be any good to others.

A Dog’s purpose

The other night, while strolling through 179 channels of nothing I came across the movie A Dog’s Purpose. I’d heard of it, in particular, that it was sad. I’ve wanted to watch it but I learned my lesson with Marley and Me after I barely recovered from the ending of Old Yeller some 45 years ago.

An aside, I can watch the worst horror movie jam packed with gratuitous sex, entrails hanging from the rafters and enough blood to fill a swimming pool and I will sit, unflinching as I munch popcorn. There is no limit to the depravity I can view and call it entertainment. But I lose my mind if an animal is harmed, especially a dog.

Curiosity prevailed and I selected it and sat back in my recliner. An hour and a half later I sat transfixed as the credits rolled. It was worth the watch, in fact it was wonderful. There were a few scenes that made me tear up, including the ending but it was a joyful brand of tear-jerker.

If you’ve seen it please indulge me, this is not a movie review but instead a homage to the lead character, the beloved dog.

In short, the movie is about a dog who experiences reincarnation. It is narrated from the dog’s POV and the story takes us through about 30 years, starting with a young Golden Retriever that belongs to a young boy in the 70’s. Most of the movie occurs with this character as he loyally stays by the side of the boy as he grows into a young man. It is an extraordinary relationship and the scene when the Dog (Bailey) gets put down is indeed a tear-jerker. It didn’t help that I stood in such a Dr.’s office less than a year ago as we watched our beloved Brandon draw his last breath. The movie unfortunately nailed the pain and grief of the moment and I was impressed but sad. By sad I mean bawling like an idiot. But the movie brings the viewer back to smiling as we see Bailey emerge as a new puppy, one possessed by the knowledge that he was “back” and had the presence of ,mind to remember his past life. We are walked through several incarnations of Bailey; a German Shepherd Police dog that gets killed in the line of duty, a Corgi that dies of old age under the love of a married woman that he had been with since she was in college, and finally a Mutt that has a miserable life at the hand of an abusive owner. But the owner sets him free (cruelly, by just pulling the truck over and kicking the dog out) but our hero turns it into a blessing when he reconnects with (by the power of the wet nose) a woman from his first life. This woman was the girlfriend of his first owner and they had broken up as teenagers. Amazingly, he reunites the two, who fall in love again and get married thanks to their 4 legged matchmaker. The movie ends as Bailey miraculously manages to convince his former owner that he is indeed his old dog in a new body. It is a beautiful, tender moment and a wonderful ending to a movie.

Thus confirming what I have known since I buried my first dog as a young teenager.

A Dog’s Purpose is to form a completely unique and unbreakable bond with us, make life unimaginable without them and then leave us too soon with a enormous, smoking hole in our very souls. If we value friendship, and most people do, we are left feeling as if we have lost our best friend.

I don’t know how the chain was determined, how it was decided which animals are chosen to be beasts of burden, which are food and which become domesticated companions. The line is further blurred as we see species never before regarded as a pet; reptiles, goats, pigs, miniature horses, cows and even “wild” animals such as big cats and bears showing up on cute FB videos as “pets”. As refreshing as these friendships are none are as special and, let’s face it, as natural as the relationship between the dog and man.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. In fact, I have often felt that I have experienced more than my share. I’ve been to a staggering number of funerals. Dear friends in HS at the hands of tragic accidents. Family members. The loss of my father to name a few. Sadly, I think I am more “over” all of them than I am my first dog. Am I saying that a mere dog meant more to me than my father, family and friends?

Of course not.
It’s just not the same. The hole left to fill is as big as a Black Hole. Friskie, my first dog, was my earliest memory. He was a pure-bred Brittany Springer Spaniel, gun-shy at a young age and rendered useless as a hunting dog. We found him at a shelter when I was about 5. He became my constant companion, my shadow, my best friend. As a child with few friends, we were especially close. He even saved my life. Twice.

We lived on the bottom of a hill that was the main route to get to the Middle school. One day, I was playing by the street and my football got away from me. I followed it into the street and suddenly found myself being tackled. It was Friskie, who ran across the street from the other side. A school bus nearly missed him as he knocked me to the ground. We were both nearly killed. As he sat on my chest, he looked into my eyes and I swear at that moment that I was staring into the eyes of a kindly, wise old man. He was never “just a dog” to me.

I was a teenager when he died. Despite him being an older dog that lived a full, wonderful life, I was crushed.

For years I missed him. We got another dog, which I loved. Mom and Dad had a few after I went out on my own, and I loved to visit them. Their household always had a dog, my parents were in agreement with me that despite how crushed you are, no matter how big the hole they leave, another dog is the key to recovery. Not that you ever get over that particular dog, you simply need to fill the hole in your life.

When I moved in with my mother her dog, which she shared with my father before he passed, was healthy and thriving despite his advanced age. A year later, that changed. I hated to go through it again; I wasn’t ready. But I put on a good face, and I tried to love him through the concerned looks and worry. I believe that it is imperative to love a senior dog as much as you did the puppy and be there when they are in pain and to always be there when it is their time to shut their eyes forever. We owe it to them, and that is just what we did. It was terribly painful, but I have no regrets. Other than our four-legged friends not living forever, that is.

My Mom got another dog. She had to. Hers was a dog home, and we are dog people. Her new dog, a beautiful Cocker Spaniel pup named Sammy (Samuel L. Spaniel, his favorite human word is Motherf@#ker lol) is a pure destructive delight that brightens her house in ways that I can’t even count. He checks all of the boxes when it comes to loyalty and unconditional love. Although I don’t live there anymore, I visit as often as I can. I will deny this to my Mother, but sometimes I need to hug Sammy more than I need to visit her.

Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I have to wonder. Beyond what is he thinking and what his particular need is at the time, and wonder if it is possible that we have met before. That behind his young eyes is the wisdom of an old dog. One that has met me before and is as glad to be reunited with him as I. Then I remind myself that reincarnation is not real, that it is impossible. That what I am feeling is just unconditional, pure and unfiltered love.

For to love me more than it loves itself; to only think of and need me alone when I sit preoccupied with the events of my day; to devote its entire life to being there for me…THAT is a Dogs Purpose.