Awaiting Another Voice

We have reached the final day on the calendar for 2022.   

However, wherever, and with whomever you spend it, make it a good one.  Be safe.  Be smart.  Be careful. 

-AK 

Speaking Words of Wisdom

We have reached the final “work” day of 2022.  The day before the day before NewYear’s Day.    On the cusp of the utterances of lies masquerading as affirmations so plentiful that you may find it hard to resist the temptation of walking the streets where you live throat-punching the allegedly resolute, an offer of advice you can actually use is sort of like the gift you did not realize was hidden behind the Christmas tree…

Be careful out there.

-AK

Odds, Ends, and Chop Suey

The year's final week.  As good a time as any to do a bit of cleaning.  As good a time as any to straighten up various odds and ends. 

Franco Harris died last week.  An all-time great player and, by all accounts, an even better person, Franco Harris died on December 20, 2022, three days before the Pittsburgh Steelers were set to retire his number AND on the same night that they were set to honor the fiftieth anniversary of the Immaculate Reception.  Franco Harris played his final game for the Steelers forty years ago.  He retired from the NFL in 1984.  He was enshrined into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1990.   So why in the hell had the Pittsburgh Steelers not yet retired his number?  What in the name of Frenchy Fuqua were they waiting for - the fiftieth anniversary of his retirement?  

Ashton Brewing is gearing up for its third anniversary.   Steve and Donna Ashton opened their doors in Middlesex Borough at the end of March, 2020, a couple of weeks after Covid-19 shut down the world.  Their beer is excellent.  Their hats are beautiful, comfortable, and cozy warm.

Ashton Brewing - Santa's Favorite Brewery

Steve and Donna are extraordinary people, who employ other extraordinary people, and who have been a boon to our little town since Ashton Brewing opened its doors.  Ashton Brewing is an integral part of New Jersey's excellent craft brewing industry.  All over the State of Concrete Gardens are top-notch craft breweries, including some of my favorites such as Carton, Icarus, Kane, Source, and South 40.  Most - if not all of them - are owned and operated by folks like the Ashtons, who are passionate about their craft and who have (to the benefit of a lot of us) turned their passion into a business.  

The State of New Jersey has regulations and rules that make life very, very difficult for this state's craft breweries.  Among the restrictions that craft brewers oppose are limits on the number of events a brewery can host, with just 25 special events such as live music or trivia nights; a maximum of 52 private events such as weddings or private parties; no collaboration with food truck or vendors to sell food for consumption at the brewery; and just 12 permits per year to participate in events such as community parades and festivals.  They also are not allowed to sell coffee or soda on the premises, under the special ruling. 

Brew Jersey is a cooperative effort organized by Icarus Brewing and the Brewers Guild of New Jersey.  Its purpose is to give the State's craft breweries a puncher's chance in dealing with the State and trying to level the playing field - at least a little bit - on which they compete against other establishments, such as restaurants.   If you are - as I am - a craft beer fan (Ashton Brewing's Jersey Dreamin' Pilsner is my favorite beer) then you can support Brew Jersey's efforts in a variety of ways, including contacting your State Senator or Assemblyperson, and continuing to support your favorite local brewery.

-AK 

 

Circular Motion

Thought for the Day (Boxing Day Edition)…

Be careful out there.

-AK

Merry Christmas

Wherever, however, and with whomever you shall spend it, it is my sincere hope that you have a Merry Christmas.   If you are fortunate to share a bit of your day with a child who believes in Santa's Christmas magic, then embrace it.   Nana and Pop Pop will see our trio of Jersey grandkids face-to-face and our pair of Colorado princesses via Face Time.  Every minute I spend with a single one of my five grandkids reminds me that this gig is - without doubt - the best job I have ever had. 

Children do many extraordinary things for us adults.  Among them is reminding us what is truly important, such as the Present and not a present.  For those of us on the back nine of our life, a child is as real-life WABAC Machine, harkening us back to a time in our life where, hopefully, we felt as loved and as cherished as we make them feel right now.  

Merry Christmas to you.  May the magic of Christmas visit you today.  May it bring you peace.  May it allow you to be the richest person in town. 

-AK 

It's Christmas Eve

Thought for the Day...

May we, today, be the people that we always hoped we would be.  

-AK 

a hero

Christopher Reeve was right, of course.  FF William Moon, FDNY, embodied what Reeve meant, first in life and, now, in death...

-AK 

A Short Day's Journey Towards Summer

Today is the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere.  It is the first day of winter.  It is the shortest day of the year - in terms of daylight.  It is also the first step on the journey towards summer.  From today to  the Summer Solstice six months from now a minute or two of daylight shall get added to every day.   A minute or two of daylight.  An elixir for the soul. 

I wrote what follows here on this date two years ago.   All hail the Winter Solstice - the first step on the road to summer.  I shall defer to Wilma, the Keeper of All Things Righteous at the Shore, to calculate how many days it is until Memorial Day.  After all, I went to law school in significant part to stay away from hard math.  

Enjoy your Solstice...

-AK 

Monday, December 21, 2020

I Shall Not Ever Forget

 And those you are with

In the presence of miracles,

You never forget.

- Bruce Springsteen

"Born to Run"

I spent the back half of 2017 processing the death of my mother.  Everyone grieves in his own way. On what proved to be the final day of Mom's life, I wailed and bawled uncontrollably for several minutes - sitting as I was in my living room - after saying good-bye to her for the last time.  A few hours later, Jill and I were on our way to Florida, in Delaware if memory serves, when Kara telephoned to tell us Mom had died. There were additional tears shed in Florida. Of that much I am certain.  

Once we returned home though, the trajectory of my grief had changed.  I am my father's son in certain respects, including the internalization of bad, terrible, and truly horrible things.  Unlike my father, my method for expelling the demons that get pent up inside me is running.  I spent a considerable amount of time that summer and fall running.  It turned out that the training required to run the Marine Corps Marathon in mid-October and, thereafter, the New York City Marathon on November's first Sunday, both of which I had committed to months prior to Mom's death, proved to be therapeutic. 

In the weeks following the New York City Marathon, I ran more often than typically did following a long race.  I found comfort in the repetition of the sound of my footsteps as I ran.  I also found humor in the words of my great friend, Dave Lackland, who buried first his father and then his mother, in less than two years' time with his mom's death preceding Mom's by less than six months. When I talked to Dave for the first time after Mom died, he noted that he and I were now both orphans.  As if recognizing that "orphan" is an odd word to use to describe a fifty-year-old man he quickly added, "Not like Orphan Annie or anything. Not the cute kind." I laughed when he had said it and, thereafter, any time I thought about it it made me laugh (including writing it right here). 

The Winter Solstice 2017 occurred on a morning that I had to be in the Ocean County Courthouse for a Settlement Conference at either 9:00 am or 10:00 am.  I spent the night before in Lake Como, which shaved 2/3 of the time off of my drive to Toms River. That morning, before sunrise, I set off for a run. 

I ran south through Spring Lake and then headed north to home running on the boards in Spring Lake. As I ran, lost in thought, I was taken by the number of people running towards the boards and the beach in a southeasterly direction.  It was just about sunrise.  

Being a bit slow on the uptake and more than a bit stubborn I broke neither my stride nor my north-fixed gaze until the twelfth person or so ran across my vision field. When I turned my head to look out towards the water, I saw what each of them had hastened to the beach to see... 

Winter Solstice 2017 

Spring Lake, New Jersey

Winter Solstice 2017

Spring Lake, New Jersey

Standing on the beach in Spring Lake, looking upon the splendor of that sunrise, I was by myself but I was not alone.  At that moment and at that point in time, I felt Mom.  She loved the ocean and made certain that she lived the final two decades of her life 1/10 of a mile from it in Jupiter, Florida. I stood there and realized she was right beside me.  

Same as she had always been.  Same as she shall always be. 

I shall never forget. Neither shall she. 

-AK 

At Century’s End

Today is my father’s birthday.  Had he lived, today he would be ninety-nine.  He did not of course.  In fact he fell far short.   Forty-one and a half years short to be exact.  

I wish he had lived long enough to see whether he and I could have ever come out on the other side of the war we relentlessly waged against each other the final year of his life.  Mostly I wish he and I had ever learned how to communicate.  

I spent most of the past forty years not understanding what fueled his rage. It took longer than it should have but I finally figured it out.   

Sorry, Dad, for being such a slow learner.  Inexcusable for a teacher’s son, I know.  

Happy Birthday, Dad.  

-AK

Cruise Control

 Thought for the final Sunday before Christmas…

Indeed there must.   Enjoy your Sunday.   

-AK

Godspeed, Ollie

I was saddened to learn last night that Ollie Hawkins died.  I first met Ollie way back when at Frost, Rhodes & DeVito when I was clerking there as a third-year law student at Seton Hall.  For about a minute and a half the firm was known as Frost, Rhodes, DeVito & Hawkins.   Fortunately for Ollie right about the time he finished unpacking, his Spidey senses tingled and he got the hell out of there. 

During the brief amount of time we worked there together, I did absolutely no work for Ollie.  None.  Yet, it did not stop him from taking a keen interest in my career and mentoring me.  Without Ollie, I would not have been introduced to John Libretti for whom I went to work as a young lawyer and from whom I have learned invaluable lessons for close to thirty years.  

But for Ollie I never would have had the opportunity to interview at Weiner Lesniak in late 1997.  My first day at Weiner Lesniak was January 5, 1998.  I made partner there in March 2004 and among my law partners was my mentor and friend, Ollie.  

He left Weiner Lesniak long before I did but even when we no longer worked together we kept in touch.  Every once in a while, we would get together at Darby Road in Scotch Plains.  We would catch up on each other’s lives, retell old stories we both knew by heart, and laugh ourselves silly.  

Throughout my career I have tried hard to always pay it forward.  I have held myself out to help young lawyers whenever I can, including matching them with job opportunities.   Whatever success I have attained in my professional life would never have happened had Ollie Hawkins done all that - and more - for me. 

My heart breaks for Ollie’s wife, Doris, his family, those he loved and those he loved most of all.  I am forever indebted to him.  I shall remember him forever and shall miss him for at least that long.   Thank you, Ollie, for absolutely everything.   

Safe journey home, my friend. 

-AK

Fragile

Perhaps this final act was meant

To clinch a lifetime’s argument

That nothing comes from violence

And nothing ever could

For all those born beneath an angry star

Lest we forget how fragile we are.

- “Fragile”

Sting

I rarely watched Ellen DeGeneres’ television talk show.   I have no anti-Ellen agenda.   I have a job.  My working hours conflicted with hers so watch I did not.  

That being said, I have seen enough clips of her show on-line that I know the role Stephen “tWitch” Boss played on it and what a talented gentleman he was.   I did not know, until I saw the tragic news earlier this week that at age forty he had taken his own life, he was a husband and he and his wife, Allison Holker Boss, were the parents of three children - the oldest of whom is just fourteen.  

Far too many families are ravaged by suicide.  This week, the Boss family added its name to that tragically sad roll.  

Remember always that you never can tell what someone else is going through, regardless of their demeanor.   Remember, too, how fragile we all are.   

-AK

Ten Plus One

 

It was ten years ago yesterday that twenty-six innocents were murdered by a feckless coward at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.  Twenty of the twenty-six were children.  The remaining six were adults who died trying to protect their young charges.  

In the decade since Sandy Hook, there have been 189 shootings at American schools that have resulted in at least one fatality; seventeen of which were categorized as "active shooter situations", which are defined as "when the shooter killed and /or wounded victims, either targeted or random, within the school campus during a continuous episode of violence."  

Last month, the Sandy Hook Memorial opened. 

Ten years.  A lifetime and a blink. 

  

-AK 

Fair Winds and Following Seas, Pirate

 

Mike Leach died Monday night.  He was just sixty-one years old.  If you are not a college football fan, then you might not be familiar with him.  For that, I feel badly - for you. 

Coach Leach never coached my beloved Alma mater.  He did, though, coach against the Buffaloes.  First, when he was the head coach at Texas Tech, Colorado still played in the Big XII Conference, and he led the Red Raiders to then-unreached and presumptively unreachable heights.  Thereafter, he coached Washington State in the PAC-12 and under his guidance, the Cougars became consistent winners.  At the time of his death, he had completed his third season coaching the Mississippi State Bulldogs and was preparing his team for its January 2, 2023 bowl matchup against Illinois, a game his Bulldogs will play in honor of their coach.  

Way back when, before he became a football coach, Mike Leach grew up a forester's son in Cody, Wyoming.  He went to and graduated from BYU but did not play football for the Cougars.  He played rugby.  After college, he earned his J.D. at Pepperdine University College School of Law, which shortly thereafter he parlayed...into a gig as the Head Coach of the Pori Bears in the American Football Association of Finland.    

Mike Leach was a unique, exquisitely interesting man.  His press conferences were not to be missed as he was capable of holding court on a variety of subjects, whether related to football or not.  In 2018, while he was the Head Coach at Wazzu, a reporter asked him for his opinion as to how the various mascots in the PAC-12 would fare against one another if they tussled.  His answer elevated him to perpetual favorite son status at CU.

He shall long be remembered.  He shall forever be missed.   

Farewell and Godspeed, Coach.  

-AK 

The Guardian of All Things

 

Saturday night the Missus and I spent some time with Suzanne, Ryan, and the kids at a winter festival in Warren Township, New Jersey.  As we were strolling around, I took my four-year-old grandson Cal with me to visit the September 11, 2001 Memorial that is located at the front of the Township's Municipal Complex.  As I was holding him, and the two of us looked at the Memorial, he asked me what it was and what it represented.  I told him.  

Given that he is just four years old, I provided him with what admittedly was an abbreviated recitation of that day's events.  Given that he is just four years old, he may or may not have understood much of what I told him.  It matters not.   What matters is that he asked the question and listened to the answer.  I have every confidence it is not the final conversation he and I shall have on this subject.  

Warren Township, New Jersey 

September 11, 2001 Memorial

On December 7, 2022, which was of course the 81st anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the September 11, 2001 terror attack claimed yet another victim.  Lt. Maureen Gill-Donohue of the NYPD, a twenty-year veteran who retired in 2012, succumbed to the 9/11-related cancer she contracted from months she spent working the pile at Ground Zero and, thereafter, at the Fresh Kills Landfill.  She is survived by her parents, Patricia and James Gill, her husband, NYPD Detective Thomas Donohue, her three children, and five grandchildren.  

Events echo and reverberate across time like ripples across the surface of a   Neither their impact nor their import can be permitted by those who bore witness to them to become attenuated.  Not simply for nostalgia's sake but because their effect on the day-to-day lives of far too many has not become attenuated.  As it continues to affect any one of us, it continues to affect all of us.  

-AK 

Questions, Rhetorical and Otherwise

Food for thought as I head to Passaic County this morning for the trial call on this mid-December Monday...

Photo Credit:  

Barred and Bearded @RilezTweetsEsq

He is not wrong.  This is the dream that I have lived for almost thirty years practicing law.  It is the dream lived by any lawyer whose practice is litigation-focused and one in which unresolvable cases are tried.  

A man much wiser (not to mention substantially wealthier and most likely healthier) than I asked the question forty-plus years ago: 

Your response, much like your car's actual gas mileage as opposed to what is written on its window sticker, shall vary.  

Be careful out there. 

-AK 

   

Plenteous In Mercy

A nickel's worth of wisdom for a mid-December Sunday, courtesy of the 30th President of these United States...

...with Christmas closing in.

Be careful out there.

-AK 

A Season of Hope

Two weeks out.  Time to get serious.  Time to stand in front of the mirror, look yourself squarely in the eye, and ask yourself to answer honestly the question of whether you have been naughty or nice this past year.  For me at least, it appears that this year Santa has graded on a generous curve.  

It was this time last week that my beloved Alma mater, hopelessly irrelevant in the world of big-time college football for the past twenty years, moved from Mountain Time to Prime Time.    Deion Sanders agreed to a five-year contract to become the Head Coach.   Candidly, I do not expect him to remain in Boulder for the length of his contract.  

If he resuscitates the Buffs, then better-heeled, more prestigious, and higher-paying coaching opportunities will rain down upon him and he will leave the Buffs for one of them.  If he is a disaster, then the CU Athletic Department will play a movie that Buff alums have seen multiple times in the past twenty years, fire him, and pay him copious amounts of money to go away.   

If history is any guide, then the Deion Sanders' era in CU football shall visit upon me more than a small amount of agita, anger, and heartbreak.   But right now, at this moment, it gives me hope.     

Folsom Field - December 3, 2022

A wise man once observed that hope is a good thing.  In fact, he said, it may just be the best of things...  

...may it never die.  

-AK 

 

Sixty-Six and Chilly

 Mothers never really die, 

They just keep the house up in the sky.

They polish the sun by day

And light the stars that shine at night,

Keep the moonbeams silvery bright

And in the heavenly home above

They wait to welcome home those they love. 

-Unknown

Today marks sixty-six months to the day since Mom died.  Sixty-six months.   I will spend a portion of it in New Brunswick.  Today is the 20th Annual Big Chill 5K, which does good for children in our area who otherwise would not know any semblance of “merry” at Christmas.   It is among my favorite events annually.  

The Big Chill 5K is also the race that started it all for me way back when in December 2008.  Wilma talked me into running with her.  Had she not been there I would have curled up in the fetal position while climbing up George Street and never would have finished.  I think she still laughs at the memory of me that morning.   I know I do.  

-AK

Where We Are Wanted

 

We the people of these United States pause today to observe Thanksgiving, which in spite of its undisputed status as the first-celebrated American holiday has been reduced to road apple status - a mere speed bump on the hyperbolic consumer superhighway that connects Halloween and Christmas.  

Maybe, just maybe, Thanksgiving's intrinsic value has experienced an uptick in the years since "Covid-19" entered the lexicon as we have been reminded (or in the case of far too many of our obtuse fellow countrymen, have finally learned) of the true fragility of Life's fabric.  A thin line exists not simply between life and death and, also, between love and hate.  It exists as well between community and isolation and, also, between hope and despair.  

However, wherever, and with whomever you spend your Thanksgiving, if upon opening your eyes this morning and closing them tonight you are doing so in a place where you are wanted, then you are home.  Your promise to yourself as well as to those you love and who love you is to never take that feeling for granted and, instead, to work every day to honor that feeling and to earn it.  

That feeling of belonging is precious because of its capacity to fill us up more heartily than the inhalation of turkey, sweet potatoes, stuffing, and pecan pie ever will.  Unfortunately today, like yesterday and tomorrow, does not carry with it a guaranteed feeling of belonging - a guaranteed feeling of home.  If you are a lucky one, then be mindful of the fact that not everyone is - including but not limited to people with whom you deal in your day-to-day, and act accordingly.  It costs nothing to be kind.  And by being so, you might just help someone who otherwise would not have, find their way home.  Today, of all days, is that not where we all long to be? 

Happy Thanksgiving. 

-AK 

The Nessman Cometh

Today is Turkey Run Day in ‘Squan.  One of life’s delicious ironies is that in the days of yore when I was a far better and faster runner than I now am, this race was known as the Turkey Trot.  Now as I am more of a trotter than I am a runner, it has a new sobriquet.  

The forecast today calls for conditions that can fairly be called “brisk”.  The conditions will likely have a negligible impact on the hundreds of us running or the hundreds lining the streets of Manasquan cheering us on and plying us with adult beverages.  Little known fact:  Beer is not available to World Cup fans in Qatar but is available on the Turkey Run race course.  ‘Merica for the win! 

Once upon a time my goal used to be to finish this five-mile jaunt in forty minutes or less.  Now?   I have a more realistic goal, which is to avoid doing my impression of a sack of wet cement.  If I make it back to Leggetts without anyone mistaking me for a rain-soaked bag of Sakrete, I will put today in the “Win” column.  

Regardless of finishing time and irrespective of the conditions, today shall be a terrific day.  It is a great event for a great cause.  It is also an excuse to get together with old friends, including several who the Missus and I have not seen for some time.  A hell of a nice way to spend a mid-November Saturday at the Shore.   

However, wherever, and with whomever you spend it, enjoy your day.  Remember, be careful out there.

-AK

Mission Accomplished

Just two days ago, I wrote in this space about Jon Auty's mission in the 2022 TCS New York City Marathon.  The seventy-eight-year-old retired attorney from North Haledon, New Jersey was making his first trip across the five boroughs in forty years.  And he was doing it to honor the memory of his "absolutely perfect wife", Bev, who cancer took, in October 2021, from her husband of fifty-four years and her family.

If it was easy, then anyone could do it.  I know from personal experience just how readily that adage applies to running a marathon.  So does Jon Auty. 

It took him eight hours to complete the race on Sunday but complete it he did.  He began his journey under warm, muggy conditions on Staten Island at 11 am.  He ended it under the cover of darkness in Central Park at 7 pm.  He ended it in the company of fifty-four-year-old Tommy Mitchell of Atlanta, Georgia.  The two kept one another company, and served as one another's inspiration, for the final fifteen miles.   They crossed the finish line together, hands joined, and arms upraised. 

Tommy Mitchell and Jon Auty 

NYC Marathon Finish Line

November 6, 2022

He ran.  He walked.  He crawled.  He made it.  His commitment to keeping his promise to Bev triumphed over his own feelings of mental anguish and physical discomfort.  

-AK 

Providing Oars For The Grief Boat

We're all in this grief boat with no oars.

Just uncharted waters for all of us. 

-D'Ann Auty Vermilye 

I had not intended to watch any portion of today's New York City Marathon.  The bitter taste of last year's unqualified disaster, in which I dropped out at the 15K mark and added an embarrassing "DNF" (2021) to my three finishes in 2015, 2016, and 2017, remains too fresh in my mouth.  

However, upon reading this story in the Star-Ledger earlier this week about the tribute that seventy-eight-year-old Jon Auty of North Haledon, New Jersey and his daughter, D'Ann Auty Vermilye, are paying to his wife/her mother, Bev.  Today, they are both running the Marathon as a member of Fred's Team.  Bev, to whom Jon Auty was married for fifty-four years, died last fall after a six-month battle with cancer.   

Jon Auty last ran the New York City Marathon forty years ago.  He enjoyed the experience so much that he vowed to never do it again.  As it turns out, "never" never stood a chance in its battle against the memory of Bev, Jon Auty's "absolutely perfect wife".  Nor should it have. 

The Auty family has spent more than their fair share in the grief boat this past twelve months.  Although today's Marathon will likely not permit them to retire their grief boat to drydock, it shall provide them with the oars necessary to make the remainder of their voyage just a bit easier.  

-AK

It’s Mo Time

One year ago today, I was packing an overnight bag for my trip into the City with the Missus for my participation in the 2021 TCS New York City Marathon.   Or as I like to call it, the New York City 15K for I made it only 9.3 miles before I came off the course, which I did in Brooklyn.   

This year, having come to terms with the fact that I am no longer Marathon-worthy, I have devised a different way to make November worthwhile.  I am taking part in Movember, which I have always understood to be a fundraiser in which the clean shaven grow (or try to grow) a mustache for charity.  As someone whose beard and mustache have occupied space on my face for thirty years or so, I had always felt left out.  Not any longer.  

Apparently this year a wrinkle was added to Movember.  Now both the presently-mustached and the eternally baby-faced can do our part without having to grow a ‘Stache.  I am.  I am running sixty miles over course of this month to raise money for this fundraiser, which is geared towards “guy” health issues including various forms of cancer.  

If the mood moves you to help out and you do not want to run, then you can check out my fundraising  page, which is:   https://us.movember.com/mospace/14927076.  

Fats and I thank you for your support.  

-AK 

The Lost Art of Conversation

You have to take your mind there

And hope that your ass will follow.

You’ve got to imagine that person first

Before you become him.

Once you have the ability to do it,

Then you need the skills

To become that person.  

-Bruce Springsteen

It is not my responsibility to recruit subscribers for the corporate overlords who operate SiriusXM.  That being said, if you are not a subscriber then you have likely missed out on what was nothing short of an extraordinary couple of hours of live radio on Monday morning.  

For the first time in their respective careers, Bruce Springsteen sat down face-to-face with Howard Stern on Monday morning at the SiriusXM studios in Manhattan.  If I understood correctly what Rob had told me a couple of weeks ago, Monday marked Howard’s first time in the studio since the pandemic began in early 2020.  He spent more than two hours conversing with Bruce.   To my ear, it was nothing short of sensational.  My great friend Lynne used the word “historic” to describe it.  I am inclined to agree with her.  

The two discussed pretty much anything and everything you could think of during the two-plus hours they spent together, during which Bruce played acoustic versions of several songs including “Thunder Road”. He and Howard both spoke of their strained relationships with their late fathers.  Bruce reacted with genuine sympathy when Howard told him that his dad had died this summer.  They bonded as well over their respective self-identifications as a Mama’s boy.   

It was an extraordinary listen.  If you have the chance to hear it, then I hope you avail yourself of it.  We live in a day and age where we talk at, around, and over one another with alarming frequency.  It was nice to be reminded, instead, of how enjoyable it is - and how much can be learned - when we talk to and with one another.  

-AK

 

Long May We Roar

From 2009 through 2018, Sue's Crew rumbled, stumbled, and bumbled our way through a breast cancer-related 5K.  Sue's Crew was/is a tremendous example of something terrific arising out of something awful.  In our case, the "something awful" was the June 2, 2009 death of Susie B., Margaret's mom.   By the time we made it to 2017, the names of two other heroes, Diana Kizis (a/k/a "Hazel") and Mom (a/k/a "Joanie K.") joined Susie B.'s on our official race shirt. 

Susie B. 

June 2, 2009

Diana Kizis (a/k/a "Hazel")

June 6, 2014

Joanie K. (a/k/a "Mom")

June 3, 2017 

A few weeks ago, an e-mail popped up in my in-box for the 4th Annual Team ROAR 5K at Duke Island Park in Bridgewater.  In the interest of full disclosure, I am constrained to admit that until I saw the e-mail I had never heard of the event, let alone the fact that it was its fourth annual edition.  As is often the case, my lack of familiarity with it was my loss.  It is an extraordinary event.  Its genesis is the far-too-young death from metastatic breast cancer in 2017 of Donna Karlis.  She was only forty-two years old.   

Sunday was simply a gorgeous late October day.   Duke Island Park, as it turns out, is a beautiful place to run.  Whether it was the weather, the underlying purpose of the race (raising money for metastatic breast cancer research), or something else altogether I know not.  All I know is that I ran the best 5K time I had run in more than four years.  The Missus and I represented Sue's Crew and had a great, great morning.  

We retired Sue's Crew after its tenth edition (or "X"th edition for all you Roman numeral fans out there) in 2018.  If we are to revitalize it, and restore it to active status in 2023, then I believe Margaret and I found the event in which to do it.   

-AK