30 Days of Giving 3: American Special Hockey

While football is the typical Thanksgiving sports association, once the Bubba started playing travel hockey we took our post-meal show on the road in ice rinks around the Northeast. Hockey tournaments are a unique bonding experience – you can feel just about every emotion from joy to fatigue to friendship to frustration to amazement. I believe that the players I’ve coached and managed benefitted from hockey tournaments by learning how to represent our club, our team and themselves in public, in charged situations, and with grace in both victory and defeat. Each calendar demarcation carries some hockey tournament association – our annual Mites Shamrock St Patrick’s Day weekend, the Thanksgiving “shoot outs”, President’s Weekend, and the last weekend in March, which we historically spent in Lake Placid.

Along the way, we got to know some of the players and coaches with American Special Hockey, a program that provides hockey experiences for players with a variety of disabilities. Our New Jersey Devils Youth club has created the Dare Devils Program that matches junior mentor coaches with players and hosts an annual Halloween weekend hockey tournament for other special needs teams, so that players of all abilities get to enjoy this unique experience, forever tied to a holiday weekend. Get a personal look at the impact of the program in this (now 10 year old) clip from Linda Ellerbee’s Nick News and yes, you may recognize one of those junior coaches in his much younger days.
If you want to cut to the special hockey segment, it starts at 19:11

Day Three: I’m giving to American Special Hockey (you can choose a specific local club to support; I’m putting my donation to work for our NJ Dare Devils).

Fighting the Loss Of Peoplehood

Thanksgiving seems an appropriate time to reflect on what it means to be part of a people – not a person, but a member of a group that provides some context for your life. Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday to provide a respite in the fighting of the Civil War, a much needed break to reflect on a tortuous path to the present.

I became fascinated with the idea of peoplehood five years ago when my wife and I participated in a two-year project to explore where we came from with cohorts from Israel and northern New Jersey. Our group included those of Ukranian, Georgian, Moldovan, Russian, Moroccan, Yemenite, eastern European, western European, Latin American and Israeli descent. For two years we wrestled with the question of “what does it mean to be a people” – not a race, not a religion, not a geography, not any physically identifying characteristic – just a people. It’s a hard question. It gets to the issue of what it means to be part of the American people.

Things crystallized for me over the course of just a few months. In April 2013 we visited Babi Yar, the site of a WWII mass murder of Jews on the outskirts of Kiev. I lost my composure; I could not help but think, as we stood on the side of a ravine while people pushed baby strollers and skateboarded through the park, that I was standing grave side for some members of my family that never left that part of Russia in the early 20th century. Our peoplehood survived that horror.

Two days later, we were back in Israel, celebrating Independence Day, when my Twitter feed lit up about the Boston Marathon bombing, an attempt to strike fear into the very city that had been so critical in defining American peoplehood. Our Israeli hosts, most of whom had been literally under rocket attacks over the previous months, instantly knew how to comfort us. Our peoplehood bridged that horror.

It wasn’t until months later, during a family celebration that involved reading the Torah portion Ki Tavo that the pieces fell into place. Ki Tavo starts with a celebration of all of the wonders that the promised land will bring the Jews, if only they can act ethically and morally. The passage contains a long and Biblically colorful list of curses — not verbal but life-affecting disasters — that befall those who fail to keep their end of the behavioral bargain. The last curse is that you’ll be returned to Egypt – the implication is that you’re reverted to slavery. You have to read the passage in an undervoice so as not to call undue attention to it.

The worst curse in the Torah is that you lose your place in a people, your sense of peoplehood, your personal set of tribes.

That’s why I’m dedicated to standing up and working with those who feel that their peoplehood is threatened. Whether skin color or country of origin or the way you express your faith, your love, your gender, your desire to control your own body, your need for healthcare, your need for chronic care, or just your eating preferences, the most American – ethical, moral, leading the world – thing I can think of is to help protect your rights of being and belonging.

[Ed note: if you want an interesting take on the need to co-exist within peoples of all stripes and shapes, read the interpretation of “exile” in this Torah portion.]

[Ed note 2: I decided to transcribe this into a blog post after reading this piece in the Times (NSFW language), h/t to Alan and others for sharing it]

30 Days of Giving 1: Neighbors Together

In the spirit of thirty days of thanks, thirty days of giving, and perhaps a touch of advent, I decided that I’m going to make 30 small donations to causes, organizations and efforts that I find timely, important, and deserving of wider recognition. A confluence of thoughts pushed me down this path: really trying to make this a meaningful holiday season, the joy of having my entire family together for the first time in nearly two months, and a post by my cousin about an effort she’s driving to make Thanksgiving dinners for nearly 400 people who need a hot meal. Hat tip to a hockey parent who told me that her son will give part of his post-practice or post-game treat to one of the homeless people he sees while leaving one of our rinks; it’s such a simple example of standing up for people who can use an ally.

I’m avoiding disease societies, “walks” of any kind, religious organizations, personal fund raisers (GoFundMe and the like), and instead focusing on small causes with large impacts. And each one will have something of a story.

Growing up, my grandfather ran a general store in Smithburg, New Jersey, on the outskirts of what’s now the larger township of Freehold. He had a wonderful, kind vision of “credit” – you could buy agricultural products, food, or parts for anything and be extended store credit if he felt you needed it. Not every marker was eventually called; Grandpa Herman had an innate way of knowing who needed the help and didn’t make a big deal of extending them courtesy.

So here’s day one: Neighbors Together.

Time Stand Still: The Rush Movie

I went to the big screen premier of Time Stand Still [Blu-ray], the Rush documentary that tracks the band through the spiral of their final R40 tour. I went in with the usual assortment of bittersweet thoughts and linkages: “Time Stand Still” is one my favorite Rush songs, dating from my first show; it was the first Rush event in years that I was not attending side by side with my son, to whom I’ve passed the Rush fandom baton; it would re-open the grievous and grieving mood I was in after attending the Las Vegas show last summer, knowing it was likely the last time I’d see the three magicians of prog rock on stage.

I loved the movie. It wasn’t melancholy or upsetting or even maudlin; it was a celebration of being a misfit Rush fan and knowing that for as long as people listen to “2112” or “Hemispheres” with awe and air drumming, we will all share a bit of a common club culture. What I took away was that live performance is hard, which I knew from reading Peart’s books, but that it’s physicall and emotionally hard on all three members of the band, and that if they cannot, consistently, completely and confidently, execute their music at the top of the abilities, they’ll stop playing live.

At once, the movie captured the how and why of being indoctrinated into this strange club (certainly I was a fan before 1990 when I went to the “Hold Your Fire” tour in Worcester and was suddenly on another plane); it explained the incongruity of a band that’s ranked third in album sales, that has effectively no Top 40 hits, and yet sells out major arenas for an entire summer at $100 a ducat. It was a directional indicator of the future of the music business: live shows, solid fan interaction, producing music that you believe in.

Having now seen some of my favorite bands in the later parts of their career arcs, and constantly comparing them to previous shows, it’s safe to say I agree that the last 3-4 Rush shows I saw were the best — not just the best Rush shows, but among the singular best rock concerts I’ve attended in forty years. And so a funny, touching, “behind the scenes” look (Spoiler: Alex Lifeson doing a soundcheck of “Subdivisions” in screamo style is still cracking me up a week later) at the band as they finished touring on their terms, with their instruments held high, was not sad — it was a re-affirmation of why I took Ben to see them when he was four years old.

Ben and I, along with millions of other Rush fans, are much richer for the experiences.

Watch the movie, especially if you don’t get the Dirk, Pratt and Lerxst references, because you might just understand. Or at least I Love You, Man will make sense.

Six Years In The Family

Six years ago (ok, six years and a day) I attended my first Phish show – a momentous and auspicious one, looking back with a bit of history and perspective. Boardwalk Hall, Atlantic City, first night of a Halloween run and the first time playing the hall, only the second year into the third arc of the band’s history. Accompanied by a pair of Davids (one brother in law, one music industry executive) and meeting up with my now regular Phish crew leader post-show, it was the day that I “got it” — not just hearing the live jams, but really experiencing a full-on, two-set, jammed out Phish performance.

It was a good show – some great covers (including Traffic’s “Light Up Or Leave Me Alone”) and the Talking Heads’ “Cities” which featured a superb jam. “Slave” and “Fluffhead” made an appearance, and the “Slave” jam was the denouement of a great, staggering second set, gently returning the crowd to a level set only to slide into “Fluffhead”. “Corinna” and “Carini” (which may be the only time that happened?). Despite knowing maybe a quarter of the band’s canon at the time, each song seemed familiar, close, and yet intricate and requiring careful listening — which is, at its heart, why you go to multiple Phish shows to begin with.

I could yammer on in Phish-speak for paragraphs. Bottom line: live music is still one of the great joys of life. For years I had missed out on the adventure that is Phish, and six years ago I became a believer in the Churches of Big Red, Rage Side, Cactus and the Donut Dress. One of the multiple cool things about phish.net is your personal show history, which includes reminders about personal milestones like your first show. As suggested, I marked the date with a donation to the Mockingbird Foundation the non-profit run by Phish acolytes to support music education. How else to spread the foundation for future fans?

“Legends Club” – V, K and the Dean


John Feinstein delivers in his sweet spot – college basketball – with “The Legends Club”. It is a story of fathers and sons of genetic and organizational and institutional relation; it is a love story of men and a game and rivals and life-long learning; it is at times almost unintentionally hilarious and equally sad because of the real-world characters involved. I have told bits of pieces of the following to people who ask why I left a technology company to join a healthcare company: reading stories of how Dean Smith’s mental gifts were stolen by his struggle with Alzheimer’s made me realize how elements of my management style were a reflection of his public persona, and that nobody deserved to die without the dignity of being their true mental selves through their entire lives.

If that’s a bit melancholy, it sets the tone for the book. Dean Smith and Jim Valvano don’t survive to the end of the story, but how Feinstein relates the incredibly textured, complex and rival-driven relationships of their lives is what makes this a compelling read.

My introduction to college basketball happened mostly accidentally – my freshman roommate decided to run a pool for the 1981 NCAA tournament, featuring our own Princeton Tigers squaring off against a BYU team lead by some kid named Danny Ainge (how prophetic that would be for my sports fandom years after moving to Boston). At the time, I knew very little about college basketball, and after being immersed in freshman physics, linear algebra and intro to CS, few of us knew very little about the outside world at all. So my Final Four picks included Indiana (because a high school friend went there) and North Carolina (since my closest roommate, Matt, was from Chapel Hill and his dad taught there). It was nothing more complicated than that.

I spent the week between the Elite 8 and the Final Four in Chapel Hill. It was my first time on an airplane, my first time south of Virginia, and my first exposure to life at a school with a storied coach. Marking time in NCAA brackets, nearly everything about that trip of 35 springs ago remains crystal clear, from the fact that I had a scruffy beard that was painted Carolina blue by someone during an impromptu parade after the Tar Heels won their semi-final game, to cleaning that same paint off of Matt’s car, to my intense fear that I was failing freshman E&M and had decided to re-learn the entire half semester one day, to sitting with Matt’s dad listening to “Classical Gas” which I stupidly thought was originally recorded by Larry Fast and Synergy. Seeing me studying, Matt’s mom brought me a slice of home made pie that was the single greatest incentive and study aid ever invented. Freshman physics took me deep into overtime but lost (I eventually wrapped college with an astrophysics class that made me revisit those days with a bit of educational joy). Names like Al Wood and James Worthy became part of my sports vocabulary (that Michael Jordan kid arrived the next year). Carolina fanaticism was born, slowly, emerging over the course of watching the Tar Heels tournament run reflected in the college town, because of the spirit, the people, the warmth, the fierce competitiveness that never spilled over into ugly vernacular or name-calling, and because of a slice of pie. UNC lost to Indiana in the championship game, and as a result I won the roommate pool for my first ever sports betting win. For the next 25 years I learned to idolize Dean Smith, the UNC hoops coach, my first steps in becoming a lifelong college basketball fan.

The only title-named coach that makes it to the end of the book is Coach K; the book was released before he took the US Men’s Olympic basketball team to a gold medal in Rio; but the final chapter is as moving as any novel where the plotlines can be constructed for heartstring tension. It’s not a happy book in the way that any resolution of long-standing, often petty and ugly personal conflict isn’t happy and jocular, but it is hopeful and illustrative of the power of mentoring, coaching and public relationships, and for those reasons I will put it in the short list of “sports books with business implications”.

Here’s what I learned from Feinstein’s deeply personal narrative of how UNC, NC State and Duke, with a strong supporting role played by Indiana and Bobby Knight: Dean Smith was far from a saint, but he acted in a way to always put the focus on his team and its players. He acted out of love for the game, and as a manager, his redirection of the spotlight is a tenet I hold dear. Mike Krzyzewski is not the (Blue) Devil, a bad person, an angry man or a bad coach. He is remarkably adaptable, dealt with physical setbacks (back surgery) that would have forced others into retirement, and worked in the dual large body shadows of Bobby Knight and Dean Smith. And Jimmy V was always the mood lifter, the soul shifter, and sadly, the too gentle soul whose career was injured through actions several long arms’ lengths away from him. My dislike for Coach K has been tempered and damped with facts and backstory; while I respect Dean Smith to this day, it’s evident how much his gravitas and context created space for him to excel. And I will always, always laugh at the ESPN/CBS clip of Jim Valvano running onto the court after winning the National Championship, arms open in a half-hug, because while joyous and hilarious it also represents in relief the best part of enjoying sports – doing so with family, friends, and those you want to hug after the win.

Springsteen Stories

Received my copy of Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography this week, and eager to read his own words about his own life (Peter Carlin’s “Bruce” was outstanding, and “Born To Run” holds even higher potential – and it’s sitting in the top slot in Amazon’s best seller list). One of the online groups in which I lurk has burst open with contemporaries sharing their own stories, his life as viewed through their words, and two of my own floated to the surface.

Attending Freehold Township High School (Bruce went to Freehold High School, later distinguished with the surname “Boro” once the Township school was opened), there was quite a bit of shared history with teachers and younger siblings who had some effective arm’s length human touch with Bruce. At least half a dozen people claimed to know the identity of “Wendy;” another half dozen laid claim to the “giant Exxon sign” in its exact location as their own turf. My favorite story, which I hold up as the stuff of teenage rebellion and not fact, goes like this: A certain teacher (who moved from Boro to Township) vaguely hinted that he had failed Bruce Springsteen and wouldn’t hesitate to fail you. The wordier version included Springsteen’s reply that “One day, I’ll be famous and you’ll still be here teaching the same class and driving the same car” — punctuated with the remark that after “Born to Run,” Springsteen proved himself correct with a visit. With a lot of hindsight, I find that incongruous; Springsteen has never been one to gloat or boast, and the thought of diminishing someone who had an impact, however random or tangential, is just counter to just about every theme in every Springsteen song.

The better stories are variations on this theme: Parents said “You better shape up or you’ll turn out like Bruce Springsteen” and then every one of us who laments the wilting of our salad days of musical talent wishes our parents had actually been more correct in their predictions.

My own (weakly remembered, but directionally correct) story sits in the Venn diagram intersection of those storyline mechanics. At the beginning of each school year, we’d get text books that looked like they’d been through the wringer and conveyor belts at the mercy of United’s baggage handlers, and the first act was to flip to the back inside cover and see who had been issued the book in previous years. The golden ticket was to find one with a scrawled “B Springsteen,” a feat that required a book in service for about a decade in a class that was still in the academic rotation. Sure enough, one day I found the magic signature, and yet never considered stealing the book for later collector value. Bruce entered our lives on an almost daily basis, there was no need to pay a $15 fine to prove evidence of our shared geographic heritage. “Born to Run” thundered from our FM clock radios, usually introduced by a WNEW DJ with nothing more than “Bruce” or “This” or some other Mark Rothko colored impact statement; that was sufficient to remind us Bruce Springsteen turned out alright even if his English book suffered the slings, arrows and lockers of time.

For the next six years, Bruce constructed and destructed much of my musical life. As a DJ at WPRB-FM, we were implicitly discouraged from playing Top 40, but his obscure and wonderfully textured songs found their way into my shows. I mailed in a check (via “special delivery!”) for the ticket lottery for his July 1981 shows at the Spectrum in Philadelphia, the first arena rock show I attended. After meeting amazing keyboardist (later turned drummer) Steve, another Springsteen fan, I realized that my saxophone playing wasn’t anywhere near what was required to play in a band; as Steve said “Clarence is always playing, but you don’t notice it; he just plays what needs to be played”. That stuck with me as a metaphor for a lot of things, but also made me take stock of my own ability to hear and contribute musically. Thirty-five years later, “New York City Serenade” is one of my favorite songs; “Darkness” is a desert island album; the opening chords of “Born To Run” still give me chills; and yet I haven’t given up the dream of playing since I picked up the bass two years ago — maybe we all still have the chance to turn out the way our parents eventually wanted — creatively happy.

“Born To Run” is next up on my reading list (provided I finish Annie Duke’s book before attending her charity poker ball next weekend) and I know it will fill in the facts of my own stories, not diminishing them but giving them color and connection and concreteness.

A Tuesday Like No Other, With Perspective

Fifteen years ago I was on a United flight to Boston on a sunny, crisp Tuesday morning that started like any other work day that year. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a suit and drove to Newark Airport, arriving about 45 minutes before my flight, stumbled through security and onto the plane where I took a short nap. I was employed by Sun Microsystems, working for the iPlanet-Sun Alliance, and was en route to host a customer event at our Boston area sales office.

It was my 39th birthday, and I was going to be away for the day, mostly because I had been subjected to a well executed surprise party a few years earlier, and I truly, completely hate surprises. Each year after that party I ensured I would be traveling on the actual day, getting home for well-timed cake and celebration, but without the overhang of a surprise. And so it was that on 9/11/01, instead of attending the Waters conference at Windows on the World, on the 113th floor of 1 WTC (and where a Merrill Lynch customer of mine was speaking), I was on a plane to Boston. A bit of self-centered compulsive behavior saved my life.

Once in a cab from Logan, about half way up I93, my wife called me on my (then quaint) cell phone. That was unusual; I’d usually check in when I had a better idea of my return logistics. While watching the morning news, the little TV on our kitchen counter lost its signal, upon switching to CNN she saw the live feed of a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. As I was on a plane to Boston, she did the logical thing to check in on me. A few minutes before 9:00, I was completely oblivious to what was happening in lower Manhattan. I had the cab driver put on Boston’s news radio for more details, at the time believing like many others that it was a small, private plane that had a hideous accident, and that New York’s bravest would soon put out the fire and return life to its normal level of crazy.

While in the car the 2nd plane hit 2 WTC, where our Sun office was located on the 25th and 26th floors. It was clear that this was a terrorist attack, and nobody knew what was to come next. After getting to the sales office, and deciding to cancel the customer event, I began calling people — using our Sun internal network to route calls out to the west coast, I was able to get outside lines and reach my family, my employee Laura who I knew was in 2 WTC that day, but I was unable to reach my friend Bob. About half an hour later, I heard “the tower is down, the tower is down” echoing down the hall and didn’t know how to parse that until I saw CNN.com coverage of 1 WTC collapsing (this was before the time of streaming video on the Internet).

I called a few people in California to let them know I was OK and that I had checked in on a few of our iPlanet employees. What I remember, vividly, is that they had no idea of the scale of what was going on; I got the feeling they believed this was a bit of New York drama and that things certainly couldn’t be so terrifying. I think if you had never lived in or near New York (or any other city which had suffered a terror attack) you have no idea what anybody on the east coast went through that morning. An administrator at our company was actually annoyed with me for calling repeatedly, and I never forgave her and the executive she supported, who knew where I was, for not failing to check up on me when she saw the morning news.

Panic ensued. One of my co-workers from NJ had a rental car, and we hopped in and began driving back to NJ. We made the trip in about 3 1/2 hours, doing well over 100 MPH the whole way, and seeing very few other cars on the road. Coming over the Tappan Zee Bridge, as you looked south to Manhattan, you could see the black plumes of smoke rising from the WTC side. Billy Joel’s “Miami 2017” ran through my head, and still gives me chills.

During the five hours from the first impact until I reached NJ, I had no idea if my friend Bob was alive; there was a major financial services event going on at Windows On The World and I couldn’t remember if he was going to attend or not. I’m pretty sure I cried at least a few times as fear and anxiety set in. Once we got back to NJ, and my co-worker dropped me in town, we had a tearful family reunion as we attempted to explain the events of the day to our kids.

I heard from Bob, and we haven’t gone more than 3 or 4 days without talking to each other since.

Our Sun mail room attendant was drinking his morning coffee and saw the first plane hit 1 WTC, swept the office hollering at everyone, including those in the PA-proofed conference and machine rooms, to evacuate. He saved half a dozen lives.

One of our neighbors decided to drive his kids to school and go into work (in the WTC) a bit late, and he was still en route to the Holland Tunnel when the first plane hit.

The first plane entered 1 WTC right one floor below a customer of mine, and I was certain of bad news as the names of the missing appeared. Two days later, I got an email from the CEO, saying that they were safe and sound and operating out of temporary offices in NJ; they had a staff meeting that morning and the designated breakfast person failed to bring muffins, so the entire team was on its way out of the building at the time the plane literally crashed through their office.

I heard other stories — people who decided it was a beautiful morning, possibly one of the last nice ones, and worthy of a trip outside of the building to get coffee, or donuts, or muffins. My sister was in Switzerland on a business trip, and after finally getting on a flight that would take her to Newark on Saturday, I decided to meet her in Terminal B. Eight hours late, she arrived around midnight, and I was there while her scheduled limo was nowhere to be found. We drove into Manhattan in silence, not just in our car but in Times Square, around Central Park, up the East Side. It was the loneliest and scariest trip through New York ever.

That day accelerated the dot-com bust. It reshaped our views of security, of terrorism, of xenophobia (whether we knew what it was or not). It created many tales of tragedy, of miracles, and of bravery that simply cannot be fathomed or imagined, unless you know someone who has run into a burning building. Fifteen years later, the new World Trade Center transportation center is open, featuring a huge, white, multi-story high architectural sculpture that frames the occulus of its center. Seen from Vesey Street, it’s a maw or teeth or something large and threatening. Seen from Broadway, it’s the head of an eagle, a nice complement to the Liberty Tower behind it. Seen from the 20th floor of a surrounding building, with proper perspective you can truly appreciate the artistic and architectural intent of those long, sweeping arcs of concrete and steel.

It’s a dove.

Fifteen years later, on a Tuesday like many others, I hope we all find the right perspective.

Summer Without Drums

Labor Day in the Stern family is typically framed by melancholy: end of the summer, return from the beach, re-instatement of the rules of school and work and schedules, and a careful consideration of the warm weather soundtrack.

Summer 2016 ends without drums, but ends well this Labor Day.

I am somewhat surprised, but shouldn’t be, by the synchronicity and short-radix connectedness of life in New Jersey, the last two weeks of which have revolved around a drum set. Seven years ago, eager to cement our house’s foundation as the practice home of our son’s band, I bought a gently used drum set from a work friend. One of the best conversations of my marriage went something like this: “Where are you?” “On my way to Mount Olive to get the drum set” (pause) “Where will it go?” “In the basement studio, so the boys can practice there without having to move a drum set around” (pause) “Good idea.” And so, over Labor Day weekend, a Pearl Forum drum set came to rest in our basement, and with a few purchases from pre-overt-creepy Craigslist we added cymbals, cymbal stands, a hi hat clutch and some new heads. And the world’s most hideous carpet remnant that sat under the whole trap (as I’ve learned, a diminutive of “contraption” which most delicately describes our kit).

The last load out for our beloved Pearl Forum kit

The last load out for our beloved Pearl Forum kit

Over the course of the next seven years, that Pearl of an impulse purchase powered many band practices (including the recording of the never released “Out Of The Basement”), a college application supplemental submission, and one of my furtive attempts to discover skills beyond technology management in my post-Oracle pre-Juniper days (Yes, I took drum lessons that I won at a silent auction, and no, my inner Neil Peart failed to materialize). Despite a few reconfigurations, the drums have sat largely unplayed for the better part of four years.

Last week a high school friend asked if anyone had a beginner’s drum set for sale to one of his students; it seemed coincidental that I’ve been considering how to clean up the basement lately and make more room for the overhang of our adult children’s lives. A suitable sales price and meeting location were agreed upon, and then this week I had the confluence of decidedly different but related thoughts and acts. Having finished season one of “Roadies” (highly recommended!), I fondly recounted my two attempts at being a roadie for the boys’ band, packing up the drum set, amps, and guitars into my car for a school gig. While “Roadies” made me wishful for a work life that intersected professional music a bit more, the drum set reminded me of the practicalities of that life. The drum set was broken down, shells stacked, stands arrayed as oversized silverware, cymbals still clamoring for attention through improper loading, and packed into the car one final time.

For the second time in consecutive summers, I found myself facing a musical coda, and I was equally unhappy about it, as if Labor Day was tweaking my nose in my mid-adult years to remind me that sometimes the calendar wins. The small trap kit arrayed on an ugly rug in a high school gym was the closing image of Rush’s R40 tour, the last shows of which the Bubba and I attended just last summer, leaving a void in our musical world that I still feel. And just yesterday, a copy of Neil Peart’s “Far and Wide: Bring That Horizon to Me!”, the tour travelogue and photographic yearbook of that R40 tour, arrived.

Having delivered the drums to their new owner — not too much younger than me, so elated to have a kit of his own, ready to take them on the roads up and down the Jersey shore, accompanied by promises of invitations to shows and gigs and inclusion once again in that broader musical world — I came home and cracked open Peart’s book. What he describes in the opening chapters is a rational and passionate explanation for his retirement, akin to that of a professional athlete, as a gentle staging to what comes next rather than any kind of failure or discord (or dischord). With just that bit of prose, I felt immensely better about selling the (nearly moss-covered) family drum kit. I’ve closed the book on my life as a roadie, drum tech, aging air drummer, and nearly a decade’s worth of summers with drums, leaving me with a distinct appreciation of the timekeeper’s craft.