Finding Hope

  I haven’t thought about this in over thirty years. Which is hilarious, because thirty years in middle age is basically: five minutes, seven lifetimes, and one lower-back injury. But now that life has slowed down — now that I finally have the time to sort through all the old memory filing cabinets I’ve avoided like taxes — this one popped out. Still bright. Still loud. Still warm. His name was Bryan Rosen .  I’d known him since elementary school. Every school has one kid like him — stitched together from sunshine, secondhand denim, and a soul that seemed to have its own peace treaty with the universe. Bryan called himself “The Hippy Jew.” Not for attention. Just accuracy. He was kind before it was cool to be kind . He made kindness look effortless — like some people breathe air and some people breathe goodness. He carried a guitar more faithfully than most adults carry their sanity. I can still see him on the high school lawn — long hair, Lennon glasses, cross-...

    A Love Story in Three Acts: Fear, Humiliation, and Fluorescent Redemption   ACT I:  I   was just turning the corner with Rosie one morning — doing that slow, contemplative, “I’m-a-new-man-now” walk where I pretend my life is a spiritual documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman — when a white construction truck came whipping around the bend like he was qualifying for Daytona at 5:22 a.m. It had: one working headlight three hubcaps and the distinct sound of “Living on a Prayer” blasting from the inside I was wearing — of course — all dark clothing. Like a man actively auditioning to get hit.  He missed us by inches. To be fair, he couldn’t see me. To be even fairer , he definitely couldn’t see Rosie. Like I said...I’m working on being the kind of person who breathes deeply and sends love into the world like St. Francis of Assisi with Airpods. But when that truck nearly wiped us from existence? I did not send love into the world. No. ...

  A s far back as I can remember, I was outside. Not “playing outside” — I mean living outside. We were basically feral children in Toughskins jeans, released into the wild after one bowl of cereal and a 22-minute cartoon. Every Saturday began the same way: Superfriends on a TV with six channels — seven if someone in the neighborhood adjusted their antenna at the exact right angle. Then cereal (always cereal — seven days a week like it was a government mandate). Then we were off. Our parents didn’t “plan activities.” They just opened the door, like farmers releasing livestock, and said, “Be back when someone cries.” A simpler time. The woods behind my house stretched on forever… until they didn’t. Now it’s McMansions, golf-course lawns, and yards big enough to require a riding mower and a small prayer circle. But back then? It was our kingdom. We built underground forts . Let me repeat that: FIVE FEET DEEP HOLES IN THE EARTH. We dug like we were auditioning fo...

N ow that I’m home every night, I have been promoted—without interview or consent—to Director of Bedtime Operations . It’s a complicated role. A delicate dance. A nightly hostage negotiation, except we are the hostages and the kids hold all the power. Erin and I find ourselves standing in the hallway whispering like exhausted FBI agents: “Please. PLEASE. Stay in your room. We’ll give you anything. Water? Ice cubes? A NASA-grade humidifier? A unicorn?” Growing up, I don’t remember anyone monitoring whether I brushed my teeth, washed my face, hydrated like I was preparing for a desert marathon, or had the perfect ambient soundscape to ensure REM sleep. I went to bed whenever my body collapsed under the weight of childhood. But now? Now bedtime is an Olympic sport. And recently, Sadie has introduced a new event. A tradition. A ritual. A prank so diabolical and delightful that I am both its victim and its biggest fan. It started one night when I tucked her in for the “final goodnight”—...

H ere’s the thing nobody tells you when you’re a kid living your best 1970s life: You’re not just going to school. You’re starring in a coming-of-age film directed by Spielberg, scored by John Williams, and funded by the PTA bake sale. Elementary School in the late ’70s wasn’t an institution — it was a universe. A universe where everything felt giant and magical and slightly sticky. Back then: Kindergarten was a half day because no adult in 1979 was trying to entertain twenty-five six-year-olds for eight straight hours. We built cities with real wooden blocks, took naps on unforgiving carpet squares, and ate paste casually like it was a food group. Third grade cursive was treated like the unveiling of the Dead Sea Scrolls. “You will now learn… THE LOOPY SECRET LANGUAGE OF ADULTS.” We were solemn. We were reverent. We dotted our i’s with circles because that was our only act of rebellion. Recess was not optional. It was survival. We played outside hard — like “if you didn’...

  L et’s establish a universal truth:  Junior High should be illegal. In the 80s it was called Junior High . Now they call it Middle School . Same premise, same trauma. Different hair products. Honestly, no child should be forced to attend school during the exact years when: your voice sounds like you’re possessed by a confused demonic pigeon hair is appearing in places it absolutely did not send a calendar invite for your height changes hourly like you’re doing puberty CrossFit your social status swings wildly between “invisible” and “please stop noticing me” It should NOT be wished upon your worst enemy. Not even the kid who pasted you during dodgeball. But now that I’ve slowed down enough to remember the years I tried desperately to block, here are the Top 10 Most Horrific / Hilarious Things I Remember About Junior High (circa 1984) : 1. My first day at Attica. I walked in straight from elementary school innocence, where my biggest scandal was not s...

N ow listen… I know you’re thinking, Does this man do anything besides walk his dogs at sunrise? And the answer is: no. This is my Roman Empire now. Every morning — before humans should legally be awake — I take Rosie and Benji to 7-Eleven for my holy, life-sustaining, personality-correcting coffee. Then we go into the woods because apparently I’m now the kind of person who “seeks quiet.” (Younger me would like a word.) Depending on the season, sometimes it’s pitch black out. Other times, there’s enough light to see everything… and everyone. Especially if they’re coming toward me , which is a skill you develop when walking two dogs who believe every squirrel is a personal threat. And that’s when I started noticing him. The Jeep. A gray, older-model Jeep with a window perpetually cracked open and cigarette smoke drifting out like a low-budget fog machine. Same Jeep. Same spot. Same time. Rain, snow, humidity so thick you could butter it — didn’t matter. The man was always ...

  W hen I look at schools today, with their carefully curated newsletters, digital attendance alerts, parent portals, PTA Facebook groups, and emergency notifications that make your phone scream like it’s being mugged — I just shake my head. Pajama Day didn’t exist. If you wore pajamas to school in the ’80s, someone would’ve asked if you were running away from home. B ecause school in the 1980s? Was a feral wilderness.  Lawless. Beautifully unregulated. No cell phones. No parent emails. No one sending “gentle reminders.” The only reminder you got was a teacher yelling your name across the hallway like they were calling in cattle. Parents didn’t text teachers. Parents didn’t email teachers. Parents didn’t communicate with teachers. If your mother called the school office, the secretary whispered, “What happened?” like she was preparing for a crime report. If you didn’t understand the homework, you just didn’t understand the homework. You went to school the next day a...