In Tune In Time

What has it been, like practically two years since I've entertained you with my deepest of thoughts?
It's not that I have lost interest in writing to you and letting you know what I'm thinking about. It's more about my daily routine and stubborn reluctance to stray from my active lifestyle.

Because I have no real interest today in chatting about any one particular subject, I'll just babble along aimlessly and catch you up on the ins and outs of my daily life in sunny Florida.

I'm still managing to hit the streets on a fairly regular basis. Running, we're talking about. In-fact, this month puts me at twenty four years on the roads, and close to 75 pairs of Asics running shoes purchased and trampled to death. Those years have been good to me. Hell, I'm still able to get out there and manage a decent pace. Not fast, not slow --decent.

Ninety degree running weather has many advantages, and probably a few disadvantages too. It's easy to keep the extra weight off, especially if you tend to like the --not so healthy--treats. That's me! It also makes for interesting comments from my neighbors as I run by, "you're crazy, you'll die out here" for example. I smile and wave.

Music continues to take up the majority of each day. Relax, it's a good thing! Do you remember how it started for me? Actually, it started back in the '60s in my school, when I decided I wanted to play the trumpet. It continues to this very day, minus a 37 year break. I misplaced my horn and found it 37 years later. Okay, actually that's not the truth. Life happened and I misplaced the interest in playing. Now you know the facts.

Where am I at today with the music thing, you ask? Well, here's an abbreviated version, so as not to bore you to tears with my awesome life. I know...it sounds conceited, but it's not, and I'm not. Really.

Practicing my music on an average of four to five hours each day has taken me to some exciting performance venues. Patti joined the ranks with me a couple of years ago and together we make for an interesting duo. It's not often that you would see a singer with a trumpet player. In a nutshell, Patti makes me look (and sound) good. It's true.

We have been able to perform in many venues including the immediate area we live in. I'll mention two highlights to our performances. Every performance, whether for a private club/meeting or a performance open to the public, have all been fun and exciting.

When we vacationed in Los Cabos, Mexico last June, we performed at the Hyatt Ziva resort where we were staying. The nightclub/bar had a small crowd that evening, but the Baileys was great!

Recently we were contracted to perform in the Villages Retirement community at the Savannah Center. This venue exposed our music to upward of five thousand people. Many compliments were received and several more offers came as a result of these performances.

So that's a little update that I wanted to share. We're headed for a busy summer with three graduations and lots of traveling. Seattle, Chicago, Boston, New York --my Asics and trumpet are packed-- where are you going?

~The Chief

for to listen to some of our stuff -
www.bornagainbrass.com

On A More Personal Note

I've always enjoyed music. From as far back as I can recall, there was music in my life. I was raised in a family where music was a part of our daily routine. The family piano may have been the catalyst which fueled the passion in my siblings, and myself, and helped to embed a lifelong appreciation for any harmonious collection of notes and lyrics.

I vividly remember many of my childhood years  —from the mid 60s to the early 70s— stumbling through song after song on my trumpet. The venue most commonly was my father's television repair shop, and it usually included my background accompaniment; a state-of-the-art high fidelity stereo record player, a Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass album, and of course, my father.

Dad enjoyed my feeble attempt at mimicking Mr. Alpert, and there is little doubt in my mind that I felt as though I was the next best thing to him. But that was then, and as time marches on, all good things come to an end. I sold my trumpet the year that I graduated from high school.

My interest in this writing is more about pleasing myself, than the reader. Selfish, but so it is. I seem to have a strong and necessary desire to put my thoughts on paper. Music, although always an important part of my life, has now evolved into something more. As quickly as an uncontrollable disease can take over and consume a human body, music, without warning, has perforated my human shell, and like a fiery molten lava, traveled through my internal passageways, arriving neatly into every single cell —and in tune.

It wasn't until August of 2011 that I was reunited with that simple piece of brass plumbing, commonly referred to as a trumpet. Interestingly enough, I still had a passion for that particular brass instrument —although not my personal horn from the 70s.

Enough said about trumpets, brass and the 70s. Let's talk about how this music thing, this disease I have acquired, has affected my inner self.

I'll make a simple statement that may explain what I feel today, regarding my involvement in the music and entertainment business. Taking the chance that this may seem strange to you, I'll relate this new found career to my past career of 30 years; law enforcement.

Here is my simple statement —To fully understand something, you have to live it.

Although retired from the badge for seven years, there is still a love for the police profession along with a protective instinct that manifests itself within the deepest corridor of my prefrontal cortex. Simply stated, if you are of the type who tends to ridicule, second guess, dis or badmouth the police, you are not a friend of mine. Ask any of those whom have posted negative police comments on any of my social networking forums and you'll find that they were once friends of mine. Key words "were once", relatives included. Consider also, my wife's profession as a kindergarten teacher. Often is the time that she hears of how "fun" her job must be, totally discounting the fact that she spends hundreds of hours with a small tribe of five year old "cute" children. Cute children that she has the responsibility of teaching to read, write, solve math problems, prepare for passing mandated state testing, teach basic computer skills, ad infinitum. Kindergarten isn't what it once was folks. It's oh so easy to do a job, when you don't have that job.  Back to music.

Until I started playing and performing, I was simply a spectator. I had a love for music and as Patti (Mrs. Xavier) frequently states, when talking about my music, "he always had (has) music playing of one genre or another." But again, I was only a spectator. I didn't realize what music truly was about. Certainly over the years, I had songs I liked, artists I liked and those that didn't interest me. But now, I look and listen with a keen ear. An ear I have always had, but the skills of which, I hadn't honed. Until now.

Spending a typical day for me includes not only playing and practicing my brass contraption of a musical instrument, but also listening intently and analyzing song after song. Listening to a variety of artists, song writers and singers, and often times mimicking their voice —or trying desperately to mimic— by way of my horn. As a young boy may dissect any small creature, I dissect each song, often times note by note.  My horn is my voice.

I have learned to love music in a totally different way than ever before. I listen intently with these same two ears, but in a different manner, and for different reasons. I analyze songs, piece by piece. So much work, and so much effort has been put forth by so many singers and musicians that at times it just seems unbelievable to me. All of this studying, practicing and effort on my part has enabled me to view the world of music on a different level, a different playing field. I know instantly, when listening to a song now, if it would make for a good instrumental (horn) song for me. I usually can tell the difficulty level of that song long before attempting to make it my own.

I'm thrilled, as you the reader have probably surmised, at my newest of ambitions. The world of music consumes me...always. Nary a moment goes by when I am not feeling a song deep in my soul or in that prefrontal cortex I mentioned previously.

Should I have pursued a career in music back in the 70s rather than that as a uniformed officer? My answer is, "probably not." I enjoyed a really good career and totally enjoyed my accomplishments over that span of years serving and protecting. The money and benefits made for a comfortable living too. Today, I enjoy reflecting on those times now and then, in between songs that I perform for those willing to listen to me.

~Safe Living~

-The Chief

 http://bornagainbrass.com/

Firearms - The Great Debate

A year has gone by since my last "On the Road" tale and that is hard for me to comprehend. My excuse, however flimsy -- simply stated -- is that I am a fairly busy individual. The purchase of a new home coupled with my newest profession as a music maker are a couple of the excuses that I'll throw out there as a diversion to the fact that I am just a lazy man.

All of that said, I would like to fill this space now with my thoughts on firearms and all of the current media revolving around guns, unnecessary deaths in the United States, and the like. If ever there was any one topic that could cause so much hot and aggressive debate, I think that guns, and the 2nd amendment are that topic.

My report here is just one of many hundreds of thousands written jibber-jabber on the topic. For that reason, I'll pardon you if you choose to log-out now and move onto something of much more interest. You probably won't like what I have to spew out to you anyway, but here goes...

We, as a people...are stupid. Yes - people are stupid, and not only are we stupid, we're very gullible. See something in print whether on the internet, or in the local paper and "presto" it's gospel. " I saw it in the paper, it must be true". I heard it on the news, it can't be wrong". News flash! People are stupid! Even reporters.

I'll admit right up front that I have conflicting thoughts regarding certain bits and pieces of the "firearm hype" but that mostly revolves around the assault rifle topic. I for one, do not own an assault rifle or any weapon for that matter which could constitute a small army were I to show up fully loaded and ready to rock and roll. But this is not about assault rifles --it's about guns in general. Guns, and the way they are portrayed by us.

I still have in my possession a small semi-automatic handgun that I carried on-duty for many years. A gun which has the capability of killing a living being at any given time. A gun which has never killed a living being and hopefully never will.

I possess a cell phone --an iPhone-- which is capable of killing a living being. A device which has never killed a living being and hopefully never will.  I possess a Jeep vehicle too, which has that same capability. Okay, you get my drift. A comparison of sorts, which most people --even stupid people-- are aware of. But there is a reason I have headed in this direction with my story.

Whenever there is a firearm incident involving a large number of people, or a death, or a serious injury in this great nation of ours --faster than the ink can dry or the news anchor can sip another taste of his coffee-- the anti-gun people are out in droves screaming for stricter legislation. "Ban all guns. Guns kill people. The second amendment was written when guns were necessary, not for today". All good comments except for one simple point. They are stupid. Did you just log-out? No? Cool, follow along with me here, it gets better.

I would like now to explain why those comments filter into my head as "stupid comments" by a "stupid people,"  yes, we Americans.

Jane Doe yesterday was driving her new mustang on the interstate and while enjoying the amazing countryside, decided to text her friend Pat to let her know she was thinking of her. Within seconds --and before finishing her text-- disaster struck as she veered into an oncoming car. Have you ever seen what a head-on collision between two vehicles looks like when they are both traveling at approximately seventy miles per hour? That's a 140 mile per hour impact, and I have.

How sad that Jane Doe died on the scene. Much more sad is the fact that John Smith, his wife and their three young children perished in the blaze that followed the horrific crash. The coroner says that they were dead before they burned beyond recognition.

Six people dead instantly. The weapon? A cell phone. It was crazy how fast the news spread and the anti-cellphone people surfaced. "Ban all cellphones. Cellphones kill people."  The President of the United States finally was fed up enough with all of the senseless cellphone deaths, that he put together a committee to help and regulate cellphone possession.

Ironically, within two days of the above referenced incident, another terrifying crash took place on that very stretch of highway. This time the scene involved Jim Jones. Jim was a good guy and he really was trying to deal with his drinking habit in a responsible manner. Times were tough for him though, and he decided to have "one for the road" right before he left Lucky's. He too, took out an innocent family on the highway that day. The weapon? A 2006 Chevrolet Pick-up. This incident killed a family of four.  He survived with superficial injuries. His incident also made the evening news, and once again, within hours, the anti-vehicle people were up in arms. "Ban all vehicles. Vehicles kill people."

The incidents mentioned above along with the recent senseless killings of a school-room full of children all have one thing in common. A person committed the act. A gun, a cellphone and a vehicle were simply the tools used to carry out the task.

The difference however, is how we American people view this issue. Stupid people. Many of us, and perhaps you, would have this to say about the three incidents in a manner such as this:

A man killed a group of children with a gun. Something has to be done about guns.

A woman killed a family of 5, plus herself with a cellphone. Something has to be done about people texting and driving.

A drunk killed a family of 4. He should go to jail for life.

As soon as the term "firearm, weapon, gun, rifle, pistol, handgun etc" is mentioned in any crisis, there is a call for gun legislation.

In the other situations, the blame is always put on the person. Hence my firm comments about us being a "stupid people."  Facts are facts though. Think about it.

~Safe Riding

  The Chief

What's Your Name?

I've always disliked my name. As far back as I can remember, my name has been an issue to me. I probably told my mother on dozens of occasions, just how unhappy I was that she named me Daryl. "Why didn't you name me something normal like the other three boys in the family?" I would often ask her in an unpleasant tone.

It's funny to me that fifty-plus years later, I still feel the same way.

Many times, when I introduce myself to someone and utter the name Daryl... I feel as though I am introducing someone other than myself. My name is foreign to me now, just has it has always been.

When I was running today, I thought about how different the world would be if our labels were something other than names. What if the human race was assigned numbers upon birth, rather than names? That would be pretty cool. "Hey honey, I'm going over to 68456348s house for awhile."  Just a thought.

After I graduated from high school, where my name was the subject --on many occasions --of ridicule, I joined the ranks of a police agency where I then became a number. "Seneca to 157, respond to a domestic dispute. Nothing physical yet, just some name calling". This seemed to suit me pretty well. Along with the number assignment, my new label was now "Deputy". I liked that much better.

Later on in years as my career developed, my label changed a couple of more times. First to Sergeant and then finally to Chief. I enjoyed being called Chief rather than Daryl and it probably showed. My twin sons, after convincing me to retire from the uniform and badge gig at the ripe young age of 48, hired me at their company where I would acquire the name of Chief Sales Representative. They always introduced me as "Chief" and typically that's how they would address me. If they called me "Dad", it was usually going to be a pretty serious conversation.

So now, as I enter yet another phase of my life --having actually retired this time, and relocated to the Sunshine State, I'm laying the ground work for yet another label. Although many still refer to me as "Chief", I'm really not a chief anymore. As I venture out now, hopefully into the entertainment world, I need to come up with a snazzy (yes, I said snazzy) stage name. I don't care to be introduced as "Daryl, the trumpet player" nor do I care to be called the Chief trumpet player.

The other day during a conversation, Patti --my fiancée (now there's a neat label) referred to me as "that trumpet guy" and I kind of like that. Think about it... I live in an adult community filled with bad drivers and failing memories. "Hey Agatha, let's go back to the italian restaurant where that trumpet guy was playing. He sucked, but the food was great!"

~Safe Travels~

-Daryl

The Miracle (Part II)

If Jocelyn had been aware of how anxious everyone was to meet her, she may have chosen to enter our world somewhat earlier.

She's here now though, and everything in the world is right.

Several months ago, probably around nine or so, my daughter called me to tell me the news -- "Dad... Manny and I are going to have a baby."
I was happy for her, and I tried to make that evident during our phone conversation. Though I tried my best to sound thrilled with her news, I know that she could detect a slight amount of insincerity. I'll admit once again, that I'm not really growing old gracefully, and the title of "grandfather, grandpa" or the like, initially didn't set very well with me.

But that was then, and now is now.

Almost two weeks overdue, little Jocelyn finally left behind her dark and warm fortress of solitude, and made her grand entrance into the world that we all know. The delivery had its complications, but the end result was perfect, wonderful, and extremely emotional for everyone involved.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I did have those feelings initially. Understand though, that I've always been somewhat vain, but I think being a grandfather now has helped me to grow emotionally. There, I said that word..."grandfather" and it actually makes me feel happy.

Thus ends the (written) story --The Miracle Part I and Part II, but it's really just the beginning.

I'm thinking that "grandpa" will be a frequent flyer to the state of California. For now though, I'll just pack my bags and hop a plane back to Florida. It's been a wonderful month Kristin and Manny. I enjoyed the visit --the San Diego Zoo, Gaslamp Quarter, the tour of the U.S.S. Midway, tour of Stone Brewery (what I remember of it- thanks Eric) and all of the walking we did to help Jocelyn along her journey.

Jocelyn Mae Laguna
Born 10/28/11 - 7:01 p.m.
8lbs 3oz
21" and Well Done.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Miracle (Part 1)

2100 hours... Okay, for those who can't convert, that's nine o'clock p.m.

That was our arrival time at Navy Medical last night, here in San Diego. My daughter, son in-law, and I reported here after what has seemed like an eternity of waiting for their daughter, and my first grandchild to arrive. We are twelve days overdue.

So, like any good father would do, I sit here and wait patiently. In my dark corner of the room I watch and listen intently as nurses come and go throughout the night. I'll say one thing about this place --the service to my daughter has been top notch! There have been complications, but nothing extreme or alarming, at least to me. However, I do realize that it's easy for a man to feel this way --it's not my body that's involved.

As is usual for me, anytime that I am placed in an environment where I have thinking time, I do in-fact think.  Things that are typically relevant to my immediate situation are what generally flood my mind.

Wasn't it just yesterday that my only daughter --the one whom will soon have the title of "mother"--sat patiently in my kitchen sink for her daily bath?  Is this the same little girl who would sing to me each morning, the "acorn" song? Where did the time go?

My next "On the Road" tale will surely be about the newest member of our family, but for now...I sit and wait. It has been a long night.

Hang in there Kristin. The pain will soon be gone and forgotten as you bask in an unbelievable feeling of love and joy for a new human being that you and Manny have brought into this world.

0500 hours and waiting patiently...


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

And the Angels Sing

If man pays close enough attention to certain events in his life, he will realize that some of those events hold hidden lessons --life lessons.

It was about a year ago that I met Josephine. The day was a typical autumn day in New Jersey. After picking Patti up at the elementary school where she was teaching, she asked me if I would take her to see Josephine. I was somewhat familiar with Jo, having had a few conversations with Patti about her. Patti was her tutor.

Josephine was like any other six year old, and because I have always liked kids, we had a fun visit. Although the visit was short, it gave me time to learn a lot about this special young lady. An infectious smile coupled with bright and beautiful eyes, spoke volumes about this young and struggling for life, tot. Josephine, just a short time ago, had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer.

That night, as Patti and I enjoyed some quiet time together, I remember speaking about our visit with Josephine. I thought about, and spoke of my own existence, and how I felt that I had no right at all to complain about any of my own ailments. Although not typically one to complain, I realized that I often mentioned the minor aches and pains I was experiencing, associated with my recently diagnosed arthritis. "I don't even know what pain is", I remember telling Patti, as I thought about the pain that little Josephine had surely endured during the past year or so.

A few months later, Patti and I attended a benefit dinner and auction which was being held for Josephine and her family --the profits of which were being utilized to help defer the tremendous medical costs which were continuously growing. Josephine was there and I felt fortunate that I had the chance once again to visit with her, although only for a brief period. The love and caring atmosphere that was felt at this event was somewhat overwhelming to me. The thoughts I had felt from my previous visit with her, were rekindled that evening.

Patti was Josephine's tutor.

The reality however, is that little Josephine was really Patti's tutor. There was a deeper relationship than Patti teaching Josephine those types of things that teachers teach children. Patti didn't tell me this, in-fact we haven't really even discussed my thinking here or the fact that I'm writing this story, but I will state again --Josephine was really Patti's tutor, for Josephine helped to teach Patti about life. I know this, because I was also a recipient of this life lesson. It was a hard hitting lesson Josephine, and as I silently weep --know that it was a good lesson for me.

Last night, Patti received the call. Little Josephine had succumbed to the cancer. An innocent and beautiful little child was now an angel. I have no better way to say it, as my thoughts during this writing are clouded.

May you truly rest now --free of pain-- in peace.

In memory of the littlest of angels - 

Josephine   2005 - 2011

My Little World

I'm just not ready, and that's that. No one may understand, but the fact is --I like it here in my warm and comfortable fortress of dark security. I'm sure that life on the outside is probably okay, but for now I'll just remain here a little longer, and learn and grow in the comfort of my surroundings.

The muffled sounds outside are interesting to me. I don't quite understand the voices but they seem to be fairly constant, although there is a short break from the sounds every so often, and the silence seems to be on a schedule. There also seems to be a lot of activity, a certain type of movement somewhat regularly. Sometimes the movement I speak of tends to make me feel like I'm falling --head first, but overall I feel secure.

Wait, there's that strange feeling again --as if something very cold is trying to permeate my fortress. Usually when I get this sensation of  cold (kind of like ice cream cold, although I'm not really sure what that is) but not uncomfortable change in my secure environment, the feeling lasts for just a short time. Gradually, the warm and gentle surroundings that I am so used to, return and I am once again at peace. I love my environment as I grow each day.

I have been here for a very long time, although I don't yet really understand time --in-fact, I don't really understand too much at this point in my life. I am alive however and I have many thoughts. Thoughts are forming each day but for now, I'll just stay here and enjoy this warm and comfortable fortress that I have grown to love.

There will be plenty of time to learn about life, and plenty of time to learn about the world. These are all of the things that everyone else knows about except me.

I am alive you see, but I haven't yet been born into your world. I am on the way however, so relax and enjoy each day until I decide to make my grand entrance into our world.

*Relayed to me from my soon to be born granddaughter, Jocelyn.


~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

The Road Less Traveled

I think thoughts. I think about things that everyone else thinks about but I feel unfulfilled unless I write about them.

I'm now approaching a milestone with my newest life --a life of Florida living. It's hard to believe that it has been almost one year since I packed up my belongings and headed south from the Empire State. I've learned a lot about Florida in just this one year and I want to share some of my thoughts. Some good, some not so good.

First and probably the most joyous of reasons that I chose Florida to be my new stomping grounds was weather based. The weather here, simply stated is marvelous. Of course, I realize at this point in my life that no matter where you go, people --as a general rule, aren't happy unless they're complaining about something. So as much as I like the climate here and love the heat, I hear pretty much daily that "it's too hot". Excuse me sir, "why the hell did you move to Florida if you don't like heat?"

The people here are people. I've made a recent decision to stay away from the local news on television. In a nutshell, it's just plain scary. I thought that New York harbored some of the weirdest thugs and back-woods rednecks in the land. I was wrong... so wrong.

I won't mention motorists in the state of Florida. Uh, I guess I just did. Truthfully however, it doesn't matter what state you travel or reside in --bad drivers outweigh good drivers at least ten to one. Most of them were born in New Jersey and then apparently moved to all points around the nation. The only difference is that those whom relocated to Florida are also legally blind. End of story.

Finally, I'll discuss the choice I made last year as far as the exact area of Florida I chose to reside in. In-fact, there's a previous "On the Road" story about it. 

The Villages are located in north central Florida and are considered the optimum of retirement communities -- a sort of Utopia if you will. There are probably more golf carts here than automobiles. There are also more older folks than I've ever seen in my entire life. Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike the older generation. I'm heading in that direction as we speak. It's entirely possible that I'm having a fairly hard time accepting the fact that I'm aging, and not gracefully.

The Villages are unique.  A couple of weeks ago, I took a walk around my neighborhood. It was around 9:00 p.m. and a gorgeous evening. Within minutes of my walk, I felt like Rod Serling had come back to life and was writing another Twilight Zone episode about a ghost town. This place was eerily dead. I mean, after all... it was early evening and there was absolutely no sign of life --house after house after dark and quiet house. I wondered, has everyone retired for the evening already, or is everyone out partying in the town square. My guess is the latter of the two because one thing I have discovered that is certain --Village residents tend to live like there is no tomorrow.

The Villages boasts many great reasons to live here  --the convenience of all types of stores and restaurants, live entertainment nightly and probably most importantly, inexpensive beer. I was told prior to my move here, that the Villages are considered the adult Disney World. This is an accurate description.

I was wise to move into a rental home first, to get an overall view of the area prior to purchasing a home in Florida. I think another year of renting will complete my investigation. My second year however will be spent looking at the Villages from the outside, rather than from within --as I head up the road just a piece.

"Hello, UHaul... I need to rent a truck."

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Blowing My Own Horn

I was speaking with an old friend of mine recently, catching up on each others lives. We hadn't been in contact with each other for a few years, so there was much to discuss. Toward the end of the conversation, I asked if he had read any of my "On the Road" tales. He replied somewhat sarcastically that my stories were about all of the great places I've been and great things I've done, and so he hadn't.

Our conversation made me realize that in-fact he was right. My stories are pretty much about me and my travels, hence the name --On the Road with the Chief. It kind of makes sense to me that "my" stories are about "my" travels and things that "I've" done. I do know "me" best and it's easiest to talk about me. I guess it could be said that I like to "blow my own horn".

Speaking of which, let me tell you about my most recent endeavor. 

When I was around eleven or twelve years old, I decided that I wanted to learn to play the trumpet. I remember approaching the music teacher, and without a doubt awkwardly spewed out the fact that I wanted to begin an affair with a trumpet --an affair that unbeknown to me at the time, would last all through my school years. After a short conversation about playing a brass instrument, I was handed a mouthpiece, and told to practice with it for about a week. I followed the music teacher's directions --which following directions for me was fairly rare.

I was raised in a small town in upstate New York, and the local school was rather small. Available funds for the music department were probably scarce. When I was handed my new --to me-- brass instrument, I remember being quite disappointed. The horn that I was about to take possession of was a little brother to the trumpet --a cornet-- and had more dents and dings than the bumper-cars at the local amusement park. The silver "matte" finish probably boasted a shiny new surface decades before, but not that my eyes would ever see. It did resemble a horn though, and I was able to bring it to life.

I learned to play the trumpet, and enjoyed every part of the music scene. All through high-school I was in the concert band, and the marching band. I played solos at events, many in churches around the local area. I was passionate about music.

A Christmas or two after I was loaned my badly abused dull and ugly cornet, I received as a gift, a brand new two-tone brass and silver trumpet. I had the nicest trumpet in school and I remember being very proud of that horn. Thanks mom and dad! But like they say, "all good things must end someday", and upon graduation from high school, I sold my trumpet and ventured out seeking other interests.

A couple of months ago, I realized that I still had an interest in the trumpet --an interest that I had put to bed for 37 years. I tried on a couple of occasions to play my son's trumpet, which he had from his high school days, and found that although obviously pretty rusty, I still had a fairly natural ability to play. I ordered a new trumpet that week.

I'm about six weeks into practicing now, and I find that I am as passionate as ever about becoming a really good musician. The passion that I have for music tends to mirror that of which I have for the sport of running. I have considered joining or starting a band if I become as good on the horn as I plan to. I think running for the past two decades has probably increased my lung capacity and my new trumpet feels at home in my somewhat older hands.

So on the subject of blowing my own horn --yes I do-- and I'm happy to say that I'm proud of it. Will blowing my own horn make me rich and famous? I'm thinking that it probably won't, but two things are certain. First, I am having a lot of fun playing again, and second... it gave me something new to write about.

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Cat's in the Cradle

Harry Chapin probably said it best, and as I was on my daily run today, his song was lodged in my brain, repeating the lyrics over and over.  "When you coming home dad, I don't know when, but we'll get together then son, you know we'll have a good time then."

If there is one single song that speaks to the way I have felt for the past two months of my life, this one surely is it. So let me take a minute or two and explain myself. It's deep, really deep --at least to me.

First, let me acknowledge the fact that I am in a much different place in my life today, being mostly retired. I say "mostly" because although I am no longer gainfully employed, I still tend to work many hours each week, but now it's for myself and no one else. Because I have a much more relaxed lifestyle today, I have learned to truly enjoy life and all of the little things that didn't use to matter to me. The fact is however, that they do matter.

As the words of Harry's song kept repeating themselves in my mind, I thought about my current lifestyle, and about those who are most dear to me. I watch and listen daily, to the many varied events and activities taking place within my family. The song lyrics reminded me of how fast my own life has flashed by, from childhood to the retired adult body that I currently occupy.

The "Cat's In the Cradle" probably best describes my life with my sons. I've had many conversations with them over the past few years. Although they may not realize it now, nor would they admit it if they did, I see two young men who have put their lives on hold, while they work tirelessly to reap the benefits of their dreams. Being business owners, they both work an excessive number of hours each week, as if there is an extreme urgency to succeed, and to do it now.

My fear is that someday they'll look back and have regrets. Regrets that they didn't take time for themselves or more importantly, that they didn't take the time to enjoy life. I wonder at times if they know that they can never get this time back, or when they do realize it, that it will be too late. That is my fear.

My sons are not the only people in my life that I have those thoughts about. I guess I really think about this with each of my family members --those working and those who are still in school. Racing around daily, hardly ever taking the time to relax and enjoy those things that truly matter in life. Is it just me who sees this? Is it because I have experienced both sides of the spectrum, and now have the time to think about this and more clearly recognize the daily chaos that surrounds us?

There was a time in my life that I too was guilty of living life in the fast lane. At one time, early in my career, I held five positions all in separate police agencies. Working a 70-hour week was not uncommon. Today I regret the time missed while my children were young. "He learned to walk while I was away" really hits home with me now. I don't want those whom I love and care about today, to harbor these same regrets later on in their lives.

What in life is truly important? Other than Maslow's list of basic needs --food, clothing and shelter-- is anything else really that important? I've truly realized just recently that things are just that...things. Nothing more. Looking at the big picture  --other than those basic needs-- everything else is of little importance. Everything that is, except for time. Our time here on earth is paramount over all else.

I've spoken about "time" in previous stories, and now once again, time rears its ugly head. But time truly is the enemy here --or so it seems to me anyway. Even though time in and of itself can't be slowed down or stopped, we can effectively manage it. It is possible to mask the onward marching of time to give your personal stopwatch the appearance that it ran somewhat slower than it really did.

On any given day, I hear the phrase, "I don't have time", both from friends and family alike. You hear it too, and without a doubt you have uttered those same words. How many times do you say that very thing? In most instances, not having the time really isn't the issue. The issue is more accurately; that you won't take the time and also that you may not be a good time manager.

A few summers ago, I was working with my sons at their company in New York. Often times, at the end of the workday --usually around five o'clock, some of us would head out for a ride on our motorcycles.  Typically there was no destination in mind; we would just ride to unwind for the day. One of my sons generally would not join us, "sorry, I can't go...I've still got work to do", he would counter, day after day when we would attempt to get him to join us. After our ride, he would still be at his desk and on most occasions, work late into the night. This was a common scenario for more than one summer and it always bothered me that he wouldn't take the time to join us. "Life's too short", I would often say --but my insignificant comments would just drift off into space.

Looking back now, and thinking about this same son who has moved forward taking on a completely new adventure, I am sure he realizes --as I do, that nothing would have changed, had he taken the time to enjoy some of those rides. The end result with that company would have been the same. He was still destined to move into a new phase of his professional life. He certainly gained some business knowledge working those late hours night after night, but the trade off --at least in my mind-- wasn't worth the time lost had he chosen to enjoy a little bit of life... time that he can't recoup.

I would like to think that I have always been the type of person who takes the time to really enjoy the simple things in life. The sad reality however, is that I wasn't. But it's not too late for me and I've learned how to totally enjoy life now. I recognize that which is important --truly important, and those things in life, which are just insignificant things. What can I do to help others --those I care most about, to see life the way that I see it now? Are written words about my life and my experiences capable of changing another man's thoughts regarding how he lives his life?

I have to wonder now --as I sit here in my more calm and enjoyable world, if I am partially responsible for the hectic and often chaotic world around me. Have I created this lifestyle for my family, or is this just the way that the world has changed? Perhaps this is the way that life is supposed to be. Maybe my viewpoint about life is obscured. When it comes to life and living, is there really a best or worst category or perhaps a right or wrong way to go through life?

I don't profess to have the answers, but the words of your song, Harry, really hit me hard today. "And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me --he'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me."

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief

Little Feet

Running and kids... they go together. Think about it. Think about your life when you were a young child. Once having learned to walk, you started to run. If you can't remember back to those days, think of some other child that you may know. Running is a natural thing to children. Sadly enough however, we seem to leave the running behind as we age.

I had the pleasure of running a 5k race at the Dorchester Elementary School in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey this weekend. Being a runner and having run races for a couple of decades now, I have learned to size up the crowd before a race. I also am very observant of many other "race" details, having directed my own five and ten kilometer races in my hometown many years ago.

This particular race was like most others in many respects, but there were a couple of differences that I observed, that I felt were worthy of today's story.

First, I noticed as soon as I arrived and made my way around the crowd of runners and spectators, that there were many children present. Many of the youngsters I observed were donning their race bib numbers in preparation for a race that would probably seem like twice the 5k distance to their pint-sized legs and feet. I love it when young people run races. It's very inspiring. I don't necessarily love it however, when a ten year old outruns me, but I still like to see them compete because --hey, I'm a good sport!

Once completing this well laid out flat and fast three-and-one-tenth mile course, I sat and watched as the other runners made it across the finish line. The number of young runners --I'm talking about those under ten years old, was unbelievable to me. What I mostly observed was the fact that they all came across the finish line smiling. They were having fun and it showed. Some of the adults were smiling too, as they finished, but all of the kids were smiling.

The other thing that I noticed about this race was just how well it was coordinated. From the registration desks and packet pick-up, to the placement of water stations and finally, the rapid posting of race results after the first runners crossed the finish line. With some humor thrown in, the announcer at the finish line did a bang-up job, calling out the runner's names over the loudspeaker, as she also encouraged everyone to give it their best for the last hundred feet or so of the race.

It's always refreshing to compete in a well organized race, and having a field of young runners helps to keep the kid in me alive and well. Running and kids... they go together.

Thank you Woodcliff Lake Education Foundation for putting on a great event!

~Safe Running~

-The Chief

The Old Pump

My heart --that's what this story is about. I have a heart and it's large. I mean big, really big. Several Cardiologists and I are aware of this.

One morning in 2002 --if my memory serves correctly-- I was on my way home from working the mid-night shift in Rochester. I had decided to stop in my village for breakfast, before going home to bed.

I was sitting at the counter in the local diner, conversing with a neighbor and waiting for my order.  While we were talking, a series of sharp chest pains stopped by for a visit. As the pain increased, I stood up and walked toward the door of the restaurant. Not wanting to make a scene, I walked around a little and then returned to my seat as the pain had subsided.

While I ate, I was concerned about what I had just experienced. The symptoms included pain and tightening of the chest and also a slight numbness in my arm. It was obvious to me, these were the classic signs of a heart attack. After enjoying my pancakes with lots of syrup, I went home and went to bed.

Within the next few weeks after seeing my doctor, and then the cardiologist that had been recommended, I was scheduled for a cardiac catheterization. That's the procedure where they put a nice little slit in the area of your groin, and then send this nifty little camera --attached to the end of a roto-rooter type snake-- up to your heart to kind of snoop around and see what they can see. As fun and good times go, it wasn't. Having a six foot five linebacker type of guy with a razor and shaving cream wasn't my idea of a good time either, but he trimmed me up nicely for the doctor.

My cardiologist reported back to me, as I was patiently (pun intended) waiting in the recovery room, that my arteries were really clear. He stated that I had the arteries of a man half my age. "It must be the running", he stated.  But then he went on to tell me more. He told me that I had had a heart attack and that there was "universal damage" all around my heart muscle. He also stated that my heart was enlarged. Of course, I already knew that because, well... I love everyone.

In discussing my condition with the doctor, I reminded him several times that I was a runner and that I had been running for many years. I told him about my belief that runner's hearts are different than most others. After all, it's a muscle and when you exercise muscles, they tend to enlarge. He didn't buy my story and stood firm in his belief about my condition. He prescribed a host of medications that he wanted me to begin taking. He also recommended that I slow down with the running and suggested that I put on some weight. Weird.

A year or so later, I made an appointment to re-visit my doctor for a check-up. I was told that my cardiologist was no longer with the medical firm, and that he had returned to his native country. I was assigned a new cardiologist. It's interesting --when I met with my new cardiologist, she told me that after looking at my files and lab results, she didn't believe that I had had a heart attack. She somewhat agreed with my theory about running and hearts. She wasn't upset with me when I told her that I hadn't taken the prescribed medication either. I explained that I am not one to take pills and that although I had initially followed the doctor's orders for a month or two, the pills ended up being flushed soon there after. My new cardiologist gave me a clean bill of health that day.

Fast forward now if you will, to the winter of 2008. I had just returned from a RoadLoK event in El Paso with my son Eric. It was mid-week around noon, and I was driving myself to lunch. While stopped at a traffic light, an all too familiar pain returned for a visit.  Again this time, I had similar feelings of tightness in the chest and a slight numbness in my left arm. The pain was so intense at one point that I stopped my Jeep in traffic, and started to exit the vehicle. Within seconds, the pain subsided and I continued on my way.  Time once again to make an appointment with a cardiologist.

Having moved to the Hudson Valley from Upstate New York, I had to find a new cardiologist to try and solve the mystery of the old pump. After many appointments, which included a long series of tests, the results came in. The tests included blood work, stress tests, CT scans and more.  I wondered, "Would my diagnosis be accurate this time?"

Upon entering the examination room, the doctor greeted me and quite bluntly stated, "Mr. Xavier, you have the same thing that killed John Ritter". "Thank you", was my reply.  He went on to explain to me that I had an aortic aneurysm --a weakening of the aortic wall, causing a bulge-- and that it would require surgery. He told me that there was no immediate urgency, as it was not at a dangerous level yet. "You have a few years before it will need to be fixed", he stated to me. "Don't run as much in the meantime and stop racing", were his words of advice. Once again, I found myself to be questioning a professional's expertise because of my running background. "Don't you think that because I run, my aorta would naturally be larger than someone not as athletic?" His reply was simply, "no".

It was explained to me that the aneurysm would enlarge each year. Typically, according to the doctor, it would increase approximately one half centimeter each year. He stated that the only way to correct this medical issue was through surgery. "There is no medication that can fix this", he stated to me. He stated that "we" would monitor my aorta annually and watch it grow. Actually, I don't think he quite worded it that way, but that's what he meant.

Almost two years later, while seeing another doctor for an unrelated issue, we discussed my past heart history. Among other things, we had a lengthy discussion about hearts and running. Finally, I was conversing with a doctor who had an open mind about my theories on this subject! Understand that my theories are based on a lot of reading and research I have done over the past twenty years --about runners and health.

During our conversation, the good doctor offered to run the same tests for me as had been previously completed to check my aorta. I should note here, that I hadn't been back to the first cardiologist after the diagnosis of the aneurysm. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Regarding that, let me just say that it's a long story about a stubborn man.

A couple of weeks after these tests were completed; I met again with the doctor. When he came into the examining room, he spoke without hesitation, like the previous doctor who had stated that I had "the same thing that killed John Ritter". Only this time, the words I heard were, "you don't have an aneurysm, in-fact there is nothing wrong with your heart or aorta", as he handed me the lab report which confirmed his statement. He then reaffirmed to me the fact that I am a big guy with a vast running history, and having a somewhat larger heart and aorta seems to make sense. He too, gave me a clean bill of health.

I went to the gym that evening and had a great carefree workout. This truly was my first "carefree" workout in almost two years. Even though I had continued to run and race, I will admit here that my mind often thought about the possible serious consequences I was flirting with while running and competing. Normally, when an aorta ruptures, it's checkout time for the victim, or so I'm told.

The old pump has done well the past couple of years. I continue to run and I typically push myself most days while I pound the pavement. Many days, I feel like a well-oiled machine as I cruise along the pavement, mostly paying attention to time, pace and distance. It's not very often now, that I think about my heart when I run, or the fact that I had several professionals attempt to void its warranty.

I think this old pump has a lot of life left in it.

~Safe Riding and Running!~

-The Chief

My Haunted House

Let me state right up front, that all of my "On the Road" tales are true stories about my life. Although I've considered experimenting with fictional stories, all past reports, including this one that I am about to write, are real accounts of events in my life.

In the early '90s, I was in the market for a new home. Having found a house that was desirable to me, both in size and price, I made an offer on a bank-repossessed home, situated on a busy highway in my hometown. The house had been vacant for more than two years, and needed some work. Being a "do it yourself" kind of guy, that was of little concern to me. The price was more than appealing.

My three children and I had been staying at my mother's home, while I worked to make our new house habitable. After a month or more of preparing the new house for occupancy, it was time to move in. I moved in first, as I was anxious to start making the house a home. There were still a few minor jobs that needed addressing, before the home would be comfortable for my family.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the first night that I stayed in my new house. I had partially furnished the house and was thrilled about spending my first night there... alone. Or was I? As best as possible, I will attempt now to describe the chain of events that took place, once in my bed in my second floor bedroom.

It was around one o'clock in the morning, when I had finally retired for the night. Within minutes of getting comfortable, and just starting to fall asleep, a strange feeling came over me. I opened my eyes to see the image of a man slowly walk across my bedroom from the far corner to the doorway, and then exit the room. I was startled.

Being the reasonable man that I am, I discounted the event as having been a dream. Although somewhat shaken, I turned over and fell asleep.

A short time later, I awoke to an indescribable feeling of someone or something pulling me out of my bed. The force was real and it was scary as hell. I felt like I had to hang on to something for fear that I would be pulled out of the bed. The feeling was so intense that I not only felt it externally --as if something was pulling on my physical body-- but also inside of me, as if an energy of some sort was attempting to completely overtake me.  I spent the remainder of the night on the sofa in the living room.

The next day, the recollection of that event was still vivid. I spent the next few nights on the sofa.

Once my children joined me in our new home, the strange events, although different, continued. One morning, after a peaceful night's sleep, and upon entering the kitchen, all of the cupboards and drawers were wide open. Another event which took place during the middle of the night, involved a conversation between two people in the den.  Although you couldn't see anyone or anything, the muffled sounds were obviously voices of people talking.

Even though there were many occasions where abnormal activities were witnessed in my home, the events were typically small, insignificant anomalies that I dismissed as being coincidental. Hallway lights were found to be on in the morning, which had been off during the night. Many nights, there were sounds of someone walking on the first floor, when all of us were upstairs in bed. These oddities were common, and somewhat frequent.

My children were aware that our home was "different", but we never really talked much about it. One son used to come into my bedroom fairly frequently during the night, to report that there were strange noises in his bedroom --mostly centered around his closet. My daughter mentioned on more than one occasion, that she had seen an old woman in a rocking chair, in the upstairs hallway. I think that she may have been joking about that, however.

Because none of the occurrences seemed to be threatening in anyway, I wasn't concerned about anyone's safety and I didn't feel as though we needed to vacate the home. I had my own theories about the events taking place, as I was familiar with some of the home's past history --the knowledge that my home had been built in the late 1800s-- and the realization that probably more than one person had died in the house.

In the Fall of 2000, we moved out of the house, having purchased a new home closer to my job. While my haunted house was on the market and once again vacant, two final occurrences took place that helped to confirm what I had already known.

The first event which occurred a month or so after we moved, involved one of my adult sons. He had left some of his personal belongings behind, when we first moved.  He went back to the vacant house on a Thursday evening to sort through his belongings, which were in his bedroom closet. While in the bedroom bagging up his belongings, a strange presence came over him. Consequently, he left the bags in the center of the room, and left earlier than he had planned.  On Friday, he returned to collect the bags and was surprised at what he found. All of his belongings had been removed from the bags, and were lined up around the perimeter of the room against the walls. Everything, that is, except for a wooden plaque bearing the image of a crucifix. The plaque was in the center of the room, apparently untouched. He gathered his belongings and quickly left the house.

A few months later that winter, I received a phone call late one evening from a friend of mine, the Police Chief from the town where my haunted house was located. He stated that he was sitting in my driveway, and a light was on in an upstairs bedroom. He was concerned, because he hadn't noticed any lights on, prior to this evening. He further stated that he had checked all of the doors, and everything was secure. He had been watching the property for me, as it was vacant. While we were talking, he told me that the light had just gone out. In describing the location of the lighted room, I was not surprised that it was in the room that my son had occupied while we lived there. I explained to the Chief that I had put a light on a timer at the house...but truthfully, I hadn't.

Did our home have intruders, or were we the intruders? Our house sold the next year.

Fact or fiction? You decide. I'm interested in your feedback!

~Safe Riding~


-The Chief

The Day I Saved Chip

The day started out just like any other ordinary day. Once out of bed --a quick shower, dress and breakfast-- then out the door to enjoy a day off.  I've never been one to sit inside and be idle. I don't remember what I had planned for the day, but I'm sure I had a list of "to do's" neatly packed inside of my pea sized brain.

I went out to the patio to check the pool, which was a daily routine for me. Within minutes, I was to become a hero. Yes, me...just a simple, ordinary, everyday kind of small town guy --soon to be a hero!

Chip must have fallen in the pool just moments before my arrival. It was obvious to me that he had been swimming frantically for a short period of time and was struggling to keep his head above water. It's times like this, that all of those hours of classroom training seem to pay off. I can't recall how many times I've taken CPR and First Aid classes during my career, but the numbers surely must be in the millions.

Without any further thought about my own safety, I sprang into action! Quickly, without delay, I grabbed the skimmer net and ran to the edge of the pool. Chip was in the deep end of the pool and it was now evident that his energy was waning. Time was of the essence!

Within seconds, I extended the long pole out to Chip's flailing arms. With the last bit of energy that he could muster, he grabbed onto the net and I pulled him to safety.

As he collapsed onto the concrete patio --his heart pumping like a young man's heart on his first date-- I carefully helped to dry him off while reassuring him that he would be fine. A few easy compressions on his stomach proved to expel any remaining water from his lungs. It was obvious that he was extremely grateful for my quick action to rescue him.

It took about twenty minutes before Chip was able to get up on his feet and slowly walk away. A feeling of satisfaction came over me, as he stumbled away, glancing back at me with obvious gratitude. I was thankful for being in the right place at the right time, and also for all of the training that I had taken over the years.

On this otherwise ordinary day, I became an instant hero to the chipmunk community --a sort of God, if you will. To honor my bravery and quick action, Chip and his friends filled my workbenches in the garage with gifts of nuts and twigs.

Thank you Chip!

~Safe Riding~

-The Chief