Man vs. Beast - an Epic FlyFishing Tale

 It was that time again, my annual fly-fishing trip on the Green River in Utah. Or should I say, my annual test of patience and javelin throwing. I haven’t lost a fly rod yet.  

To be clear, I’m a horrible fly fisherman. Whether its tying knots, casting or following instructions, few have skills below my level. My friend and I use the same guide every year. He’s a great guy with a ton of skills. One year he expertly removed a hook I had cast into the corner of my eye socket. These days whenever he sees me coming, he always seems to be finishing a big gulp of Pepto Bismol. I can have that effect on people.

This year started off with a bang. In the morning I got a lot of hits but could not hook a fish. Luckily my fishing buddy and the guide were keeping count. I made significant progress in the afternoon, I actually hooked fish. But then after they’d jump out of the water, (like seeing a prehistoric creature launch) the fishing line would break. The guide would then tell me exactly what I did wrong that caused this to happen. You’d think after the seventh time, I’d get the hang of it.

Day two – I caught some fish, but nothing to write home about. Then I hooked what had to be the Moby Dick of Brown Trout. The epic battle of Man vs. Fish began. At one point our guide said to me in a panicked voice, “Let go of the reel!” I almost took him literally. And since the reel was attached to the rod, I came closer than I’d like to admit, to dropping my whole fishing rig. Instead, the guide just wanted me to let the fish take as much line as he wanted. But then the fish started heading down stream in what seemed like class four rapids. So I got instruction to not let that happen. This battle went on for a number of hours (That’s in fisherman time). The beast finally got within eye shot of the boat. He was immense. The guide said, “That fish has shoulders!” My fly rod was now in the shape of a pretzel and I was pretty sure it was about to snap in half. Our guide was screaming instructions in rapid fire. I got to the point where I wanted to say, “I luv ya man, but I need you to go silent, and let me screw this one up on my own.” The great fish finally parked himself about ten feet from the boat and refused to move. I was patient, but not patient enough. I tried to force him towards the boat and Moby Trout snapped the line.  There was momentary silence in the boat, and then the guide said, “Don’t feel bad Steve, that fish was so big that I doubt you could have held it for a picture.”

 And the price we pay for the opportunity to tell fishing tales… Our drive back to Salt Lake City airport was about four hours. We arrived an hour before take-off. I battled my way through security where I set off the TSA alarm. I was lucky enough to be the random person the system will occasionally choose. I’m lucky that way. Generally, it’s not an issue, unless TSA is short on staff and no one is available to run the magnetometer that scans your whole body, which was the case that day. I asked the young TSA agent if I could just walk through again and was told, “No, you’ve been randomly chosen for torture, get back in line.” I could feel the acid pouring into my stomach. Finally, another person showed up, so the young TSA agent was able to get one person through the mag machine and then walked away saying, “Sorry, I have to go.” We were back to square one.  The remaining agent allowed me to walk through the normal way and I was free at last, free at last.  Or so I thought.

Our plane was thirty minutes late, but we boarded promptly. We were taxiing to the runway when the captain told us, “With a violent storm coming in from the west, all planes will need to take off from the north, which will take another 30 minutes to execute.” While working our way to the north end of the airport runway, hail struck. My airline had a number of planes on the runway that were also hit by hail. Their policy was that if a plane was hit by hail, it was required to go back to the gate and be checked by a maintenance person. Small issue, since Salt Lake was not a major hub for U-Airlines they only had ONE maintenance worker and he had to check ALL of the planes.  Reduction in Force at work…or not. 

I hope U-Airlines’ C-suite personnel got their bonuses this quarter, by cutting employee head count. At the same time, I’d like to suggest that these airline executives not listen to Elon Musk’s idea regarding humans not needing to work in the future – We’re not there yet!

(Side note: my fishing buddy was on a different airline and he said, “It stormed on us too but D-Airlines was “wheels up” and safety comes second.”)

So we were back at the gate and deboarded the plane. The plane checked out satisfactorily, hurray! Let’s get back on the plane and go. Not so fast. When we left the plane, we weren’t scanned out and we can’t reboard until the agent can find the one person who knows how to clear the system so we can all reboard the plane. As it turned out, this one person currently lives in a remote monastery and can only be contacted via pigeon. 

When we finally got back on the plane, we were told that we’d be flying minus a wing, but the captain said that if we all lean to the left it shouldn’t be a problem.

How to Stop billionaire 'Fake Farmers' from sticking you with their tax bill

 Recently, many towns in our area have announced that due to necessary budget increases, real estate taxes will be increasing this year.  Bedminster, the town I live in, will increase by 3.9 % (As noted in an April 16th article posted in this newspaper). Increases in healthcare costs are the main reason for the increases.  This sounds reasonable. And for the record, I believe that folks that run our town do a very good job.

But there is a very simple way for all of us to actually have our real estate taxes decreased and still pay the additional healthcare costs.  Well, when I say all of us, I mean the non-Fake-Farmer community.  Unfortunately, we have over 300 Fake-Farmers residing in Bedminster.  These Fake-Farmers are still bamboozling their neighbors, demanding that, we the people, pay their real estate taxes – the nerve!  

Fake-Farmers have absolutely no shame. They hide behind the Farmland Assessment Act of 1964.  1964 People!  It was created to help poor farmers who could not afford to pay their rising real estate taxes…in 1964. It was not created to allow the mega-rich with five acres of property to transfer their real estate tax obligation to their less fortunate neighbors.  

It’s pretty easy to spot a Fake-Farmer (FF-a third F is optional). If you drive past a large property and notice a small card table set up at the end of the driveway, that’s a tell-tale sign of a FF. On said table, there might be a jar or two of honey for sale. These are “wood bee” Fake-Farmers. Another give away is if the table holds a collection of twigs and branches tied together with kite string. This demonstrates the property is a forest, and forest products are included in the Farmland Assessment Act. All of these items will be for sale at a modest price as they are what’s called, Fake-Farmer Products (FFP…again, third F is optional). 

Another way to spot a Fake Farmer is to look up town records related to the annual Farmland Assessment qualification forms. The old threshold used to be the sale of at least $1,000 a year of Farmland products.  Generally, what you’ll see in these forms is that these Fake-Farmers will record that they sold $1,002 or $1,003 each year. My thought is this, if you’re going to lie to us, at least put the effort in to come up with a number that has a speck of believability to it. Not only are Fake-Farmers shameless, they’re lazy and insulting.

And for reasons unbeknownst to me, our New Jersey Assemblymen and Senators who have the ability to make significant, meaningful changes to the Farmland Assessment Act, refuse to do so. If I were a negative person, living in an alternate universe, I’d say one possible reason is that some of our politician’s largest donors are Fake-Farmers…but that would be crazy, right? (Note: earlier this year the threshold of farm products required to be sold annually was increased from $1,000 to $1,900…a meaningless, increase)

To get a jaw dropping idea of how much money is involved in Bedminster alone, we have over 300 Farmland Assessed properties.  Among them are Donald Trump, Woody Johnson, the owner of the NY Jets, and the Malcom Forbes estate.  Together, these three Fake-Farmers cumulatively own almost 1,000 acres of land they say is farmland. These three Fake-Farmers get to save almost $1 million in property taxes that are subsidized (PAID For) by the middle-class people living in Bedminster.  It gets worse.  Imagine how many additional tax dollars the middle class of Bedminster is paying for the “Other 300 Fake-Farmers”!  (Thanks for the data points Jack Curtis – now part of the Farmland Oversight Committee)

Gang, this is nothing more than an entitlement program, like Food Stamps/SNAP.  But unlike Food Stamps, where you have an annual income ceiling of ~ $39,000 for a two-person household; the Farmland Assessment entitlement for wealthy Fake-Farmers has no income ceiling.

Keep in mind, the Stay NJ real estate tax credit program for the middle class is being cutback to meet budget shortfalls…but not the Farmland Assessment program.

If you want the Farmland Assessment Act changed in a meaningful way, write to your New Jersey Legislators.  People like:

The Honorable Mikie Sherrill, Governor of the State of New Jersey, Office of the Governor, P.O. Box 001, Trenton, NJ 08625

Craig Coughlin, State Assembly Speaker, 569 Rahway Avenue, Woodbridge, NJ 07095 

Douglas Steinhardt, State Senator, 127 Belvidere Avenue – 2nd Floor, Washington, NJ 07882

John DiMaio, Assembly Minority Leader, 208 Mountain Ave.~ Suite 3, Hackettstown, NJ 07840

Erik Peterson, State Assemblyman, 28 Center Street, Clinton, NJ 08809

Spring Has Sprung

 So with the fair weather arriving, my desire to clean up the yard was aroused. We own less than a quarter acre, but everyone around us has big trees. I love them until November when something needs to be done with leaves. The good news is that our town provides a service where during the fall, persons driving a Snuffleupagus come by and snuff up any leaves you’ve raked to the street. It’s a wonderful, cleansing feeling when the Sunffa comes by. It’s a joyous time of the year where folks are dancing in the streets, setting off fireworks and partaking in general merriment. Think of the movie, The Ten Commandments when Moses climbs Mt. Sinai and finds out the hard way that leaving his brother Aaron in charge was not the best idea.

But it’s not all fun and games. The leaves have to somehow get to the street. And they don’t fly there by themselves. For more than a quarter century I’ve used the electric leave blower my grandfather left me. That’s electric, as in you need a very long power cord. It’s a royal pain in the rump to use. And the wind it blows is comparable to a what you feel when you sit across from a five year old as he blows out his birthday candles. Long story short, by the time the Snuffa party starts, I’m usually in traction. 

This spring, I cracked open the wallet, released the moths, and made two strategic purchases. First, I purchased an electric leaf mulcher. For decades, I’d been craving one, but always thought it was a frivolous purchase. I have two arms, two legs and a back…what’s the problem? Never the less, I did my homework and found the two highest rated leaf mulchers. Even better, I found a YouTube video of what appeared to be a reasonable person doing a comprehensive bake off of these two products. The highest rated one was the winner. 

Couple of interesting comments made: The guy doing the testing was most impressed with the two plastic leaf collection mitts that made picking up the leaves easier. He also made the point that the leaf mulching is done by what is in essence, a two-side plastic string weed whacker. There was no gargantuan set of metal teeth grinding things up into microscopic specks. (I was hoping for the metal teeth.) But considering how easily I can injure myself, this was a godsend. He also said that if you’re wearing a pair of work gloves, you really can’t get hurt if you stick your hand deep into the leaf collection funnel. A couple of thoughts came to mind. First, I’ve had an abnormal fear of weed whackers ever since I was doing some whacking in flipflops. I got lazy, wasn’t paying attention, and let’s just say things went sideways. Second, why would you need to stick your hand deep into the leaf collection funnel? I got an idea when I watched a quick snippet of another video where the tester said, “You get better results if you mulch the same bundle of leaves twice.”

Undeterred, my spouse went on Amazon and in one day we were the proud owners of the top-rated portable leaf mulcher on the market today. The leaf mulcher delivery truck had to be circling the neighborhood. My next purchase I made locally. It was an EGO leaf blower. Pretty smart right, buying a leaf blower in spring when they’re on sale. Well, they had the last laugh. When I got home the box only had the heavy batter in it – no blower. With that situation remedied, I now possessed all the tools necessary to take on the natural world.

After some minor functional testing, I had a big leaf massacre planned. You see I was deficient with regards to my fall 2025 leaf collection. And I missed the last Snuffleupagus pick up. So I decided to just put my leaves in the deepest part of my property. I was thinking it would just look natural. I was wrong. It looked like someone was trying to make an igloo out of leaves, but then a hurricane hit. I was in the thick of this project when I needed to use my new superior leave blower to get the heinous leaves out of tough spots and prepare them to be fed into the mulching machine. I turned the leaf blower on, and about seven seconds later, the battery was dead. I guess my testing was more extensive than I thought. 

Luckily, a week before I had recharged the battery to my weedwhacker, which was also an EGO. And it had the same size battery. Finally, I caught a break. Not so fast, just like a new iPhone where you can’t use your existing charger cable on new technology, they made a slight change to the new battery connect mechanism and they don’t work together. I’m back to the rake and crawling around on my hands and knees pulling out painfully embedded leaves. But I still had my top-rated leaf mulcher to save the day. This is what I learned: the mulcher doesn’t work well with wet leaves. It also can’t deal with the tiniest of twigs. And very quickly, the mulched leaves bunch up around the deep insides of the circular mulching funnel…painfully close to the whacking mechanism. I will say this, wearing thick winter work gloves with lots of cushion was not a problem. Not that I’d want to do it a lot. But if you wear thin, leather work gloves, plan on getting the feeling back into your fingers within a couple of hours.

So, after my magnificent triumph over the leaf menace, I came back inside, a sweaty mess. I asked my wife what she thought of my handy work (I still couldn’t hold a glass of water). She looked up at me and said, “You know, you’re spending more time out there now, then you ever did.”

Thinking of Pizza, leave it to the Professionals

So, after leaving New York City at rush hour last Friday night, my wife and I eventually got home around 7:30PM.  I didn’t want to cook anything, but then remembered I had a three-month-old Paul Newman frozen thin crust pizza sitting in my freezer.  I had never had one before, but I’d heard Paul’s stuff was very good, and with all of the donations their organization makes…good karma needed to be coming my way.  We normally cook and bake out of the smaller top oven in our new oven “system”. I started preheating and then noticed the instructions said, “Do not place pizza on a cookie sheet, place frozen pizza on the oven rack.”  I didn’t like that idea, especially since the top oven/microwave gizmo does not have any racks.  The wife says, just use the bottom oven, that has racks.  Fine, now I have to preheat this bottom oven, which took literally 40 minutes.  Modern technology is a wonderful thing.  Once it was done, I opened the bottom oven door and there was a large cauldron sitting on the racks which at that point was glowing red.  The intense heat coming off it steamed up the peepers I was wearing. The wife says, you’re lucky it wasn’t a quilt we were storing in there.  

So, I cooked my Paul Newman pizza and now have to get it off the oven rack.  Luckily there was minimal cheese spillage, but I still needed to figure out how to get it off the rack.  I had gathered a collection of weapons to address the situation, as well as a very thin plastic cutting sheet.  My thought was, sheet is very thin, but strong enough to withstand sharp cutting, it’ll be perfect to slide under the pizza.  Naturally, in the back of my mind I’m thinking, this plastic time bomb is going to explode into flames after about two seconds of extreme heat.  As it turns out, I was able to grab the edge of the crispy pizza crust, and drag it onto the thin, very thin plastic cutting sheet with absolutely no issue.  Euphoria has now enveloped me; I have single-handedly conquered the Frozen Pizza Challenge.  But then I got greedy.  As I was masterfully pulling my pizza out of the oven, I noticed a small chunk of burnt cheese sitting in the craves at the bottom of the oven door.  (Keep in mind, I’ve never been a waiter) I decided that if I just reached back down, while holding my pizza on the very, very thin plastic sheet, I could kill two birds with one stone.  Big Mistake!  Before I could reach the burnt cheese crumb, a combination of things happened - a complete report from the crimes against humanity commission is pending.  Said pizza got wings and flew off my plastic sheet onto the floor…face down.  For about two seconds I thought I’d be able to quickly pick it up and the crispy browned cheese topping would stay intact.  Then my wife pinched me and I awakened from that dream.  She then reminded me, she never said she was going to eat the Paul Neuman pizza, but I did.  I spent the rest of the night picking dog hair off my tongue.

Lessons Learned:  First, always order your pizza from a professional, and have it delivered.  Next, the fact that the Burn Unit didn’t play into the story speaks volumes to my personal growth.  And finally, you would think I’d know better.  I do an AARP presentation on Brain Health.  In it, there is a section on Tips to Help with Focus.  Number three is Avoid Multi-Tasking.  Like when you’re sitting in the family room watching TV and decide you’re going to walk into the kitchen and get a couple of cookies, that your wife thinks she’s hidden.  But along the way, you see a dust bunny trying to hide under a chair.  You then decide to go to the closet and get the vacuum cleaner because you’ve lit a fuse, and this has to be taken care of now.  And from there, you’re off to the races.  By the time you get around to those cookies, it’s 11PM and you’ve upset your stomach just in time for bed.  So much for restorative sleep.

Airport Cuisine and the new Terminal C

So Superbowl Sunday is approaching, and I am scheduled to hop on a plane out of Newark airport and head to SoCal to see a family member, some friends from school, and catch the Super Bowl.  At the last minute my ride to the airport had to cancel.  I was forced to attempt to grab a ride with Uber.  I use Uber about once a year, and each time I do, the learning curve is painful. I can feel angst brewing as I’ve never used Uber to go to the airport, and there is dangerously little time to spare.  You combine that with my overall distain for hand-held technology and my stomach now has something to be volcanic about.  

Miraculously, I connect with any number of potential Uber drivers.  It’s as if a dozen drivers are parked at the end of my street, waiting for me call.  They can all be at my address within three minutes.  My driver gets me to the airport in record time.  I cruse through security unscathed (pinch me, am I still alive), and walk to my gate in Terminal C.  

At my gate, the emergency door alert is stuck on.  The piercing high pitched noise is easily at migraine-pain level.  And my hearing aids are having a field day weaponizing the volume of the noise even further.  It’s as if they’re mocking me, saying, “Look how unbearable I can make this noise for you.”  God forbid they actually make a low-talker’s voice audible in a restaurant.  I’m at a point where it felt like I had two Ginsu steak knives going through my ears, trying to meet in the center of my brain.  

In an effort to escape the noise and avoid an aneurism, I decide to investigate the various new eateries within enhanced Terminal C.  I’ll be dining with the folks at “The Panini Shop.”  With my early arrival, I had the time to grab my meal and sit at a table to eat in a somewhat civilized manner.

My meal of choice is the Cuban Sandwich.  This hot, pressed sandwich has, turkey, ham, swiss cheese, pickles and mustard.  I’m not exactly sure what’s Cuban about this sandwich, but it seems like a benign consumable, which is mission critical at this point. I also purchase a bottle of ultra expensive organic raspberry ice tea.  I’ve never heard of the brand before, so it must be something new and extremely good, otherwise, why would they charge so much, right?  All told my panini and ice tea costs me $34.  Thirty-four-dollars!  I know, it was at the airport, and it was in the newly refurbished Terminal C, so somebody has to pay for that renovation.  But $34, come on.

So, I get my $34 meal in a bag and I find a table to sit at.  The chair is positioned a bit further from the table than it should be, but it’s made out of concrete. It doesn’t move. I sit down and pull my panini clamshell shaped container out of the bag.  What I didn’t realize was there was a decent amount of panini oil in the container, a container that I thought was hermetically sealed.  It was not.  The angle of me pulling the container out of the bag, caused a healthy amount of oil to pour onto the crotch area of my jeans.  (The only jeans I have for this trip, a 7-day trip.)

I did my best to clean up the situation with napkins, which only made it worse.  Then I opened the lid on my expensive ice tea, and tasted it.  I thought the panini oil had more flavor. I came to the conclusion that maybe it needed to be shaken first.  I twisted the cap back on the bottle.  I thought it was tight.  Again…it was not.  As I shook the bottle, I got my second shower of the day.  When I got on line to board the plane everyone gave me a lot of space.  Seems nobody wanted to stand next to the crazy old man who wet himself.

Anthropology and Expensive Rocks

In the words of Charlie Brown, during Halloween Trick or Treating, “I got a rock.”  

To level set this story, I’m not a social media superstar, not a rising star, not even a mundane asteroid.  When people ask me if I’m on social media, I get queasy.   There are just way too many screens and buttons that can lead to angst.  And considering my complete lack of technical aptitude, I’m sure I’d have an easy time breaking it.  Then I’d have to crawl to my wife and beggingly say, “look what I did, can you fix it?”  

So, my annual gift-giving trifecta from hell is fast approaching.  In less than a month, I have to come up with three creative, and thoughtful gifts to address my wedding anniversary, the wife’s birthday, and Christmas.  According to my calculations, I’m more than a little past middle age, and as much as I’d like to think of myself as creative, I’m not.  After thirty years of this torturous gauntlet, I have no tricks left up my sleeve.  I can do maybe, one clever gift a year, but three in less than a month?  Sure, and if Pigs could f...What I should do is have a LLADRO commissioned that depicts a bunch of pigs flying around.

It’s now the night before Thanksgiving.  My daughter and her husband have come over for dinner and some pre-Thanksgiving beverages.  After dinner we’re sitting in the family room talking.  My daughter announces to my wife that she wants to give her Mom her birthday gift early, as they won’t be with us during the actual day of her birthday.  I’m holding my breath, praying that she doesn’t go overboard with the gift, and thus wind up embarrassing me.  (Remember, it’s all about me.) 

My daughter is exuberant.  She explains that this gift is something she knows my wife was looking for, and really wanted.  Oh Crap!  This is not going to be good…for me.  My wife is very excited.  As she’s ripping the paper off the box, she says, “Colleen, you didn’t?  How did you get one?  They’re sold out everywhere!”  Now I know I’m really screwed.  I should have just gotten her a thoughtful card, taken my lumps and found an acceptable hotel to live in.

As the gift is emerging from the box, my wife, almost jumping out of her skin with enthusiasm, asks my daughter, “Colleen, how much did you pay for this!?!”  I tried to remind my wife that it’s not polite to ask how much a gift costs, but I was too late.  My daughter quickly responds in a proud tone, “Well it wasn’t too bad, I got it as part of a pre-Black Friday sale.  It was $300, but I got it for $150.”  The excitement between my daughter and wife was palpable.  

My wife reaches into the box and pulls out…a rock.  Yes, a rock.  It’s about five inches long, about three inches high and two inches thick.  It’s speckled, white and gray-ish, heavy on the ish.  And, it smells like perfume.  My daughter proclaims, “It’s an Anthro Rock!” from the Anthropologie store, which I’m guessing, must be a wonderful thing.  When I think of the Anthropologie store, the only thing that comes to mind is overpriced clothing which I’m unable to appreciate.  My next thought was, if the world economy collapses, I wonder how much the Anthro Rock will be worth.  I bet it’s more than a bitcoin. And along with that thought was, what is the return policy for the rock?  

My son-in-law is looking like he’s either very confused or in shock.  He offers up, “So we can use it to hold down napkins on the dining room table during dinner tomorrow?  My daughter replies, “No, it’ll be the center piece!”

I know better than to open my mouth and offer my opinion, as I’ve ruined many a family gathering by saying exactly what’s on my mind.  These days, even if I’m aggressively questioned, I no longer take the bait and speak.  I just do my best imitation of Marcel Marceau, and nod in agreement.  You can teach an old dog new tricks!

My daughter and wife are giddy as they ogle over the rock, discussing details about it.  Then my daughter, in a very jovial tone, asks us, “But you get why it’s so special, right?”  And with that, I took the bait and swallowed it whole.  I’m thinking, well I have a good shot at blowing up Thanksgiving this year, but she did ask. So I said, “I feel like I’m being punked.”  And with that, both my wife and daughter broke out into uproarious laughter.  

The Anthro Rock gag is being played out worldwide and videos of these events are being put on social media – mainly, Instagram and TikTok, neither of which I subscribe to.  My daughter dug this rock out of the garden in front of her building.  She washed the dirt and grime off said rock, and perfumed it with a scent she hadn’t worn in years.  And the cherry on top, to video this deception, she secretly placed a camera on our fireplace mantel amongst the turkeys and pilgrims.  All parts of the diabolical plan to deceive and embarrass us, on Thanksgiving. 

Fair warning my friends, evil lurks among us.

50th High School Reunions & Fossils

Sometimes life will send us to unexpected places.  I recently received an email from some entity who claimed to have gone to high school with me.  I recognized the name, but being the overtly paranoid soul that I am, I was sure it was a scam.  So, I decided to perform my own forensic due diligence, and miraculously, when I eventually clicked on the link, my laptop didn’t erupt into a flaming mess.

The last time I had seen this person, he was streaking across the quad during our senior year.  He informed me that we had a 50th Pascack Hills High School reunion coming up shortly. There are two people that I still see with from high school.  One of my concerns was that people would approach me and I’d look back at them confused, as if I had dementia, which my wife says can’t be too far away.   (Note: latest science says only 30% of your dementia destiny is tied to your genes. 70% is tied to how well you take care of yourself.  So get those walks in and have a salad!)  

The morning of the reunion, they had scheduled a tour of the high school and then a lunch.  I thought they were joking.  I told them that in my current state, I could either do the morning/lunch events or the main evening event.  My tank no longer holds enough fuel to do both.  Notice I say fuel, not gas.

So, it’s now three days before the reunion, and I’m signed up for what has the potential to turn out to be a magnificently awkward evening.  With that, our daughter finally received her summer wedding photos.  She emailed them to me – great!  I was amazed.  I could not figure out how they got ahold of a picture of my grandfather and had him walking my daughter down the aisle.  A commensurate amount of sobbing ensued. 

During the reunion people were commenting to me, “What, no wife, or did you get a hall pass?”  I told them it was not a problem.  As I was driving away, I looked back at the front window of our house, and could see my wife doing cartwheels in the living room. When all was said and done, outside of not being able to lie to anyone about my age, I actually had a very good time at the reunion.  My famous wrestling coach, Bucky Rehain showed up. On his birthdays, he does his age in pushups.  The last one was 82…so I hate him. I could do that too; it would just take me a couple of weeks to complete.   In the end, I’m pretty sure I was coherent the whole night and I drank a lot coffee which kept my spirits high.

Ten days after my high school reunion, I made a trip down to Glassboro, NJ and connected with three close friends at our college for a mini 46th reunion.  Back when we were enrolled, it was Glassboro State College.  Then in 1992, Henry Rowan donated a $100 million to the college.  This gift created a juggernaut that propelled the college into becoming a diverse, outstanding University.  Rowan University is a great example of what millions of donation dollars can do, “IF” it is used wisely.  We got a very personalized tour that not only impressed the bejabbers out of me, but also left me quite jealous.  Long gone are the days when breaded mystery meat, aka New Hampshire, was the main dish at the dining hall. Now, with all the choices they have, the students might as well be at Epcot in Disney World. 

Having parked our cars at the hotel, a new Marriott, we toured the town in the evening.  When we were students back in the 70s, the town was a…let’s just say there was no reason to go there.  But now, because of the strong partnership between the university, the town, the state, and private business, extensive reconstructive surgery was performed in the downtown area, and this rebuilding continues today.  Rome wasn’t completely built in a day.  Our last stop at the end of the evening was to a massive sports bar where I was brutally reminded of how old I am.  We stayed too long, and I’m pretty sure I was overserved. 

The next day we went to the Edelman Fossil Park & Museum…of Rowan University.  Ric Edelman and his wife Jean are significant donors to the University and especially Fossil Park.  It’s about 10 minutes from the main campus, and an hour and thirty-five minutes from Bedminster.  The Park opened in May of 2025 and is run by world renown paleontologist and explorer, Dr. Ken Lacovara. (Ken went to South America and unearthed the largest, and never before found dinosaur, which he named, Dreadnoughtus…meaning “fears nothing.”  At 65 tons, it weighs more than seven T.rex.)  Ric, Jean and Ken are all graduates of Rowan University / Glassboro State College.

The Park has an area where digs are continually happening.  If you uncover a 66-million-year-old fossil, you can bring it home.  One of the exhibits in the Museum, talks about a 1000-page book on the complete history of earth.  In the book, the dinosaurs appeared with 41 pages left.  Human History, are the last five LETTERS of the book!  We’re newbies, I don’t feel so old anymore.

Dr. Lacovara also makes a point of dispelling the notion that dinosaurs were unintelligent, slow-moving, unable to adapt creatures.  Think about it, whenever a company is thought to be losing their competitive edge, they’re referred to as, “A Dinosaur Headed for Extinction.”  Now don’t get me wrong, the dinosaurs weren’t solving complex math problems, but dinosaurs existed and adapted for 165 MILLION years.  Let’s see if we can find any country or company with that kind of longevity. 

In conclusion, ‘It’s a small world, after all.’  Or is it?  The person I went to high school with, who alerted me to the reunion…for the last 25 years, we’ve lived two miles from each other and never knew it.