I just had an exchange with an old friend. Yes, we’re now old. We have entered the last act of our lives. I call it Act 3. And recently, this old friend and I have seen some other old friends pass away.   Death can no longer be a surprise to us at this age. A surprise it was when we lost friends to tragedies in our 20s and 30s, or by the sudden losses that stunned us in our 40s and 50s. We lost grandparents and parents along the way. We mourned their loss. It hurt badly. But we knew, it was their time. Too soon. Too young. Often when we say that, I believe that’s us trying to comfort ourselves. A parent or grandparent passes and leaves a raw hole in our hearts that only time can heal. It never closes that hole, but it heals it. We even use words like ”passing” to describe these losses. “Loss”, there’s another word. I wonder why. These words soften the blow for me, I know that. Also, I don’t want to add to the hurt of the person whose father just passed, so I talk of their passing and the loss of that good man, and how well he will be remembered by us all.

But it seems now the time has come for me and my fellow Act 3’ers.  Death will come to our door one day soon as a visitor who wants to spirit us away. We can’t be surprised by that. I hope I don’t feel like the walls are closing in on me when it happens. I know the advice of all those who have gone before us would be: live for today, find happiness, keep love in your heart. These aren’t bromides. They are truths to me. I have had my share of bumps and stumbles over the years. Lost love as a young man. Lost jobs as an older man. Lost friends along the way to both death and disagreement. Some stumbles are fortuitous. I have a wonderful family. My greatest accomplishment, or my greatest stumble, was that which took me into the life of Mary Twomey who with me produced a family of three children I hold dear and miss every day.

Becky and Terry are the two people whom death recently visited. I found remarkable in both of their stories their courage and, well, their serenity. I myself imagine fighting the approaching last day the way I fight on the tennis court. I hate to lose. I fear losing. But lose I will to this opponent. And that’s it really what struck me about Terry and Becky. They weren’t defeated by an opponent. They didn’t see this as a game to be won. They seemed rather to have the serenity to say, yes and thank you, I welcome your visit. Terry was a swimmer.  I’m told he did his breathing exercises to help him eat in his last days.  Becky was a college classmate of mine.  She sent a message to a friend of ours and in it, 13 days before her death, she said, “I’ll miss the crew… It will all be just fine, I’m not one bit worried”.

There. I said it. Death. Becky died. Terry died. And one day death will visit my bedside. But I hope like Becky and Terry I see that moment not as a moment to fight, but as an invitation. There are holes in the heart of the people closest to Becky and Terry. I guess the good news is, even if it is holes, Becky and Terry will always be in their hearts.

(I have written a note to each of my college bound children and slipped it into their luggage to be found presumably sometime after my wife and I have bid them farewell.  This is an excerpt from the note I left for my son last week.  I thought I’d share it with my 5 or 6 readers…  )

Here’s a little bit of advice and a little bit of what I wish for you in your years at school and for your years to follow.

First, naturally, the advice.

Once you have a reputation for getting up early it’s amazing how often you can sleep late. I got that from my father. It’s the best advice he ever gave me. It means always make a great first impression. Shake hands. Look people in the eye. Be the first to smile. The first to show up for class, work or practice. Be one of the people who say, how can I help?

Learn the art of conversation. Take interest in the lives – past and future – of others and ask them lots and lots of questions. Get used to using the words who, what, where, when, why and how. The person who asks the questions and listens best is always the most interesting person in the room. He or she is also the person others seek out as friends.

Find a mentor on campus. An upper classman. A teacher. A counselor. Find people who are smarter than you, who play sports better than you, who are funnier than you, who have read more, and who are honest, kind, thoughtful, ethical and moral people, and keep them close.  They’ll all make you better.

Have the courage of your convictions. Learn how to debate.   Disagree and let others disagree with you. Read. Take a literature class. Learn to write cursive. Take a poetry class. Learn the history of this country and the world.

Laugh! Laugh a lot! Be silly. Find silly people you can laugh with.

My wishes?  I wish for you a sense of wonder about the world around you. This is an exciting time for you, a time when you will be given wonderful opportunities. I hope you are curious to learn not only from the books and classroom, but from the people you meet, the things you see, and the places you go. Philadelphia! What a city! I hope you develop an intellectual curiosity and keep your mind open to the possibilities of life. Explore your interests – maybe it is engineering, maybe it’s law, maybe it’s business, maybe it is the business of Hollywood – and explore them on your own. Take risks. Challenge yourself. When you are afraid or nervous, that means you are challenging your comfort zone. That’s a good thing. You’ll make mistakes. That’s ok. Be prepared to make them and relish them – in making those mistakes, you will find the things and the people you will love and keep close for the rest of your life. You’ll find your passion.

Be safe and sensible. Don’t let other people make your social decisions for you. You’ll know what’s right and what’s wrong. Trust yourself and your instincts.

Be at home with yourself. Find quiet places to reflect. Church. If you’re lucky you might a Father Tom. Go to museums. Find a patch of grass.  Visit the symphony on campus. The theatre. The library. At those times, leave the phone alone. Stop and smell the roses. Learn to live with silence.

Every so often, give me and mommy and your sisters some time. The one thing I always wanted to be was a dad. It’s a gift to have children. You are one of ours. Our son. Our brother. We treasure our time with you. Answer our silly group texts. Better still, call us. Your sisters are wonderful sources of counsel and hugs. I hope I am too. Mommy too. Come see us. There will always be big hugs and a good dinner waiting for you. We’ll certainly come see you. Tell us when you need a visit or a weekend home. It’s ok to miss home, by the way. Everyone around you will. It’s also ok to get emotional and to share your thoughts, good and bad, with any of us. We’re family.

Exercise. Eat properly.  Please go out for the clubs that revolve around sports or subjects in which you have the vaguest interest. You’ll meet people with whom you’ll share some small something. That’s really hard to find anywhere let alone at a college the size of the one you are attending.

Finally, and maybe most important of all, be a good man. I have always tried to be that. Your grandfather is that. I believe it is the one thing we can aspire to and succeed at on our own. You are already well on your way.

Did I say, have fun? Have fun. Did I say, laugh? Laugh a lot.

There is so much for me to say and I have said too much here. But there is one last thing I have to tell you. I am so proud of you. So is your mother. And so are your sisters. I love you so much. So do your mother and your sisters. We are excited to watch you continue to grow and become the man and the person we know you can be. And no matter where you are or what you are doing, I will be with you. Forever. We will all be.

I love you, Dad

A Christmas/happy holiday message for you all:

Hannah always knew how to shop. When she was, oh, 3 or so we would occasionally at her behest divert from our drive back to our home on west 94th street to a Toys R Us she would spy from her rocket seat in the back of our red 1985 Jetta. In the store, she’d guide us – she was a leader even then – up and down the aisles, pausing to consider a purchase and eventually rejecting any idea other than a new Barbie doll. We taught her to “touch not take” and she’d do just that. Mulling over each doll as if she were adopting her next best friend. Finally she’d find the right choice and on came those eyes. I’m still not any good at resisting those eyes. Yes, we can buy it, I’d tell her, often over Mary’s far more sensible objections. Yes, but you have to split the cost with me, I told her. And she would agree.

On to home and into her little bedroom where on her shelf sat the little green Simba bank, the Lion King character inside of whom was kept her riches of pennies, nickels, dimes and, occasionally, quarters. I’d pop open the bottom of the Simba bank and pour some of the coins onto her IKEA bed and I’d tell her, ok, give me half of the cost of your new Barbie. I loved this part. Hannah would consider the coins for a minute or two and then very deliberately pick out the coins that to her represented half of the cost of the new Barbie. Maybe 4 pennies, a nickel, two dimes and if she was very very bold, one of the big quarters but rarely the one with the brightest shine.

I’d ask her if this was half. Yes, she’d say with great conviction. Is this fair? She’d assure me it was. And then I got my gift, two little arms wrapped around my neck, an I love you daddy, and a princess kiss (that was her name for it).

Last weekend, with Clare and Frankie, Mary and I had the pleasure of attending the annual Christmas (ok… Holiday) concert at Kimmel Center put on by the Philadelphia Symphony. At the conclusion, Maestro Wilkins, who had just delivered with the help of his amazing musicians and the soprano Alison Buchanan a wonderful evening of Christmas music, thanked us all for coming and then asked us to remember something. He said in this year during which some of the dialogue was disturbing and the events reported to us from the world horrific, that we not stop at giving one another’s gifts of cookies, wine and Barbies, but that we give each other the gift of our selves. His words sent me back to that little bedroom on west 94th street and Hannah’s little arms and how all of our children and how children all over the world give us the gift of themselves and, maybe as important, the gift of hope.

The Collinzes plus one (hi, Peter) wish you all the gift of little arms and hope this Christmas season. Everyone, everywhere can stand for a little more love and hope and small kindnesses. May you find it if not under your tree, then tightly wrapped around your necks. And if not from children, then from each other. We wish wonderful hugs to you all.

The problem is we have lost trust in our institutions. And that isn’t our fault. I don’t believe the weather. I don’t believe the news. I get angry every day at the Times and the Journal. I even get angry at ESPN.  I don’t trust the big companies or any religion.  How do we get that back? Why can’t these institutions understand the sacred nature of trust? Why do they consistently violate that trust?  It’s up to them to earn this trust back from us.

I tell my kids to learn to question everything and because I do now.   To be especially careful of the pundits, the politicians and the proselytizers.  I tell them to trust their own instincts.  To be themselves.  To never lose their sense of humor because you need a lot of that to get through the day.  And I tell them to never lose perspective.  In the words of Groucho Marx:  “Who you gonna believe?  Me, or your own eyes?”

Trust your own eyes.

Went to the Town Dump last week. Went with my wife, Mary. We have a house that has too many nooks and storage spaces and we have filled them all with boxes and boxes of stuff. Yes, I am a hoarder. I admit it. I have artifacts of my past sitting on an old couch in the little gym in my basement. The couch itself is an artifact. Mary and I bought it way back in 1988 or so when we still lived in our beloved Manhattan. It’s big and red and has a sort of Aztec motif as a cover. I refuse to trash it. I see the scars of our young adult years, the spittle stains of our children, the gouges from their toys, the creases of their diapered bums, and the stains and thread weary corners from who knows what – I’ll elaborate no further but I am going to guess that we first thought of our children on that very couch. Throw it out? No way. And on it sits Frankie’s first grade cereal box project (“Lebron Crunch!”), Clare’s funny paper hat for mommy from her second grade, and Hannah’s carved mask of aluminum – gosh, is that from Columbia Grammar? There rests picture collages created by Clare and Hannah; in fact, two of them by Clare telling sweet stories of their young lives. I walk the treadmill or pump the bicycle pedals and think back on those days and my heart swells. I miss those days so terribly. I want them back. These little children. Those happy faces and the wonderful smiles, the laughter, the tiny little arms wrapping around my neck and the I love you, Daddy’s. In my imaginings, I believe déjà vu is a spiritual version of ourselves revisiting the wonderful moments. Maybe we can relive those days, but the price we pay we don’t want to fork up until we’ve exhausted all other possibilities. So, into the big dumpster went boxes and boxes of my past. On this visit, mostly my working past. Very mixed feelings as I tossed the files and records into that dumpster. They are now doomed for incineration. I am still angry about how I left that phase of my life. So this time I gleefully threw the files in the dumpster and Mary chatted with the manager of the dump. “I was in New York City once! Took a tour. Saw where they shot that Ringo Starr! I’ll never go back.” I felt a little of me melting away, escaping into the sky like the smoke of the incinerator. At the same time, I felt a cleansing was taking place. Why carry these mementos any longer? What if I drop dead and I am the next artifact offered to the incinerator? Why should I expect my children and Mary to take care of all of this, the detritus of my past? That’s not fair! So, toss it I did. I even took a picture of the filling dumpster. And soon I’ll be back. This will be a distillation of my life. Act 3. Out with the books. The pictures. Paintings done by Hannah, Clare and Frankie. Little pieces of art. Oh no, the toys! Will I be able to toss the toys? I wonder. Will I be able to tear them out of my own sadly desperate hands when what I really want I can never have?  “Tell you what – I’ll never get in another taxi cab again.  Those guys stop so fast, I just about…”  The dump dude.  He’ll get me through it.

After being asked to retire, I discovered the stories I was told by my former assistant, who had retired voluntarily and got the retirement party and the whole package, were true.  It’s hard to retire.  Retire by its very definition means to withdraw or retreat.  After 33 plus years of working hard moving fast, going forward, and spending my every day with people who relied on me, “retreat” and “withdraw” were not words that came to mind when I awoke on January 4 and realized I had no place to go.  But the surprising revelation wasn’t about the work or the pace or the need to be needed.  The surprising revelation came a few days later when I was out picking up a few groceries for me, my wife and our son – the lone soldier still living home with us.  Driving home, a car driven by an elderly gentleman passed by me.  I’m retired but I won’t consider myself elderly.  Not don’t.  Won’t.  I am not settled into the retirement mind set even now 4 full months later.  This gentleman clearly was.  He is settled and deeply mindful of what is important.  How do I know this?  I let him take a left turn in front of me.  And the vigor with which he smiled and waved…  I was ashamed at first.  Invigorated next.  I realized that this man understood that what we make, the power we may have, the position we may hold, is all irrelevant.  What is relevant are the connections we make with the people around us.  And much to my very peasant surprise – although now in retrospect so self evident – I realized that all I have to do is go where people are, even as a driver or shopper, to make those connections.  Since then, I look to offer the waves, the smiles and the hellos I took for granted for so many years.  I celebrate the connections I make.  Especially with someone who understands the value of that connection by returning my greeting with a smile, or a wave or a hello of their own. My assistant is back to work part time.  She has found a way to quiet the loneliness and isolation by working 15 hours a week.  I want to work again too.  But in the meantime, I’ll find my connections through the kindness of others.

I started this blog some time ago and hoped to write it regularly.  Nope.  Life got away from me.  Working.  Raising a family.  Whatever else I do every day.  Things changed dramatically on December 9, 2015, when the man i report up to at a major bank visited me to tell me that my job was being “eliminated”.  After 33 years, at the age of 61 1/2, my career at that bank was over.  So things have changed for me.  I get up every day trying to decide if this means this is time for me to retire.  Not being prepared for that idea, I find myself “networking” every day trying to make connections, have conversations with people who may lead me to opportunities.  And I approach the process with great ambivalence because I am not sure I want to throw myself back into the soup.  I learned a very big lesson in December:  it’s not fun giving up control of your life to a major corporation.  So, I am wrestling with several paths:  create my own business, try to get work at the bank that chose to say good bye instead of thank you, try to find work at another bank or in a another business, or just pull up my stakes.  We’ll see.  First, I want to get rid of the pit I wake with in my stomach every weekday morning.

I am creating this blog because I can’t find anyone else who wants to guide me into the 3rd act of my life.  I turned 60 this year.  All parts are still working.  I’m still working too.  Happily married to a woman who does now and has from the day we met given me great pleasure and loads of love.  But I am fast approaching the day when I won’t work and parts will stop working the way they have for 60 years and my dearest wife and I will have to say goodbye one to the other.  My children – I am a late blooming father who had his first child at age 39 and last of 3 at age 45 – my children are vacating the house.  Much to my chagrin they are growing up and out.  First stop is college and then who knows.  Nothing – well, almost nothing – has given me as much pleasure as being a dad.  I treasured every moment from the moment of conception and never wanted to see these days end.  I’m a little angry in fact.  If we are put on this earth ultimately to procreate, then please, we should have more time with them than 17 lousy years.

So i plan to check in from time to time I will check in and register my complaints, observations, joys and disappointments as I travel these last years of my life.  I hope it’s another 40 but some of my best pals are already gone so it might not be.  I will ask questions of myself and of you, dear reader, that i so rarely hear asked in a world (or maybe it’s just the developed world) that is more concerned with staying young than growing old gracefully.

Wish me luck.