Celebrating The Life of Denise Edmonds

From Stephen Kings The Dark Tower: 

Go Now, Our journey is done. And may we meet again in the clearing at the end of the path.  

How do you say goodbye to the person who brought you into this world?

To the person who taught you to walk, to run, and to laugh—often at yourself.

Denise  Retrosi Edmonds

July 17, 1946 –  January 5, 2026 age 79

Denise Retrosi -Edmonds passed away peacefully at the age of 79, leaving behind a life so full, adventurous, creative, and deeply loved that it almost feels unfair to try to fit it into words.

Denise was born July 17, 1946, in Canton, Ohio, to Dean and Violet Carlisle. From the very beginning, she carried a toughness balanced by warmth, fairness, and an unmistakable joy for life. My mom was the original badass.

As a single mother early in our lives, she somehow mastered the art of being “spontaneous.” She would give my brother Chris and me a few hours to pack for a “quick trip” to Washington, D.C. or North Carolina. As an adult, I now understand how much planning, sacrifice, saved money, time off work, and sheer determination went into those so-called spontaneous adventures. She made magic look easy.

In 1982, Denise married Robert “Bob” Edmonds. Together they blended their families and raised four strong boys—each of whom went on to find their own versions of success, love, and purpose. She is survived by her husband Bob; her siblings Dean Carlisle (Flo Carlisle), Liz Carlisle, and Lisa McIntosh; and her children Tony Retrosi (Stephanie Retrosi), Tom Edmonds (Indra Edmonds), and Chris Retrosi. She is reunited with our brother, her son Jeff Edmonds (deceased), who was married to Bridget Edmonds.

Through those boys came nine grandchildren who were the absolute center of her world: Madison and Chase Retrosi; Emilia and James Edmonds; Joseph, Michael, and Mathew Retrosi; and Fiona and Oliver Edmonds. She didn’t just love her grandchildren—she invested in them. Hard. Fully. Joyfully.

My Mom spent much of her life in the gymnastics world as a coach, club administrator, and official, judging and coaching all the way up through National Championships.  She was my first coach and mentor. I would not be the coach I am today without the education she gave me. She shaped athletes, but more importantly, she shaped people—teaching confidence, resilience, and how to show up prepared for life.

She was always up for adventure. She traveled widely, visited many countries, cruised Cape Horn, and seemed to collect experiences the way others collect souvenirs. From Iceland to Italy, from China to Argentina, from visiting family in Sweden to hiking Glacier National Park—if there was something new to see, she wanted to see it.

Music and laughter were constant companions. She loved to sing, performing with groups on the Seacoast of New Hampshire, and she loved entertaining. She was often the life of the party, always dressed to be noticed, always ready to celebrate life.

One of the most treasured chapters of Denise and Bob’s life was their home on North River Lake in New Hampshire. There, she taught everyone to waterski, and she and Bob were equally happy to provide near-death experiences on the tube. That lake became a training ground not just for balance and bravery—but for memories.

She was never the grandma who quietly baked cookies and whispered reminders. She was the grandma who took kids on expeditions. Picking up our children after a weekend with Grandma and Grandpa was always an adventure report: they had stayed up late to look at the stars, gone swimming and fishing, planted in the garden, gone for hikes, and possibly dissected roadkill. They were introduced to exotic cuisine like Hot Pockets and Cheese Whiz. Vegetables were rarely harmed in the process.

One memory that will never leave me is pulling into the driveway at the lake—both kids flinging their doors open, running full speed, and tackling her in the garden, covering her with kisses while she laughed so hard she could barely stand. I can still hear that laughter.

In retirement, after relocating to Punta Gorda, Florida in 2010, Denise didn’t slow down—she simply changed scenery. She became the grandma of the neighborhood. She gardened, beaded, crafted, birded, kayaked the Peace River, boated, fished, explored. She and Bob turned weekends into adventures.

In her Florida neighborhood, children constantly asked her to “come out and play.” She was loved there as she was everywhere—because she showed up, because she listened, because she laughed, because she made life feel lighter.

I always knew it wouldn’t last forever.

I just wished it lasted longer.

Mom lived boldly. She loved fiercely. She created a life full of movement, music, dirt under her fingernails, grandchildren in her arms, and stories that will be told for generations.

She was an avid reader and especially loved Stephen King novels introducing me to his work when I was about 12 and then my daughter to his writing as well. BTW- we just got a notice that she has an overdue book from the local library. Well- good luck tracking her down! 

Her laughter will echo in all of us.

Untitled Poem I wrote the other night. 

She stood like stone and summer rain,

tough hands, an open heart,

fair in her judgments, steady in her love,

never louder than her laughter.

She loved without bargaining,

taught without preaching,

and when life tested us,

she stood firm so we could bend.

Now she has crossed the quiet line,

where strong women are not laid to rest

but welcomed—

cups raised, stories told.

From Valhalla her laughter rings,

bright and fearless,

rolling like thunder we somehow recognize.

We walk on steadier ground because she walked first.

We love more bravely because she showed us how.

And though her hands we cannot hold,

her strength is woven into our days.

Tony Retrosi, 4 January 2026

I’ll Miss You Rob.

I’m trying to find the right words to honor my best friend, Rob. And honestly… I’m not sure words were ever big enough for him. We had the kind of friendship that was built on laughing way too hard at things no one else understood, finishing each other’s sentences, and driving our wives absolutely insane. Which — let’s be honest — was one of our greatest joys. It was messy, hilarious, loyal to the core, and built on the rule that no idea was ever too ridiculous for him to say, “What the hell, let’s give it a try.”

And I tested that rule. Often.

Rob grew up in New Jersey, I grew up in New York, and somehow we didn’t meet until we were two grown men living in New Hampshire. Maybe it’s for the best — if we had met any earlier, half the Tri-State Area might’ve issued restraining orders. But from the moment we did meet, something clicked. He was the friend I didn’t even know I needed — the brother I got to choose.

He was also a big guy. Over six feet. Built like a former linebacker. And I’m… well… I’m 5’7” if I stand up straight and think confident thoughts.

Whenever I picked him up, I would very deliberately move the passenger seat all the way forward and crank it up as high as it would go so his head would stick halfway out the sunroof. Every single time, he’d shake his head, fold himself in half like a travel-size giant, and say, “Let’s go.” No annoyance. No complaint. Just Rob being Rob — rolling with the nonsense because that’s what friends do.

And that was our whole friendship: he’d sigh, shake his head… and then get in the car anyway.

Like the time I may have forgotten that my son needed to move back into his dorm in New Hampshire while I was in California. Who did I call? Rob. And because he was the best, he just said, “Yeah, sure,” as if people called him every day to move their children into their college dorm.

Or the time at dinner after his own vow renewal when someone congratulated us on being a “cute couple.” Rob just shrugged reached across and took my hand and said, “Well, it’s not the worst thing we’ve been accused of.”

Then there were the costumes.

One night, he and Becky came to pick us up for dinner and I was standing in the yard dressed as a T-Rex. Full costume. No explanation. Rob jumped out of the car and chased me around the yard. two 50+ year old men running around the front yard laughing. Becky, his wife, said, “Ok boys. time to go. What are you, 8?”  Rob just rolled with it and said, “You riding like that, or are you changing?”

Another time they got home from vacation and found me in their front yard dressed as a lawn jockey. He didn’t even ask why. He just muttered, “I really need new friends,” and then laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

I have enough stories to fill a book — but maybe the mystery is better. Maybe the best way to honor him is knowing that everyone has their own version of Rob… and every version is warm, loyal, and filled with laughter.

He taught me how to fly fish. And I will never forgive him for that. He taught me how to relax and laugh at the world. And for that- I’ll always love him. 

Last Saturday was his birthday. Our final texts say everything:
Me: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY! YOU ARE THE MOST AMAZING PERSON I KNOW.”
Rob: “Thanks! You must know a lot of dorks!”
Me: “Yeah — but you’re still the best of them.”
Rob: “Thanks? I love you.”
Me: “We deserve each other. Love you too”
Rob: “We must have been evil in a past life.”

That was us. Silly, loving, ridiculous in all the right ways.

Saying goodbye to him at the hospital was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. We had plans. So many plans. And losing him has left a hole I don’t know how to fill.

I will miss him more than words can describe. I will never laugh as hard as I laughed with him — and honestly, I don’t want to. That kind of laughter belongs to Rob.

I love you, buddy. Thank you for being the friend I didn’t know I needed, the one who said “yes” to everything, the one who never hesitated to climb into a too-small car seat with his head sticking out the sunroof.

We must have been evil in a past life — because this life, with you in it, was pretty damn wonderful.

Capturing the Essence of Summer: Gratitude and Reflection

It’s only the second day of August, and already I feel it slipping away.

Summer in New England is a master of false promises. You wait all year for it—through sleet, through piles of snow on the sidewalks, through endless gray. You make plans. Big plans. Road trips to see friends you haven’t hugged in too long. Picnics by the ocean. Long weekends at the lake where time feels like it stretches a little. But somehow, none of it happens the way it did in your head.

You try to squeeze in a drive along the coast, only to be swallowed by traffic before you even reach the beach. A picnic? Maybe next weekend, if the weather holds and no one has a family thing. That lake weekend? Turns into one night—if you’re lucky—followed by a frantic Sunday scramble to beat the traffic home.

And yet, summer is the season we all romanticize.

As a kid, summer was freedom in its purest form. We rode our bikes until the sun went down—and even after. I was born on the 60’s and really grew up in the late 70’s and early 80’s Our parents had no clue where we were, and honestly, neither did we. We could’ve been in town, or two towns over, or, once or twice, in another state entirely. No phones, just friends and endless roads.

Some of my most formative summers were spent at gymnastics camp. That’s where I really learned how to coach—and where I learned a few other things I probably shouldn’t have. But most importantly, it’s where I met my wife. We became a couple at that camp. Everything we’ve built together—our family, our work, our life—it all traces back to those hot, muggy, joy-filled days.

I miss those people. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the carefree days and the questionable decisions at night. There was a freedom in those years that’s hard to replicate. Life wasn’t simpler—just more spontaneous.

And yet—I never fail to appreciate what I have now. I’m deeply grateful to live comfortably, especially in a time when so many people are struggling just to get by. That’s not something I take lightly. There’s peace in knowing that my family is safe, and our needs are met. That’s a kind of wealth I don’t ever want to take for granted.

But still—summer moves too fast.

As adults, the season is no longer endless. It’s scheduled. It’s booked. It’s full of obligations and logistics. Even beauty can feel rushed when it’s crammed between calendar appointments.

Sometimes a song will come on, and I’m instantly transported. The other day it was “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure, and suddenly I was seventeen again—sweaty, smiling, leaning against the wall of a dorm at camp, wondering what the night would bring. No responsibilities. No schedule. Just music, people, and the sense that anything could happen.

In those moments, I feel it all again—the joy, the freedom, the ache.

So next summer, I want to be more deliberate. I want to appreciate the scent of fresh-cut grass—the kind you first notice in spring, that smells like promises to be kept. I want to savor simple walks with my wife and our dog, when no boots or jackets are needed. I want to sit by a campfire under a clear sky, counting stars and spotting the occasional satellite. I want more boat rides. More dinners with our friends at the lake. More Waffle Sundays with my own maple syrup. I want to appreciate each moment as it comes—not in hindsight, not when it’s slipping away, but right then.

Summer is cruel. Not because it’s unkind—but because it always leaves too soon.

But the memories… those stay.

And right now, I’m sitting by the campfire at the lake. Solar lights glow on the dock, casting reflections across the boat. Strings of warm bulbs hang in the trees, giving the night a soft, golden hush. I hear laughter from across the water—other families, other friends, also trying to hold on to this fleeting season.

And I’m lucky. Lucky to be here. Lucky to have a wonderful wife to share it all with.

This moment, right now… this one won’t slip away.

8 Minutes Can Change Everything

8 Minutes Can Change Everything

People don’t always cry out for help in obvious ways. Sometimes, they make a joke. Or send a random text. Or post something a little off on social media. Sometimes they act out, not because they want attention, but because deep down, they just want to be seen.

It’s easy to judge those moments. To roll our eyes and think, “They’re just being dramatic.” But research—and more importantly, experience—suggests otherwise. Studies show that just 8 minutes of focused, empathetic attention from another person can be enough to make someone feel less alone.

Think about that.
Eight minutes.

That’s less time than it takes to scroll through Instagram or microwave your dinner.
And yet it can be the difference between someone spiraling deeper into isolation… or feeling like maybe—just maybe—they matter.

Here’s the thing: helping someone through a hard time doesn’t mean you need to fix their problems or come up with profound advice. It means being present. Listening without judgment. Sitting in the silence with them and letting them know they don’t have to carry their burden alone.

I know this. I live this.
Every day, I show up for others.
At work, I solve problems. I mentor. I coach. I lift people up when they’re at their lowest.
In my personal life, I try to be the steady hand, the voice of reason, the one who has it together.
And maybe that’s the problem.

Because from the outside, my life looks good.
I’m surrounded by people. I laugh. I keep moving.
But being around people is not the same as being seen by them.

I was up in Canada teaching a course when a colleague asked me, “How are you?” and he really meant it. He was concerned. I can’t remember the last time someone asked, “Are you okay?” and really meant it. ( Thanks Steve- it was just a rough couple days. I’m good. )
Not the polite “How’s it going?”
But the kind that waits for an answer.
That pauses. Leans in. Stays for the full eight minutes.

Sometimes I wonder—what would happen if we stopped assuming that the strong ones don’t need support? That the ones who always have the answers aren’t also sometimes drowning in their own questions?

This post isn’t a cry for help.
It’s a reminder. For me. For you. For all of us.

If someone seems like they’re acting out, maybe they’re just reaching out.
If someone posts something weird or dark or a little too honest, maybe they’re hoping someone will notice.
And if someone is always the helper, maybe it’s because they know exactly how painful it is to feel unseen.

Be the person who gives someone eight minutes.
Eight real, undistracted, compassionate minutes.
You don’t need to fix anything.
You just need to show up.

Because eight minutes can change everything.

Even for someone who seems like they don’t need it.
Even for someone like me.

Rethinking Drunk Driving.

This is a humorous post. I am not being serious. It all started over a conversation at brunch with Anna.

imagine this:

I’m cruising home one night after a dinner party — not drunk, just… festive. Blue lights flash behind me. I pull over. Officer approaches the window and says, “License and registration.”

I hand it over without thinking. He looks at it, does a double take.

Then he chuckles. “Ah… I see you’ve got the two-photo special,” he says, flipping to the back.

There I am — in my “drunk” license photo: smiling like I just got adopted by a mariachi band.

He squints at the fine print and goes,

“Approved up to three drinks. Strictly no tequila.”

Then the unthinkable happens — the officer actually laughs.

“You seem fine. Just remember — one more drink, then it’s water or Uber. And absolutely no tequila, or we’re back here doing karaoke field tests.”

He sends me on my way with a wink.

And folks, I stayed out. Had exactly one more drink. And yes — it was not tequila.

Let’s talk about driver’s licenses — those tiny laminated lies we carry in our wallets. Because let’s be honest: no one looks like their license photo unless they were arrested moments after DMV check-in.

Now, here’s my proposal: it’s time we take this “license to drive” thing up a notch — especially when it comes to alcohol.

Two Photos. One Truth.

Every driver’s license should have two photos:

• One of you sober (your usual DMV “deer-in-headlights” expression)
• One of you drunk (you know, red-eyed, lopsided grin, possibly hugging a stranger or a traffic cone)

That way, when a cop pulls you over and you slur, “Thish ishh me,” they can just glance at the back and say, “Ah yes, he does look like this when he’s hammered.” Case closed.

The New Drunk Driving Test

At 16, you get your learner’s permit. You study hard. You parallel park. You convince an underpaid government worker you’re capable of safely piloting two tons of steel. Hooray!

But at 21? You come back. This time, it’s the Drunk Driving Test.

Here’s how it works:

1. You arrive at the DMV.
2. You drink.
3. You take the driving test.
4. If you pass — congratulations! That’s your alcohol threshold.
5. If you fail — well, that’s your limit. From now on, your license says:
   “Approved to drive with up to 3 beers. Expires after tequila.”

You keep drinking and retaking the test until you hit your breaking point — the moment where you start driving like a rodeo clown in a demolition derby. That’s when the instructor politely says, “Please exit the vehicle and stop singing Bon Jovi.”

Personalized Restrictions!

Forget vague warnings. Your license now includes very clear, personalized instructions:

• “No driving after craft cocktails or IPA tastings.”
• “Sober only. Starts crying and FaceTiming ex after one margarita.”
• “Caution: gets philosophical and forgets to signal.”

Public Safety Meets Public Humor

Sure, this might take some extra funding, breathalyzers, and waterproof upholstery in DMV vehicles — but imagine the lives saved and the laughs had.

Because the truth is: no one thinks they’re drunk. But if you’ve ever tried to unlock your car using a Taco Bell receipt, you might not be OK to drive.

We already label licenses for corrective lenses, so why not corrective judgment?

Just picture it: a world where your license reminds you not just who you are — but who you become after two glasses of Pinot Grigio and a karaoke mic. This is a humorous post. I am not being serious. It all started over a conversation at brunch with Anna.

A Journey Through Life and Friendship

The Spirit of ‘76 — A Dedication to My Friends Through the Years

There’s a line from a song that hits me every time I hear it:

“And me, I’ve seen my dreams come true

But that don’t make me no hero, just one of the lucky few…”

It’s from Spirit of ‘76 by The Alarm — a song about growing, surviving, taking chances, and holding on to belief even when the world gets dark. Mike Peters, who wrote it, recently passed away. He was an incredible songwriter, and oddly enough, I ran into him a few times over the years. It’s a story for another day, but it connects deeply with my brother, who passed away ten years ago from the same cancer that took Mike’s life. Life’s strange like that — full of echoes, connections, and chance moments that never quite leave you.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the friends who helped shape me, especially those I grew up with during the 70s and 80s. It was a different world back then — one without GPS tracking, instant messages, or helicopter parenting. We were wild, mostly unsupervised, and totally free. Feral, some might say, and maybe that’s not wrong.

Our parents worked. We raised ourselves — and sometimes our siblings too. From the moment we could ride a bike, we could be anywhere: at the lake, in the city, maybe even a different state. It was chaotic, and it was beautiful. Tight friendships were not a luxury; they were a necessity. There were no cell phones to check in with, no social safety nets. Your lifeline was your crew. You stuck together, or you sank.

Those years taught me how to read people, how to adapt, how to lead, and how to follow. We learned resilience not from books, but from scraped knees, missed buses, heartbreaks, and long summer nights with nothing but music, stars, and dreams.

Fast forward to last week — I was on a work trip in Iceland, and I had dinner and a beer with one of my oldest friends. Someone I met during my first year of college. Back in the fall of 1984, I had just quit competitive gymnastics and was coaching to pay the bills. I wanted to be a teacher. Or maybe a politician. I had no real idea — just this drive to do something that mattered.

We were part of the punk and new wave scene. We studied hard, worked harder, and lived for the weekends when we’d see bands, play a little music ourselves (badly), and just exist in this weird, beautiful community of misfits. It was raw. It was real. It was formative. And that friend? He helped me find myself when I didn’t even know I was lost.

During those college years in New York, I started feeling the push from my parents and professors to fit into boxes. A teacher should look like this. A politician shouldn’t say that. A gymnastics coach? That’s a dead-end job. You’ll never make any money. You’ll never make a difference.

And yet, I kept going.

Eventually, I transferred to a school in New Hampshire. Summers were spent coaching at a gymnastics camp just outside NYC. I was one of the younger coaches — full of nerves, full of awe. But I learned. I grew. I made more friends — and quietly fell in love with someone. (I could write volumes about the people at this camp. Love them all). Life was intense and vivid and complicated, and I wouldn’t change a second of it.

What strikes me now, looking back, is how those friends — the ones from college, the ones from camp — saw me. Really saw me. Not for who I was supposed to be, but for who I was becoming. They accepted the radical thinker, the idealist, the scrappy coach, the music-obsessed kid with big ideas and no clue how to pay rent.

And here I am now. Writing this from the terrace of my apartment in Italy. I’ve got an amazing wife — my rock for over 35 years. Two kids, grown, thriving, chasing their own paths. I’ve coached Olympic teams, yes. But more importantly, I’ve helped athletes become who they are, in and out of the gym.

But my heart is also with the friends who have struggled — and there have been many. Some have faced down their demons and still fight them every day. Some fell into patterns they couldn’t quite break — whether it was drugs, alcohol, failed relationships, or simply the weight of expectations that never matched their own dreams. Some just never quite “closed the deal” or found the life they were looking for. I see you. I still believe in you. I believe in your ability not just to survive — but to flourish. Think back to the dreams we shared. The promises we made in parking lots and coffee shops and on the hoods of cars in the dead of night. There is still time.

You see, some nights when I can’t sleep

I still think of you

And all the promises, all our dreams we shared

I know those lights still call to you

I can hear them now…

And every now and then, like anyone else who’s lived a little, I find myself flashing back to those Talking Heads lyrics:

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself, “Well… how did I get here?”

It’s surreal — because that’s exactly what happened. Somehow, in the whirlwind of choices, failures, detours, and friendships, I ended up here. And the honest answer is: I got here because of the people who stood by me. Who lifted me up. Who challenged me, believed in me, and let me be messy and real and unfinished.

The work was hard. The path wasn’t always clear. But it was worth it.

And me? I’ve seen my dreams come true.

But I know I’m just one of the lucky few.

So this is for my friends — the ones from those lost summers and gritty winters, from New York and New Hampshire, from the campgrounds and the music clubs, from the gyms and the midnight drives. Some of you are still here. Some are gone too soon. All of you live in the best parts of me.

“I still believe a man can change his own destiny

But the price is high that has got to be paid

For everyone who survives, there are many who fail…”

I carry your spirit with me — the spirit of ’76. And I will never give in until the day I die.

Strike a Pose… Then Leave, Please.

“Strike a Pose… Then Leave, Please.”

Ah, Rome. La dolce vita. Gelato in hand, cobblestone streets underfoot, history whispering from every ancient ruin and overdramatic statue. It’s one of the most beautiful, intoxicating places on Earth. So naturally, what better way to enjoy it than… standing in front of a fountain for 45 minutes doing your 47th version of “spontaneously carefree but secretly curated sexy-chic” for Instagram?

I am lucky that I get to live here at least part time. Today, as I meandered through a Roman piazza—doing that very old-fashioned thing called “enjoying it”—I witnessed a couple painstakingly choreograph a mini photoshoot in front of a fountain. Not just any fountain. A fountain with history.With charm. With a pigeon who looked just as fed up as I was.

This couple, dressed suspiciously like they were headed to a rooftop cocktail party in Miami (not, you know, standing in the 85-degree Roman humidity), cycled through every influencer staple pose: the half-turn laugh, the smolder-over-the-shoulder, the faux-candid water splash, and my personal favorite—the double-check-the-photo-on-your-phone-and-groan combo.

It was like watching a live audition for “America’s Next Top Tourist.” And you wonder why they don’t like Americans here so much.

Now look, I’m not against photos. I take them too. I even like a good one of myself now and then. (Preferably from a flattering angle, with natural light, and maybe a filter called “Youthful Hopefulness.”) But come on. Do we really need 37 versions of your sultry squint in front of a 300-year-old marble sculpture?

What are you trying to influence? Seriously. Who’s looking at your 17-minute reel of “exploring Italy” (translation: blocking everyone’s view of the Trevi Fountain) and thinking: Yes, this is the woman who should sell me tea that makes me poop.

Here’s a revolutionary idea: take one photo. Maybe two. Then put the phone away, sit on the steps, eat a gelato, and just be in Rome. Breathe in the espresso. Smell the amazing cooking in the air. Garlic and basil mixed with the faint smell of vespas. Absorb the history. Wonder who else walked these streets centuries ago. Ask yourself existential questions. Like, why does every influencer wear a wide-brimmed hat in Europe? Why do they call it a BACK PACK if most of you wear it on the front?!

Italy is a masterpiece. Don’t reduce it to your selfie backdrop. Appreciate it. Let it get under your skin and into your heart—not just onto your feed.

And if you’re still unsure, here’s a simple rule of thumb: if you’ve done more posing than walking, more curating than conversing, and more filtering than feeling—maybe, just maybe, you’re missing the point.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go grumble at the pigeons. Because yes, I’m old. But at least I’m not blocking the Colosseum for TikTok.

The Time Machine of Music: How Songs Transport Us Through Memory

The Time Machine of Music: How Songs Transport Us Through Memory

Music is made not only to entertain but to capture emotions, to create lasting imprints on our psyche. It has a way of making us nostalgic while also anchoring us in the present. There are certain songs—those first notes, that familiar melody—that forever burn into our memories. A song where you absolutely remember the first time you heard it. You can picture the people you were with, the way the air felt, the way life seemed at that moment. Or maybe it’s a song that, because of an event, has become inextricably linked to a piece of your history. The song and the event intertwined, impossible to separate.

Today, while running errands, a song came on the radio, and suddenly, I wasn’t in my car anymore—I was back at a camp in New York, surrounded by friends, the carefree spirit of youth hanging in the air. The song? Psychedelic Furs’ Ghost in You. That opening melody instantly pulled me into a time machine, rocketing me back to late nights and deep conversations, laughter echoing through the gym. And for the next 20 minutes, song after song played, INXS- Don’t Change , each one unlocking another memory, another moment from a past that felt so distant yet so immediate. Yes, I grew up in the 80’s. Bad choice in haircuts. But some great music.

In the gym there was always a mix of some great songs. From Billy Joel to REM. From The Replacements and The Cure to The Ramones. I have lost track of some of my teammates and friends and some have passed away. But because of the music- I still remember.

I know nostalgia can be a lie, a filter that softens the edges of reality. We tend to remember the joy, the camaraderie, the laughter—but not the stress, the uncertainty, or the worries that might have been lurking beneath. And maybe that’s for the best. If we truly relived it all, we might lose ourselves in the longing. Instead, we get these fleeting gifts—songs that act as keys to doors we thought were locked forever.

I know we cannot relive those days. But every time certain songs come on, we have the ability to relive the best parts.

To the friends from those days, wherever you are—I hope you’re doing well. We had some great times. And every now and then, when the right song plays, I get to visit those moments again. Music makes sure of that.

Sometimes I wish I had more photos of those times. Then I think that because we didn’t have cell phones or cell phone camera we were able to live in the moment.

Now headed to grab my guitar and play some of these.

Some Unanswerable Questions. Just To Get You Thinking This New Year

This is what happens to my mind on a drive across Italy while I listen to philosophical podcasts.

1. Are we living in a simulation, and if so, how would we know?
2. What is nothingness?
3. What existed before the universe began?
4. If the past is gone and the future hasn’t happened, does the present really exist?
5. If parallel universes exist, how many versions of “you” are there?
6. Why does anything exist at all instead of nothing?
7. How do we know people see the same colors? Is my “red” the same as your “red”?
8. What is the smallest possible unit of time?
9. Can two identical objects exist?
10. If you replaced every part of a ship one by one until none of the original remained, then built a second ship from all the original parts, which one is the real ship—and at what exact point during the replacement process did it change?
11. If someone says, “This statement is false,” are they lying?
12. Can an all-powerful being create a rock so heavy it cannot lift it?
13. How can you ever reach a destination if you have to get halfway there first, then halfway again, and so on forever?
14. If you take an object back in time and leave it there, where did it originally come from?
15. Can a tolerant society tolerate intolerance?
16. Can you trust a memory if you can’t tell when it started?
17. What language would you think in if you didn’t know any?
18. If you could go back in time to stop yourself from making a mistake, would you still learn from it?
19. Why is the “D” in “fridge” but not in “refrigerator”?
20. Why is the word “abbreviation” so long?
21. Is a hot dog a sandwich?
22. Is cereal a soup?
23. Do fish know they’re wet?
24. When you clean a vacuum cleaner, aren’t you the vacuum cleaner?
25. What color is a mirror?
26. What would chairs look like if our knees bent the other way?
27. Is the “S” or “C” silent in the word “scent”?
28. Why do we call it “after dark” when it’s actually after light?
29. If we’re all unique, doesn’t that make being unique not unique?

Have some questions you would like to contribute? Let me know. OR- if you have an answer to one of these!

A Season of Hope. Small Businesses, the Heart of our Community.

Each of us does not exist as an island. It takes a community. Working together towards common goals.

The SEACOAST of New Hampshire is a pretty great place to live, to raise a family and to own a business in. I am a big believer in supporting local businesses year round. There are so many wonderful businesses out there.

In the past I have done a scavenger hunt with my businesses. Encouraging my employees to go out and visit local businesses. To realize that “we are all in this together”. Small Business Saturday was this last Saturday.  But EVERY DAY is a day to support small businesses in your community. 

According to most studies, a significantly smaller portion of each dollar spent at a big box store goes back to the community compared to a local business. Due to the corporate structure and distribution of profits across multiple locations only about  13-20 cents per dollar goes back to the local economy. Compare that with nearly 70 cents per dollar from a local business.  

Rarely do you see BIG BOX STORES sponsoring youth sports or community events. So before you go in and ask a local business to sponsor your Childs event or team- get out there and spend your money with a locally owned store. 

We are all in this together.