“Stepping Off the Edge: Life After the Bell Rang”

At some point, it became painfully clear that my future was barreling toward a long, illustrious career in the fine arts of flipping burgers at McDonald’s. A noble profession, sure, but maybe not the destiny my parents had envisioned when they paid for school supplies. So, here is what I did. I approached my dad one last time with my Hail Mary pass and explained, with great sincerity, that I simply wasn’t the kind of person who learned from reading books or listening to lectures. (A revelation I’m sure he found thrilling after years of tuition and patience.)

At the time, dad was developing a hotel in the Cayman Islands - because of course, he was; every good story has a subplot involving a tropical business venture. I suggested that maybe I should go there, work in the industry, and try to become something other than “Employee of the Month, McDonald’s, Drive Thru Division.

”He paused, probably weighing the pros and cons of sending his son to a Caribbean island versus watching him burn through another semester of textbooks he’d never open. Then he said, “OK.” And that was it. Off I went, armed with a briefcase he handed me, which I still carried to work every single day for the past 58 years, partly for nostalgia and partly because it makes me look like I know what I’m doing. Anyway, I’m bound for the islands, ready to reinvent myself, and hoping the universe appreciates my enthusiasm more than my academic record.

“ The Island”

Landing in Cayman felt like stepping into a postcard. sun blazing, water sparkling, and me, bright-eyed and ready to conquer adulthood. I was so pumped to “hit the ground running” that I skipped sleeping for the first two nights. Who needs rest when you have the intoxicating thrill of night auditing? Nothing screams adventure like balancing room statements at 3 am while questioning your life choices.

Finally, after two days of pretending sleep was optional, I was dragging myself toward my room. That’s when a sweet little old lady tapped me on the shoulder. In the gentlest voice, she asked if I could come to her room because her husband “wasn’t responding.”

Now, I assume this was the usual marital selective hearing situation, husband pretending to sleep, wife not buying it. But no. This man wasn’t ignoring her. He had fully, completely, rigor mortis level checked out.

My first dead body. My first “welcome to the workforce.” My first introduction to island time and socialized medicine, all in one unforgettable moment.

See, in the islands, they have an expression: “Soon come, Mon.” What it sounds like: “I’ll be right there.” What it means: “Could be in a few minutes… could be later today… could be tomorrow… could be whenever the universe feels like it.”

So, we called for an ambulance and a coroner. And then we waited. And waited. And waited for some more. Four hours later, which was good timing for an island only 22 miles long and 4 miles wide, they finally rolled in, looking as if they’d just strolled over from a leisurely lunch.

The doctor, on loan from England, examined the poor man with all the urgency of someone deciding between tea flavors. After a moment of deep medical contemplation, an attempt to resuscitate the poor guy, he delivered his official pronouncement: “Yep… yep… I think he’s dead.”

And that, boys and girls, was my grand introduction to my first job. No orientation packet could top it. Even with the rocky start, it was wonderful, intoxicating, even paradise. It’s hard to put into words just how beautiful the Caribbean really is. The water is so impossibly blue you start to wonder if your eyes had upgraded themselves. Sailing out there felt less like riding on the sea and more like being a part of you, as if the boat, the breeze, and the waves invited you to belong.

Night fishing was its own kind of magic. We’d hang a lantern over the side of the boat, its glow trembling on the water like a living thing. No fancy gear—just a string, a shiny hook, and the kind of confidence only fishermen and fools possess. The fish practically lined up, begging to be part of the adventure. Half the time, it felt like they were trying to jump into the boat just to see what all the excitement was about.

And then there were the real fishermen, the ones who believed the sea had a personality, a memory, and a sense of humor. One guy by the name of Ebanks swore he once met a mermaid who carried a compass. He said she pointed him toward a sandbar that didn’t exist on any chart, and when he got there, he found the biggest snapper of his life waiting like it had an appointment. He told the story with such conviction you had to believe him, out there, under those stars, with that water, you just had to.

But the island had its temptations, too. The kind that smiles at you from across a beach bar, the kind that whispers, just have on more rum, the kind that slowly nudges you off the path you meant to follow. And I’ll admit it: a few of those temptations led me places I probably shouldn’t have gone.

I got to meet folks from every corner of the world—some wonderful, some… well, let’s just say they added “character” to their trip. The good ones were the kind of people you instantly felt connected to, like you’d known them in another life. They’d share stories over rum punches, laugh too loud, and treat you like family even if you’d only met an hour earlier.

And then there were the others, the ones who reminded you that paradise doesn’t automatically make everyone pleasant. A few carried their troubles everywhere they went. Some were grumpy, some were strange, and one or two seemed like they’d gotten lost on their way, and you wanted to call customs to come get them. Every personality, good or bad, became part of the charm of an island.

Travel does that, it hands you a whole cast of characters you never would’ve met back home, and whether they’re saints or scoundrels, they all leave you with a story worth telling. Still, those years were a chapter I wouldn’t trade. A little wild, a little reckless, and full of stories that still smell faintly of saltwater and trouble. If I could point to only one downside, Cayman had no nude beaches.

“Back to the States”

After living on the island for about four years, and missing the draft by a single number, one breath away from Vietnam, I eventually moved back to the States. I always thought I wanted to serve. I believed it was my duty. But after seeing how many young men came home broken, lost, or never came home at all, I’ve come to believe God was watching over me in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

Coming home meant settling into the family business, working side-by-side with Dad, Mom, Bobby, and Aunt Mary. Something was grounding about it, something healing. It felt good to be part of something dad and mom built with our own hands, something with roots that reached deeper than any one of us.

I married my high school sweetheart, Maria, and together we raised three beautiful children: Deana, Elizabeth, and Nicholas. Two girls and a boy, each one their own adventure, each one teaching me more about love, patience, and humility than I ever taught them. They’re all grown now, living their own lives, and somehow managing to make me look like I knew what I was doing as a father, even though I often felt like I was making it up as I went along.

Deana and Elizabeth both married good men, the kind of men you hope your daughters find. Solid husbands, devoted fathers. And in true sister fashion, they both became teachers. Patience clearly runs in the family… just not through me. Between the two of them, they blessed me with six grandsons. I never told them how proud I was to be their father.

My son Nick had a tougher road to haul. He faced challenges that would’ve broken a weaker man. Some of those struggles, I know, were made heavier by my absence during parts of his life when he needed me most. That’s a truth I carry. But my son turned himself around in a way that still amazes me. Today he’s an accomplished musician, a loving son, and for reasons I will never fully understand, a man who willingly jumps out of airplanes. Hopefully with a parachute. Preferably one that works. I am so incredibly proud of him. Nick also had a son; and all told, my kids gave me seven grandsons.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to explain how proud I am of all of them. They built strong, loving families of their own, even though their dad wasn’t always the father he should’ve been. They stood by me through the years, even when I made it hard. Maria was right when she finally threw me out—I had earned it.

What weighed on me, what I carried quietly for so long, is that I never really had the chance, or maybe never found the courage, to tell them how sorry I am. Sorry for the hurt I caused, for the collapse of our family, for the moments I wasn’t there when they needed me. That regret settled deep inside me, right alongside the love and the pride. Both are true. Both shaped the man I eventually became. I had one job and I failed.

There’s one thing I know now, it’s that love and regret can live in the same heart. One doesn’t cancel out the other. They simply remind you of the cost of being human, and the grace of being forgiven.

“E.J. Fennel Inc.”

That was the name of my parents’ business. The first job Dad gave me came with very specific instructions: he wanted me to become the engineer’s engineer. It was exciting! All those years I spent as a kid taking apart anything with wires, batteries, or electricity just to see how it worked felt like they were finally about to pay off. But that wasn’t what he meant

To be an engineer’s engineer, he said, you must follow, watch, and study what everyone does. That meant learning from the air conditioning repairman, the sewing machine mechanics, the guys running electrical and steam lines, and even the office payroll and bookkeeping staff.

Why? Because the more you understand every job, the harder it is for anyone to take advantage of you. And you’ll never be dependent on someone else to keep the business running, because you can step in at any moment if needed...... God, I missed him.

After the Unions pretty much collapsed our industry and manufacturers, moving production to non-union factories and overseas, E. J. Fennel Inc. closed its doors after 40 years in business. I was proud to be a part of it with my brother, because that was at the time when dad passed away, and we were able to be there for mom to help keep things running for a while.

“The Potpourri of Jobs that Followed”

Around 1980, when the factory was to close, I opened a pub-style restaurant in the north end of Hagerstown, Maryland. Why? Because everyone knows when you’re unemployed, you can run a restaurant or paint better than anyone else.

It was called Oliver’s Pub, not Italian, not fancy, just a name borrowed from a character in a Charles Dickens novel that seemed to fit the place. I would spend the next twelve years there before moving on.

Oliver’s took off quickly. Our fresh seafood, along with sauteed and broiled menu items, quickly became a local favorite spot. Weekends were alive with music, everything from jazz to motown, and the place was filled with people who made it feel like the center of town. On the outside, it looked like success.

But it was also the beginning of the slow unraveling of my life. That was the time when the “Juice of the Devil” - rum - tightened its grip on me. I became a functioning drunk, convincing myself I was holding everything together while quietly losing the things that mattered most. In time, I lost my family.

The very things Jesus expected of me, to be a husband, a father, a family man, were the things I failed at most painfully in both my marriages. And I knew it, and something I have regretted all my life.

During that same stretch, I went and opened a second restaurant in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Same concept, same charm, just a new name: Mr. Bumbles, another character borrowed from Charles Dickens. Apparently, I guess I was trying to build a small literary universe, one sandwich at a time.

And then fate, who clearly has a sense of humor and a flair for dramatic entrances, sent another “Karen,” “Maria,” whatever name destiny was using. This time her name was Tracey.

Tracey was everything. Beautiful, kind, smart, a teacher, the sort of person who could walk into a room and have everyone instantly fall in love with her. Honestly, if she had run for mayor, the election would’ve been over before the polls opened. I was the lucky one; I got to marry her after losing Maria, a second chance, maybe.

Tracey and I tried to have children, but my vasectomy reversal never quite cooperated. (Grandsons, pay attention: do not - do not attempt this unless necessary). There is nothing noble or character-building about waddling around with two black-and-blue bowling balls between your legs while clutching 5-pound bags of ice. (Grandpa has suffered, so you don’t have to.)

Anyway, life, as it tends to do, worked itself out in the most beautiful way. We adopted an incredible, stunning little girl from China, whom we named Kylee, and she became the joy we didn’t even know we were waiting for.

She’s all grown up now, a superstar living in New York City, which is another thing that gave me the beegeebees. I worried so very much about her, but I can say how proud I am of what she has accomplished

Things were rolling along well, right up until our family vacation at the Outer Banks turned into something out of a medical drama. One minute I was enjoying the beach, the next I had a heart attack that earned me my first helicopter ride. Not exactly the scenic tour I had in mind. They flew me from one beach to Sentara Beach, Virginia, where the surgeons promptly performed five bypasses like it was some kind of simple upgrade they did all the time.

Now, I wanted to blame the whole ordeal on the two pounds of pasta and crab-meat swimming in Alfredo sauce I’d inhaled the night before. It would’ve been a cleaner story. But the truth? It was 35 years of smoking, too much “Juice of the Devil,” and a long, proud history of ignoring common sense that finally caught up with me.

Sad but true, though if you squint, there’s a little comedy in the fact that my heart waited until vacation to file its complaint.

I managed to spoil the vacation that year for the entire family. Every day, Tracey drove 6 hours each day to visit. She really loved me, and though I did the same, I don't think I ever really showed that to her.

Later on, I found myself back under the knife for an AAA (abdominal aortic aneurysm). Trust me, you do not want one of these. Mine was so big there wasn't a stent large enough to fix it. So, lucky me, they had to crack my chest open again and replace sections of my aorta like they were swapping out parts on an old Buick.

I eventually learned this little gift was an inherited trait from my dad’s side of the family. And, just like before, Tracey never left my side. Day and night, she was there, love in a way most people only read about.

I honestly believe I came as close to that “white light” as anyone can without punching their ticket. The doctors said everything went smoothly, but I’ve always felt they weren’t telling the whole story. Something I never shared with anyone.

I know what I saw; that light was real, and it scared more beegeebees out of me. In my 75 years now, it’s a feeling I’ve never fully shaken off.

Eventually, I exited the restaurant business for good and wandered my way through a few new careers, as a comptroller for a retail business, project manager for General Dynamics IT Services, started a Home Inspection business, and a maintenance technician, among other things. I always tried to support my family, just not always in the ways I should have. (As you can see, through life I was a Jack of many trades, just never managed to master one)

And then… I just hit a wall. I gave up. I decided what I really needed was a warmer climate, something that might melt away the lingering beegeebees I’d been carrying around since my surgeries. So off I went to Florida, convinced sunshine and palm trees were going to save my life, and that the family would eventually relocate and we would live life happily ever after in paradise.

Sadly, that didn't happen. In time, I ended up destroying another marriage and lost Tracey and Kylee. I have no one to blame for that but myself. I exiled myself and remained alone at my own demise.

To get established when I first arrived in Florida and having a need to eat, I took a job cleaning swimming pools. Yep… I became that guy. “The Pool Boy”. And at first, I thought, “Man, this is gonna be great. I’ll be skimming leaves while the Florida bikini brigade lounges poolside.” What I didn’t realize, being new to Florida, is that the “bikini brigade” down here is… let’s just say… well past the early-bird special. These ladies weren’t sunbathing; they were marinating.

Trust me, when you turn a corner expecting Baywatch and instead get the AARP calendar shoot, you drop the chlorine sas fast as you can and evacuate the premises like there’s a Category 5 hurricane coming. Still, I kept that job for four years. Four years of sunscreen, skimmers, and more wrinkled sunbathers than a dermatologist convention.

After a few failed attempts to move back home, I found myself boomeranging back to Florida, except this boomerang came with humidity, and the faint smell of sunscreen that never quite leaves your clothes. Then I landed a job as a hotel manager on the beach in Nokomis, FL Not bad, right? Ocean breeze, beach views, and tourists who apparently believe SPF is a government conspiracy.

I was there going on for about 5 years. And then, right around the time the political world was flipping upside down with the election of Trump, my boss, the owner, had what I can only describe as a full-blown philosophical awakening. In English, she went WOKE!

Overnight, she went from normal to… well… cosmically enlightened. One day, she’s talking about occupancy rates, the next she’s speaking in riddles and acting like she’s receiving management advice from a burning bush only she can see.

That’s when the accusations started. According to her, there had been “misconduct” on my part with the female staff. (all two of them.) The shocking evidence? My salutations. Apparently, saying things like “Good morning, babe,” “How was your evening, sweetie?” or “Have a great weekend, Hun” was now considered a federal offense. She even admitted these weren’t actual complaints from the staff, just “perceptions” on her part. Perceptions, like the ghost light that lingers behind your eyelids after you challenge the sun.

My greetings were always meant as friendly, warm, everyday endearments, the verbal equivalent of a smile, something I have been for 70 plus years, because that’s what Italians do, we hug. But in today’s climate, you’d think I was out here committing linguistic war crimes.

It stung, honestly. I’ve spent my whole career surrounded by and working with incredible women. Not once, not a single time, in my entire career had I ever been accused of harassment. Not even close! I even tried explaining to her that she was lucky I didn’t hug everyone like a good Italian family does when they arrive or leave. If anything, I showed restraint.

But she never got it. And things began to spiral from there, from being offensive to accusations of sexual harassment. Again, no complaints or allegations, just her perception. Eventually, it reached the point where the only sane option was to hand in my resignation and walk away before I ended up hurting someone. My friend Lisa summed it up perfectly: “She didn’t just go woke, she became a full-tilt, turbo-charged, solar-powered Liberterd.”!

And here’s the kicker, the grand finale, the plot twist no one saw coming: All those dramatic accusations she accused me of? All that supposed “misconduct”? Yeah… turned out it wasn’t me at all. It was the other manager. I took the heat, the suspicion, the side eye, the whole circus while the real culprit was standing backstage holding the popcorn.

By the time the truth came out, I was already gone. But honestly, leaving turned out to be the best decision I could’ve made. Sometimes the universe gives you a shove when you’re too polite to walk out on your own.

Finally, it was off to Retirement #4, because at this point, I don’t retire, I just take intermissions. I was lucky enough to land a job with an accounting firm just minutes from my house.

It's a private, family-run business with about fourteen employees, small enough to feel like a family, big enough that someone always brings donuts.

My job? Accounts payable, bank feeds, reconciliations, deposits… basically all the glamorous behind-the-scenes magic that keeps the financial world spinning while everyone else thinks numbers organize themselves.

And honestly, it’s a wonderful company. The kind of place where people say good morning and mean it. I’m blessed, blessed enough to pay for my meds and keep at least one foot out of the retirement home. The other foot is hovering, but I’m keeping it in check.

God has a funny way of taking care of us. Even people like me, who probably tested his patience on a daily basis. But somehow, He keeps nudging me forward, one job, one chapter, one unexpected twist at a time. Too much shaking hands with the juice of the devil, smoking, and just a whole bunch of bad habits have brought me to this point. In short, I never really learned anything, unfortunately, until it was too late.

As of today, my diagnosis is not getting any better, and why you’re now reading this walk back through my memories. I knew I was on borrowed time. So now it’s one day at a time, grateful for each one Jesus gives me, trying to make peace with the pieces I dropped along the way.

You might be pleased to know I finally did get some things right. I quit smoking fifteen years ago, put down the Juice of the Devil two years ago, and maybe the biggest miracle of all I found my Jesus. Took me seventy-five years to get there, but I made it. I'm convinced if I had welcomed him into my life at a much early time, things would have turned out differently.

And there’s something strangely beautiful about that. I spent most of my life running on stubbornness, impatience, no humility, bad habits, and borrowed time, but somehow Jesus still caught up with me. I’m not proud of how long it took, but I’m grateful I got there before the clock ran out. Every day felt like a gift I didn’t earn but was handed anyway.