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Updated: Jul 10, 2020

Less than a couple weeks.

That’s what I’ve got left of the day job. That’s all that’s left of the twice daily auto-pilot-and-iPod-mix of Route 332, New York State Thruway, I-490 and Route 441 to and from my chair and change-order-covered desk. I gave a months notice over half a month ago and it’s getting good and damn close to my saddle-up moment. I feel that from-the-nuts yee-haw holler — my own declaration of independence — just waiting for me to pull over on a country road that last drive home, get out and startle crows from the trees. If I had a Stetson (and a trusty steed), I’d waive that sonofabitch in the air while I was pulling an equine wheelie.

As near as I can tell I am of sound mind and body, so I’m gettin’ out while the gettin’ is good. I’m leaving because I’ve got shit to do and a finite amount of time to do it in. I’m leaving because my kids will go to bed in pajamas tonight and wake up married and expecting my first grandbaby tomorrow. I’m leaving because I’m an idealist who isn’t afraid of getting punched in the mouth. To taste your own busted, bloody lip is to discover that you’re made of more than you think. I already know I’m made of more. It’s time to knuckle-up.

I’m getting back to what I’m passionate about: writing, my family and the outdoors. The specifics don’t so much matter here. Those are details for other venues and conversations. But I will tell you, life’s too short for vocation and avocation to be mutually exclusive…and too long to lament if they are.


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