THE AGE OF NEFARIOUS

Posted on February 25, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“New Agers can often be a precious breed of born-again goody-goodies. They are unbelievably delusional about their own spirituality, fully believing they’re the reincarnation of Julius Caesar or Cleopatra” (Karl Wiggins)

New York City in the 1990’s was in a period of reinvention; the city was exiting the Yuppie domination of the 80’s, where money had its own language and the Gordon Gekko mantra of “Greed is Good” permeated the business and social strata.  It was a time that bore witness to Rudy Guiliani transforming a seedy Times Square into a family-oriented version of a Disney adventure, and law and order were once again welcomed, setting the pace for the new decade.   And for those who were disoriented by the change, there was the New Age to provide comfort; a neopagan pantheon within the grit of the city that offered spiritual guidance, ancient wisdom and sage advice, all by virtue of a fortuitously positioned tarot card. 

I was lost to myself in the 90’s as I descended from the whirlwind that embodied the 80’s, a time when charting a course for the new decade of my life should have felt natural and orbital but instead presented as disjointed and muddled.  I was seeking answers with a twist – enough weightiness to gain my trust and formulate next steps, with a dose of rabbit pulling from a hat to shoo away the mundane. 

I took full advantage of every metaphysical discipline being offered.  I became a Reiki Level II practitioner, studying the Japanese symbols that are believed to transfer energic healing to a body all through the hovering of a hand, but instead put me into a state of ‘Convergence Insufficiency,’ as if were watching Albert Einstein write mathematical formulas on a chalkboard while having ingested magic mushrooms.  I was familiar with the city’s popular psychics and mediums by first name and was a frequent customer of the “Gypsy Tea Room” on Lexington Ave., where 20-minute card readings were the Jiffy Lube of Fortune-telling.   I submitted myself for a past life regression session with a well-known hypnotherapist who was lauded and pricey, only to discover that one of my past lives played out like an episode of “Little House on the Prairie,” a “Pioneers Gone Wild” version.

I was a smart woman being led by a twit of an alter ego.  That is, until a middle eastern snake charmer roused me out of a fantastical slumber and changed it all through a close call with the insane. For anonymity, I’ll call this man “Dali,” although if he’s still alive in 2026, he’s older than a sequoia redwood.  Dali taught a metaphysical healing course involving “rays,” from what Universe I couldn’t say.  He promised that these rays, colored and numbered, possessed unique healing powers transmitted from other-worldly beings, and if memory serves, My Favorite Martian may have been among them. 

The real danger emerged when I allowed Dali to come into my family circle as my mother was hospitalized, in the late stages of her cancer journey.  Dali had pledged to impart his special powers onto her body so that she would rebound in a magnificent way.  In a scene that will forever be scorched in my brain and painfully lodged in my conscience, Dali entered her hospital room, called her “Mother” with an exclamation point, and started to flap his arms around her bed like an overweight Pterodactyl searching for a lizard egg. After one flap too many, he abruptly finished his prehistoric dance, as if he had become bored reading the subtitles of a foreign film.  My mother passed shortly thereafter.  It was, and remains, a grotesque reminder of the charlatans who walk among us and prey on the vulnerable and distressed.  

I’m grateful to say these days I’m embedded in my faith and trust in the Lord, which provides all the comfort, stability and answers I seek.  I still believe there’s much to learn throughout the cosmos and science, and the supernatural remains operational in the business of awe. But I know better than to think it’s found in the flip of a card, the natal chart of a birth sign, or even an escaped mental patient who charges hundreds of dollars as they attempt to convince you that the color orange shooting from your middle finger is the answer to all infirmity.

Seek the truth and it will appear.

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CAN’T GET THERE FROM HERE

Posted on February 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“We are all a little schizophrenic. Each of us has three different people living inside us every day—who you were, who you are and who you will become. The road to sanity is to recognize those identities, in order to know who you are today.”  (Shannon L. Alder) 

Another 3 a.m. and I spring up, as if I’m living in Victorian times and the bed warmer the chambermaid has placed between my sheets has maneuvered itself into an uncompromising position.  In mornings past, I would have defaulted to silence and prayer, perhaps a cup of coffee, before heading back to the best part of sleep, the hours between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when the mind and body wrestle to the finish line and the mind wins by infiltrating dreams with the bizarre and unfathomable.  Since God and I have become the best of friends in recent years, He absolves me with free reign … “Go, have fun.  Dig through your closet to try to find that Donna Karan top you swear you didn’t gift to Goodwill and you might come across a crumpled $20 bill forgotten in a jacket pocket.  Listen to the incomparable and much-missed Joan Rivers on YouTube.  Better yet, write.  Fire up the noggin and let it fly. “ 

Therein lies the quandary with blogging.  Exactly how much of oneself should be revealed through shared stories? The younger version of myself believed in being circumspect, propelled by a mix of decorum, propriety and layered insecurity, but the older version, the one who calculates remaining years on earth in double or triple-digit months and is fearless enough to pluck a wayward chin hair with a fingernail, thinks differently.  “C’mon … let those digits sing.  What do you have to lose?”  

This blogpost is about unraveling the onion, one layered skin at a time.  Do sharing intimate details about one’s life and experiences bring us closer to others, or does it serve as ammunition for potential retribution?  The consensus of too many social media commenters is that it brings one closer to the hundreds of friends they’ve never met who serve as therapists, sans the co-pay.  I lean toward being tight-lipped, which can be an admirable trait depending on your vantage. Need to bury the body and get it off your chest? I can take a secret to the grave. To assess if someone is worthy of personal disclosure, first test the waters with a false narrative. If by their third glass of wine, a mutual acquaintance divulges they’ve heard about your alleged affair with a high school principal, you’ll have ground zero of the talebearer.  

With that, let me share a story – and a life lesson – from the archives.  For the sake of anonymity, I’ll use pseudonyms for this couple.  Let’s call the woman “Sharon,” and the man “Harry:”

“Sharon and Harry had a tumultuous relationship that lasted past its expiration date.  For those who have been in a relationship that has curdled like sour milk, it’s known that bad behavior accrues with compounded interest.  One night Sharon and Harry were out to dinner at a swanky restaurant with two other couples.  The wine and the conversation were flowing in equal measure.  Harry, who had a patrimonial sense of “do what benefits you and not what affects others,” tried to persuade another husband to join forces with him in doing something his wife was uncomfortable with.   

As Sharon turned and whispered in Harry’s ear to ease up on the subject, Harry took his soup spoon, now coated with a luxurious lobster bisque, and with the rounded convex side swiped a small amount of bisque down Sharon’s cheek, just enough to demean and violate, but modest enough as not to arouse glaring attention.  Sharon, stunned and guarded not to cause a scene, excused herself to the ladies’ room, where she took a deep breath, cleansed her face, and walked stoically back to her seat.”   

Life Lesson: There are moments that permanently change the course of a direction and become frozen in time.  Retreat is not an option.

As I finish this post, dawn is breaking and I aim to drift back to sleep for an hour or two while I dream of having lunch with my deceased grandmother or being chased by a coyote.   I’ll try to keep it real, one layer at a time.   

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HIP ADJACENT

Posted on January 30, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“If you’re trying to be hip, be hip.” — Miles Davis

My sister and my nephew went to a flea market a few weeks ago.  “Dylan,” she said, “See that? Kay Kay used to have one just like it…” She pointed to a vintage clothing stand where hanging on a rack was a plunging silver and gold metallic halter top that was wildly popular back in the early 80’s, the downbow years of the feverish disco era.  A boyfriend of mine had gifted it to me along with a matching leather skirt that I thought was so incredibly chic at the time, that is if you were Carmela Soprano heading to Studio 54 for a night on the town.  I can still remember how that halter felt draped against my skin.  It was as if Gloria Gaynor and Deney Terrio were cheering me on from inside of the reflective metallic chips that held it all together, and if I so desired, I could jump into a frame of Saturday Night Fever and hold my own next to a gyrating John Travolta. I was cool.  Or at least I thought I was. 

The “cool factor” is something you either have, or you don’t.  It cannot be manufactured. I never considered myself cool, although I had moments of cool adjacent during the blooming years. That can be assembled.  Still, it’s a thoughtful process.  When I first moved to Los Angeles, I decided it was time to integrate a touch of the casual west coast vibe it’s so famous for with my more habitual east coast look. 

Now if you’re a woman over 50, it can be a very dicey proposition.  Fail to gauge the proper metric of effortless hip and you might be mistaken for someone who scurried out of bed and forgot to look in the mirror; mastermind too uncomplicated of a look, you risk looking like a female version of Maynard G. Krebs from the TV series “Dobie Gillis.” It’s an art form.  As I chiseled it down, a Saturday shopping trip to Whole Foods meant perfectly faded jeans and a cotton t-shirt with a Bohemian design, along with “Fit Flops” and a light-color polish pedicure. Tortoise framed eyeglasses are a plus.  The look felt assimilative enough, although I could hear my Estee Lauder lipstick screaming from inside of my bag, “Really? Is this what we’re doing now?”   

Around 2019, pre-Covid before the world went into hibernation, I went to see Engelbert Humperdinck at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills.  Talk about cool.  “Enge,” as he’s affectionately known to his fans, is the epitome of cool, even as he approaches his 9th decade on this earth.  At the time of this performance, he was in his early 80’s and still sporting the mutton-chop sideburns that have become his signature look, along with a red silk shirt that has become the bespoke attire for the King of Romance.  His moves may have slowed with time, but his voice was still imposing and robust.  Listening to Engelbert has always been the auditory equivalent of sipping a glass of brandy–smooth, warm and honeyed to the ear.

As the end of the show approached, the familiar beat of one of his most popular songs, “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando” started to tempo.  The sold-out crowd comprised of mostly women over 50, sprang to their feet and started to sway to the music, keeping in rhythm the best they could with Enge’s cavorting hips. Nothing seemed to matter—arthritic knees, and any fear of looking foolish were cast aside as we became one with “the Hump.”  And Enge knew it, giving the occasional wink to an audience member as if he were making love to her with his voice.    

In that moment we were collectively cool, for nothing is quite as hip as being able to dance with uninhibited abandon.  Whether no one is watching, or everyone is watching, it’s the devil-may-care that gets you there.   

To Enge, always cool … now and forever.

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ALL IN GOOD TIME

Posted on January 22, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Right time, right place, right people equals success.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong people equals most of the real human history.” (Idries Shah)

When the Archduke Ferdinand of Austria sat in the backseat of his car on the evening of June 28, 1914 in Sarajevo, he couldn’t have known that a consequential decision made by his chauffeur would lead to his assassination and the beginning of World War I. A misjudgment by the unsuspecting driver, who had turned the car around after the motorcade had already passed the assassin waiting on a street corner, allowed for the two shots to be fired that would take the Archduke’s life and change the course of history. This unfortunate outcome serves to remind us of a concept that is too often ignored.

Timing is everything.

I’ve been a casualty of missed opportunity through my own reluctance to strike when the iron was hot.   One intersecting decision that remains with me and would have been an egress to a much different path was to not follow my heart to move to the west coast as a young woman.  Instead, I remained in a place that provided the familiar and accepted comfort, where the people and circumstances that absorbed those years never quite matched the rumblings of my soul. I tried to convince myself I was where I was meant to be when I knew, instinctually, I wasn’t.   

I can remember watching “The Doris Day” show as a girl and being held captive by the lifestyle of the show’s main character, “Doris Martin,” a young widow who now single, embraced all that San Francisco had to offer, along with the twinkling lights that reflected off the bay and a gorgeous duplex apartment.  Doris would hop on a cable car with ease, as if she were holding onto a magic wand where her wish was its command, while dressed in fashions that were always in vogue.  The ageless smile on her face was testimony that this vibrant city was her portal to happiness.  I wanted to be Doris Martin, to have her job as a staff writer at “Today’s World” magazine, and to enjoy the business dinners that often turned to romance before dessert was served with the charming suitors who accompanied her. When I watch an episode of the show today decades later, I can see whispers of a life that might have been but are now faded in time along with the film. 

Perhaps the most rueful inheritors of errant timing are star-crossed lovers.  The success of a romantic union is often dependent upon the doctrine of right time, right place.  “The one who got away” remains in the minds of unfinished love, with the belief that had the stars aligned, the “what ifs” would have become “meant to be.” When Facebook first emerged on the scene many years ago, erstwhile lovers everywhere sought out the memory of a lingering connection to the past, wondering if feelings could be resurrected with the tailwind of a new dawn.  For some, their happily-ever-after came gift wrapped in a celestial reunion, proving that the right time had finally smiled upon their connection; for others, it was the realization that their moment had passed, never to be recaptured except in their heart.    

Timing sets the stage for the events that become the acts of our lives.   

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LOVE LIES BLEEDING

Posted on January 14, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” (Anais Nin)

In 1989, a Costa Rican fisherman named Gilberto Shedden rescued a crocodile that had been shot in the head. After nursing the crocodile back to health, he released it into the wild. The crocodile, however, whom Gilberto had now named “Poncho,” refused to go back to the riverbank where he was found clinging to life, and instead chose to go back to his rescuer, where he set up residence in a pond near Gilberto’s home. For over twenty years, Gilberto and his jagged-toothed snouted friend would swim together in a river nearby, playing, talking, kissing, and hugging, and a deep, abiding bond was formed. After too many years of this curious devotion, Gilberto’s wife, frustrated by the fact that her husband was spending more time with Poncho than her, refused to play second fiddle to a reptile any longer and left the marriage.  Gilberto claimed to be unbothered by her departure and shrugged it off by saying he could always find another wife, but Poncho was irreplaceable.  

When your husband chooses a predator over you, one who can swallow a whole pig with two chomps of a jaw, your marriage is over.

YouTube has become my favorite source of continuing education with its smorgasbord of insightful videos; a diverse catalog ranging from “How to Send A Birthday Greeting with an A.I. Enhanced Voice of Johnny Depp” to “Releasing Trauma from Your Past Life, the One before the Last.” I’ve immersed myself in the genre of self-help videos that explore every aspect of the human condition and have been delighted to discover that the more entertaining ones often add a touch of lore. I plan to update my CV to reflect my newly acquired doctoral degree from the YouTube School of Behaviorism, Hogwarts Campus.

A few days ago, a video popped up in my algorithm entitled, “Your Husband Hates You | Here’s 8 Signs He Can’t Stand You.”  I’m not sure why it popped up in my feed, as it’s been many years since I last had a husband hate me, but algorithms derive satisfaction in keeping us off balance.  As I listened to this respective coach, who specializes in narcissistic abuse recovery, detail one abhorrent behavior to the next, I felt uncomfortable, if not a bit haunted by flashbacks.  What felt more pessimistic was reading the viewer’s comments beneath the video, where broken hearted individuals spilled the guts of their loveless and painful marriages, trapped in their own personal hell. With admitted discrimination, I found it easier to judge the spouses who choose to stay rather than to dismantle the reasons why they won’t leave.      

Perhaps just as painful but more natural is the arrangement of the “silent divorce,” where an emotional separation of the marriage occurs, but a legal ending does not, leaving a communal living environment and joint assets to remain. Couples who are engaged in a silent divorce rarely spend time or communicate with each other, instead choose to live as roommates who share kitchen utensils.  I’ve often wondered if any of these couples who happen to live in a large house reach for their phone in confusion to call 9-1-1, thinking a prowler may have broken in during their estranged spouse’s midnight raid of the refrigerator. 

Another phenomenon, the “gray divorce,” experienced a rise in popularity over the past decades and kept divorce attorneys busy hammering out settlements for their gray-haired clients and their retirement funds.   Gray divorce, when empty nesters who have been married for 30 or 40+ years come to the realization that they no longer want to spend their remaining time on earth with the person they once promised to love and cherish until death do they part, can be ignited by the last hurrah of a new love interest, or the contempt bred by familiarity, but the pursuit is the same: To shed the weight of a love that has since died on its vine and feel free again.  

George Washington once said, “I have always considered marriage as the most interesting event in one’s life, the foundation of happiness or misery.”

The real death of love is indifference.  Choose the right person and water your love.  It will give thanks by blooming eternal.   

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RESOLUTIONS BE GONE

Posted on December 31, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.” (Oscar Wilde)

As I ready myself for the new year and turn the page of my daily planner – the outmoded, non-digital, paper printed version I will never relinquish – I proudly enter 2026 resolution free.  New Year resolutions are a well-intentioned impulse, like an expensive face cream purchased in an upscale department store, fueled by the promise of dermatologic splendor provided you apply it diligently each night.  Visions of smoother skin entice until the yearning to freefall into bed becomes more ardent than the effort to erase crow’s feet. The opulent jar becomes relegated to a shelf in a cabinet, next to the other magical potions, as they collect dust and turn into very expensive porridge.   Such are overly ambitious resolutions.  

What’s braver is to fling oneself headfirst into January, with the promise only to be a better person, pay your bills on time, and try not to offend too many people as your amygdala continues to shrink alongside your prefrontal cortex, allowing loose lips to run wild with unadorned thoughts.  It’s one of the many perks of aging; you’re awarded an invisible badge permitting you to speak your mind more freely without the worry of consequence, as any future consequence becomes much less threatening.  

To start the year with a cheeky twist, create a list of old friends and former co-workers you haven’t spoken with in ages.  Decades even.  Then, stalk their social media pages as if you were Inspector Clouseau, being careful not to hit any reaction buttons or leave behind a digital fingerprint to announce you were there, and find if you can, a current telephone number or email.  Call or send a message as if you’ve never lost touch, with the improvised tone of “Hi, I was just thinking about you…”  At first you’ll be met with perplexed silence, but I would wager with your best listening-ears securely in place, and cleverness activated to ask the right questions, the minutes to follow will be filled with an accounting of their impending divorce, how the government screwed them through capital gains tax with the recent sale of their house, and that their nagging fear of death has been slightly alleviated with an upped dosage of Klonopin. 

Human beings are creatures of structure and conformity, which is why resolutions have always been popular.  They are like mental drill sergeants, designed to keep us on track as we strive to achieve the dream life attributed to those who are Instagram-worthy and photoshop-savvy. Yet resolutions rarely last long. Who wants a drill sergeant breathing down their neck when all you desire to do after a long day is to collapse on the couch and stream “Emily in Paris,” Season 5?

A better approach for the upcoming year is to fill it with a cup of hope and a saucer of reality, with the understanding that blessing and adversity may arrive in equal measure.  When hope remains in the forefront, it inspires to live as though you’re already the better version of yourself, the one who makes time to live in the present, to be kinder and less hurried, to give without giving away yourself, and to appreciate with each passing year the less significance of the material, and the knowing that the love you share is what will endure. 

Here’s to 2026.   

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THE SHEEN OF RELEASING SHAME

Posted on September 14, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Shame is a soul eating emotion” (Carl Gustav Jung)

A great hindrance to a hopeful future comes by remaining shackled to the past.  The inability to forgive ourselves for even the smallest transgression keeps us chained in shame.  From nights of half-remembered debauchery to ill-considered decisions that echo throughout life, the past reminds us that in our humanity, we’ve screwed up.  Our intellectual mind reminds us that we’re human and bound to accumulate our fair share of mistakes, but our hippocampus, the part of the brain that stores long-term memory hates to let us off the hook… “not so fast, aren’t you forgetting something?” it vaunts when it comes up against the reinforcing spirit that heartens us to walk into the future.

Enter a conquering hero, Charlie Sheen.  For the few people in the western world who are unfamiliar with who he is, he’s a famous and equally infamous actor who has lived a life of intense highs and desperate lows, financial abundance above what many could imagine only to lose the lion’s share, the very public airing of his untamed sexual exploits, and a tragic spiral into drug and alcohol addiction that was driven by mind bending excess.  Sheen admits, with a sense of bewilderment, he’s unsure how he survived the sheer volume of drugs ingested; his only explanation being that his body chemistry is rarified. 

I recently watched his new documentary entitled “a.k.a. Charlie Sheen” on Netflix.  It was better than I had anticipated and delivered with unflinching honesty the unbridled story one might expect of Charlie Sheen.  Sheen, who is currently 8 years sober, was surprisingly articulate and spoke with a mixed witticism and raw vulnerability as he reimagined the most intense moments of his life.  “Shame Shivers,” as he refers to it.  In 2010-2011, Sheen’s final descent into madness came in the form of a very public meltdown that led to an exploitative personal tour called “Tiger Blood” or something to that effect; a one-man show where he ranted nonsensical gibberish on stage, declared himself to be almost super human through the blood of certain Felidae, and was met by the cheers of those who sought to jump on the crazy train and rail against anything sane and coherent.   

Sheen spoke openly of that inglorious moment in time, with the occasional stammer to remind us just how vulnerable he was.  He regaled to the best of his memory without shrinking, knowing the shame shivers were certain to resurrect through the extracted film clips, and did so without the urge to drown the discomfort in a glass of vodka.  Charlie Sheen has undoubtedly learned a lesson or two in his 60 years to date, one being that as flawed humans, the most interesting lives often come with a redemptive arc.  The dark ash of our past failings may cover us; what matters is how we dust off.

Few of us have, or will, experience the roller coaster ride that has taken Charlie for a spin, but we can learn from the “shame shivers.” When shame once cloaked in darkness is exposed to the light, it becomes powerless in comparison to the valiant truth. 

That’s Winning.

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THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

Posted on July 18, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Strange feeling that someone is looking at me. I am clear, then dim, then gone, then dim again, then clear again, and so on, back and forth, in and out of someone’s eye.” (Samuel Beckett, Happy Days)

The latest meteor to hit tabloid journalism happened this week in Foxboro, Massachusetts, when the married CEO of a tech company and his alleged lover and work subordinate, the Chief of Human Resources, were caught in a cozy clinch while bending to the music at a Coldplay concert.  A scheming Jumbotron, the arena’s Big Eye in the Sky, was scanning the audience to catch unsuspecting attendees in the moment.  For this couple, this minute-long exposure didn’t end with a friendly grin or exuberant hand wave.  Upon realizing their illicit play date had been exposed, they uncurled themselves at breakneck speed, he, beelining to the ground and she, slinking out of camera range, as if a Watusi dance had short-circuited.  Adding to their televised shame, Chris Martin, leader singer of Coldplay, realizing what had transpired jokingly told the audience, “Either they’re having an affair or they’re just very shy.”  And just like that, Mr. Married CEO and Ms. Alleged Inamorata & HR Chief became a viral meme.

In an apparent PR directed statement posted online, Mr. CEO checked off all the necessary boxes of a public mea culpa, expressing sincere apologies to his wife and family, his team at the company, while acknowledging they deserve better from their leader.  Instead of leaving well enough alone, the statement double-downs and adds a pinch of victimhood for good measure, lamenting how “troubling it is that what should have been a private moment became public without his consent…”  Welcome to 2025, friend. If it’s anonymity you’re seeking, it’s wise not to bring the woman who is not your wife to a rock concert.  Still, he brings attention to a critical sign of the times:  The surveillance state rules.  Whether you’re picking a remnant of spinach from your teeth in a secluded aisle of CVS or running through an airport doing your best OJ impression as you race to the gate, Big Brother is always watching.

I, for one, feel grateful each day that my carousing days ended before the advent of smartphones everywhere.  It’s burdensome enough when I’m at a customer service counter and the clerk glances at the name on my ID, “Karen,” the stereotyped pejorative that has become synonymous with a difficult interaction.  I remind myself, “wider smile, lower voice” so not to activate any camera panthers waiting in the wings. 

If the world has become one big, recorded stage revealing the good, the bad and the ugly, “Cancel Culture” is its red-faced, angry cousin who disrupts holiday dinners at the drop of an infraction.  We’ve become actors in the Universe’s theatrical production, our steps always mindful of the next scene.  For some, it’s altered behavior to be more cautious and observant of their surroundings, for others, it’s released the raging narcissist within, convinced the cheeseburger they’re eating might bring a coveted 15-minutes of fame if the grease seductively drips to their chin at just the right angle. 

Decades ago, when television personality Alan Funt bellowed, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera” very few knew it would become an anthropological harbinger.  George Orwell did and tried to warn us. The next time you’re tempted to pull on that irritating wedgie from the seat of your pants while out in public, think again … you may become a TikTok sensation.

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AN OLD BOY FROM IRELAND

Posted on June 21, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Here is the test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished:  If you’re alive, it isn’t” (Richard Bach)

“How will I be remembered?” is a looming question that finds its way into the mind of every person with the privilege to age.  To know that we were loved and will be missed is the last remnant of our humanity, an imprint that we will leave behind to remind the world that we were here as our bodies turn to dust.

Such is the case with a man named Martin Fallon, an Irish immigrant who had long ago left the familiar surroundings of his childhood home in Sligo to follow the diaspora to a new life in North London.  In Martin’s era, young men most often followed the path that was neatly set before them, which was to finish school if the fates allowed, find a job that was honest and dependable, and to win the hand of a woman who would become your wife and mother to your children.  It was a traditional pathway that would see its rewards revealed in generations to come. 

Except that Martin didn’t follow the road travelled by so many before him.  He remained a lifelong bachelor and childless, a salt of the earth type of man who retired after years of working his dependable jobs.  Bachelorhood didn’t have the cache then that it has enjoyed in more recent years, a lifestyle of choice and a willingness to remain uncoupled. Instead, unmarried men of Martin’s generation most often remained circumspect of their position, sowing seeds of friendship within the community and maintaining the bonds of familial ties, even if they were at a geographical disadvantage.  Life was foreseeable and steady, and predictable in its comfort. The daily smiles that were shared in the town square were an unspoken assurance that someone would be there to help in a time of need. 

When Martin died in May of 2025, a local merchant posted a handwritten notice along with a timeworn photo of him on their storefront window, announcing the details of his approaching funeral for those who would want to pay their respects.  A local woman passing by took a photo of the notice and posted it to social media, along with a nostalgic message of how many of the “old boys from Ireland” were “slowly dying out.”  The area had changed significantly from its Irish heyday, and she wanted to pay homage.  The post quickly went viral, with the message misconstrued to infer the notice was seeking any living relatives of Martin’s who may not know that he had died.  In the end, Martin had a funeral that was dignified if not smaller than most Irish send-offs, but he was properly remembered by those who cared. 

If you’d like to read Martin’s final notice, enjoy and raise a glass of cheer:  How the death of an ‘old boy from Ireland’ in London-Irish suburb sparked a misguided viral appeal – The Irish Times

Decades ago, when I worked at my first job in NYC, I met a very unique man in the lobby of the building.  I had become accustomed to the bustle of the morning commute, knowing who to nod to as I grabbed my coffee and who to hold the elevator door for as I rode up the floors of the skyscraper.  On this morning, an elderly gentleman, impeccably dressed and short in stature yet large in personality, seemed to appear out of nowhere and said hello.  His pace was leisurely, that of a man who didn’t seem to have a care in the world or what time the lobby clock was showing.  Instead, we exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes after he introduced himself and then asked an unusual question for a first-time acquaintance.  “What day were you born?” the twinkle in his eye genial enough not to cause concern, and as I was young enough at the time to be his granddaughter, I didn’t see the harm in the indulgence.  We exchanged our final pleasantries and went on with our day.

The next morning there was a small box left for me at reception.  Inside was a glass paperweight of a Ram, the symbol for my zodiac sign.  Along with it was a scribbled note on plain white paper, with handwriting faint and slightly askant that said, “Remember you’re a Ram.  You’re strong enough.”  I never saw that delightful leprechaun of a man again, and since he was in his 80’s at the time of our meeting, he’s long since departed from this earth.  I can’t recall his name, but I can remember the white bushy mustache that adorned his upper lip and the incredible message of hope he gave to me that day.  My “Ram” paperweight has followed me throughout the years, moving with me in a box that contains my personal effects, and among cherished letters and pressed flowers, taking a place of honor in my home wherever that has been.  It reminds me that even in my weakest moments, I’m strong enough.

The remembrance of our lives will be as unique as the life we lived.  For some, a large family will remain behind, with our stories being regaled for generations to come. For others, the imprint will be less remarkable; kind words and fading memories will linger for a while until all that is left is an etched headstone with a name, or ashes that have been scattered to the wind on a cherished parcel of a former life.  What matters is that we will be remembered, if only for one kind act to one appreciative person. 

The poet Maya Angelou once said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 

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ROAD TRIPPIN’

Posted on June 5, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

It was a dark and icy morning over a decade ago when I bundled the last of my belongings in my car and set off for a new life in Los Angeles.  The larger contents of my apartment had already been shipped and awaited my arrival; all that was left before I headed west was to say farewell to the Hudson River riverwalk that had kept me company on so many evening strolls.  In a life that had abounded with many unknowns, I felt convicted that a fresh chapter was necessary.   A revival in the way of a temperate climate and a curative ocean seemed like a confident bet.

On this January morning, I bundled up in my faux fur and warm gloves, my spirit mixed with excitement and a hint of apprehension.  I sought a blessing for the new life that lie ahead and decided to attend early morning mass at the church I had attended for many years of my life. It is the church where I received the sacrament of my first Communion, became confirmed as a teenager, and made a mistake at the altar while repeating vows.

The faint aroma reminiscent of aged library books still lingered among the wafting incense, and I secretly prayed for one of the marble statues to come to life, a simple nod for my eyes only, as an endorsement to uproot my life. When mass had ended, I promptly made my way to the altar to seek a personal blessing from the presiding priest.  He obliged, if not in haste. The swift mumbling of something in Latin and the agility of his thumb as he made the sign of the cross on my bowed forehead led me to suspect the eggs and toast in the rectory kitchen were getting cold.

It was time to hit the road. A solo road trip is incredibly cathartic for an unsettled soul. It’s a chance to be alone with one’s thoughts, to regard the rearview mirror and windshield in a metaphorical sense; the former to leave the mistakes of the past behind, and the latter to envision a future yet to unfold.  I had profound conversations with myself during long stretches of highway, and cordial ones with friendly faces in roadside diners.  The open road has a unique ability to come alive at times when you most need a sense of the supernatural.

While so many things yet to come remained a mystery, I was certain of one thing:  You can’t go home again.  

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