Hello friends. (Golf clap to Jim Nantz). I’ve just returned from a week-long trip to California to celebrate my sobriety date and the caring professionals and supporters of the Betty Ford Center that saved and changed my life just 14 short years ago this month.
My mental conflagration today is about the smallness of our world—the seemingly random yet powerful connectivity that we all share if we’re willing to open up to it. Energy is all around us. Moments of creativity, inspiration, and connection happen. Do we receive those moments? Do we even notice.
Are these happenstance intersections of souls random and accidental, or are they providence and meant to be? Does it matter? Could the moments of discovery themselves be random, while the connections uncovered are absolutely miraculous and divine? I don’t know. Picture mine as you read through them and then imagine your own. I’d love to hear yours if you don’t mind sharing in the comments.
Over the years I’ve experienced a bunch of these random moments of connecting with a person next to me that simply blew my mind. This is not an essay on celebrity sideswipes although I’ve had more than a few of those. This ain’t about that annoying friend, who when you tell them you went to Hawaii they say, “OMG that’s so cool my cousin’s ex-husband’s brother-in-law went there once too! Were you near the fires or the hurricanes or Don Ho?”
This is actually about mere moments. Moments of discovering a connected thread that was previously unknown to you. Moments that could easily have passed us by. Moments of connectivity that were uncovered merely by having a conversation with a stranger that could have easily not happened. Busy in our heads, on our phones, in our small worlds. Literally we have to be stunned by the circumstance of connection.
30 years ago:
I get on a 6 AM flight in Denver. At the time I was flying 150,000 miles per year on United. Naturally I’m upgraded to first class. I’m nursing a hangover from a concert the night before. I’d gone to the Ogden Theater to see one of my favorite new bands at the time—The Counting Crows. They were touring after just their breakout album “August and Everything After” was released in early ‘93. Still early days for them in terms of their stardom, but “Mr. Jones” seemed to be everywhere on the radio.
As the flight attendants got ready to close the doors a raggedy looking dude with long dreadlocks came shooting through the door and plopped in the seat next to me—4B. He had a slight odor of weed and patchouli. Shades on—head down—yet to me unmistakable. I said “Yo Mr. Duritz I presume?”
He said “Yuppers.” He actually said Yuppers. I said “how are you sitting next to me right now?” He responded, “well I guess we’re both going somewhere the same.” My reply was “at least it’s not Omaha.” He just rolled his eyes at me as if I was only the dumbest guy he’d met yet today. We talked briefly about the show the night before and my love of his poetic songwriting. He said he had a quick turnaround flight to do a personal favor for a friend then had to be back in Denver that night for a show in Ft. Collins. I questioned the timing and he simply said, “dude—my schedule” and rolled his eyes again. He downed a couple of whiskey sours and fell asleep the rest of the way to Chicago. That was it. No photos. No commitment to stay in touch. No discussion of future tickets. Nothing in common but the armrest between us. A moment that I remember vividly.
25 years ago:
I land at NY LaGuardia and head out to the cab stand. A small suited man with a bright yellow bow tie approaches me and says “I can take you into the city in a nice limo for the same price if you’re willing to share the ride.” I said OK and he asked me to wait a minute. He walked away and came back with another guy pulling his roller bag. Remember when roller bags didn’t really roll—they kinda just dragged? John High is an executive from HBO who had just flown in from Dallas. More importantly he’s a fraternity brother of mine who I haven’t seen for 15 years since we graduated SMU together. Our mutual surprise is obvious. This limo driver picked the two of us out. But wait—it gets even more amazing as we’re walking to the garage and the guy’s black sedan, another passenger wanders over who has been waiting for a few minutes. This third guy—Rod McDonald—is a banking executive from Cleveland, and a fraternity brother to both John and I who neither of us had seen for 15 years since we graduated. All of us in town from different cities with different destinations and all arriving at LaGuardia at the same time to be found by the instrument of spirit—our driver. “How the fuck could this possibly happen” was the topic of our conversation all the way into Midtown where the driver was dropping me off at a restaurant to meet my good friend Andy—a 4th fraternity brother. We were excitedly explaining all of this to our driver who likely understood very little of the miracle he had accidentally—or not—created.
15 years ago:
I’m still drinking, so naturally I find the airport bar in San Diego a perfect place to wait for my flight. Sitting next to me is a distinguished silver-haired gent wearing a blue sport coat with an MLB patch on the breast pocket. I asked about the patch. He replied that he was a Major League Baseball Umpire. Knowing we were in San Diego and that my Dad had told me in years past that he was classmate and teammate of the great MLB Ump Doug Harvey, I said “any chance you’re Doug Harvey?” He winked at me and smiled. It probably happened to him fairly often given the television coverage of baseball, his having worked 5 World Series, and his 30 years in the National League. I said “my name is Dee Rambeau—you were an Aztec with my dad Arch.” The Hall of Famer nicknamed “God” by the players for his authoritarian use of the rule book, simply responded “I’ll be damned. I remember him well. How is your father?” RIP Doug Harvey. I’ll never forget telling my dad about our meeting that day.
6 1/2 years ago:
Although it conflicts with some other plans I’d made for the day—namely a round of golf at a private club that I’d been trying to wrangle an invite to for months, I’ve decided instead to drive the hour into Austin to attend a one-day conference that is laterally related to addiction recovery. A sport coat rather than a golf bag—oh well. Do the right thing.
The lineup of speakers includes two men I admire, and who were both instrumental in my own sobriety journey. Dr. Harry Haroutunian, then Director of Professional and Residential Programs at the Betty Ford Center, and Jerry Moe, then Director of the Betty Ford Children’s Program. Both renowned in their fields, they’ve become personal friends, and I’m looking forward to seeing them share their wisdom and experience in my neck of the woods.
I settle in at a table in the back. There is a dozen or so people affiliated with Betty Ford in one way or another coming and going from the table. Introductions all around. Business development, clinical, alumni, etc. all represented. Having just retired from my corporate responsibilities as part of the earnout of selling my company, I’m looking for ways to apply my skills and experience in the recovery industry. I’m intrigued by one woman who seems to know everyone at the table but doesn’t seem to be with Betty Ford in any official capacity. After a couple of speakers there is lunch, allowing me the opportunity to introduce myself. That woman sitting next to me that day at a conference that I wasn’t going to attend, is going to be my wife on December 16th. So there’s that miracle—what if I hadn’t said hello? What if I hadn’t met my future bride that day?
2 years ago:
Ann and I are walking up Main Street in Park City, Utah on a perfect August day. A casual stroll to dinner with our good friends Andy and Melissa who have a home there. I’m catching up with Mel, walking about 5 paces behind Andy and Ann on the narrow sidewalk. A stranger stepped in front of me and asks while pointing at Ann, “is that Annie from Englewood, NJ?” After looking him up and down, I respond that yes in fact it is. This man and my sweetheart went to high school together and haven’t seen each other for 40+ years. They spend the next few minutes catching up and reintroducing one another.
Later that evening we were sitting around a fire pit behind Andy’s townhome complex discussing the random nature of the earlier meeting in town. Another couple were sitting within earshot and I hear the woman say, “I’m from Missouri you need to Show Me.” I ask her where she’s from in MO and she says St. Louis. I ask what school? For St. Louisans that question means “what high school.” She responds “Clayton High.” I say “me too.” It turns out that not only did she graduate in my younger brother’s class 5 years behind me, but that her family lived on the same fucking street that we did and then we proceed to name off all the families on our street back in those days. Remarkable. Ann and I went to bed that night saying “amazing” over and over.
6 months ago:
I am driving from my home in Wimberley, Texas out to Arizona to see my parents. This was a bit of a utility trip, so I was solo, heading out to help Mom and Dad get rid of some furniture, replace some carpet, and other duties. About 11 hours into the 13+ hour drive I get pulled over in the small town of Safford, Arizona. After bombing down the interstate across West Texas and New Mexico at over 85 MPH for most of the day, it was a test of my patience to honor the 30 MPH through the small towns that populate the back roads I needed to traverse at the end of the trip. The officer, appropriately adorned in his straw Stetson cowboy hat and Ray Bans approached me on the driver’s side and said, “got ya going 52 in a 30.” I told him the story of driving out to help my 88-year-old parents. He took license and proof of insurance and went back to his cruiser to check for outstandings. I don’t care how sober—how clean I’ve been living—that moment is always a little terrifying. Sitting there. Wondering if there’s some long-ago penalty that I forgot about from my less-than-clean past.
Officer Willington walked back to my window and says “Wimberley huh? I’ve spent a lot of time there. in years past. Beautiful place. Doesn’t really feel like Texas there. I’m pretty sure I still have an in-law there somewhere. We went and heard Ray Wylie Hubbard and Waylon Jennings and a couple of other old-timers play at a ranch near there. Anyway, go see your folks. Just a warning today. Slow it down on your way back through. Have a nice day.”
Last week:
Ann and I decided to spend a couple of days in San Diego to celebrate our engagement. I booked us at The Lodge at Torrey Pines in La Jolla. I’d always wanted to stay there—both as a golf nut—and as a lover of fine places and things. A ‘cool as the other side of the pillow’ type of place with balconies and views of the Pacific set in an idyllic setting amongst the coastal pines of Torrey Pines State Natural Reserve.
Among our various activities we’ve invited two childhood friends of mine to join us on the patio for lunch. Debbie and Kelli are two women from different families that I literally grew up with as a child in San Diego. Our fathers attended SDSU together, worked together at General Dynamics, and our families spent our leisure time together. We had seen each other sparingly over the decades. Kelli brought her husband of 25 years, Fred, who I was meeting for the first time.
Ann and Fred were sitting next to one another making introductions and discovered that they had both been born and raised in Englewood, New Jersey. In fact—born in the same Englewood Hospital—in fact Fred was born on exactly the same day as Ann’s older sister Mary. They were likely side by side in the maternity ward together.
Think about how many times you ‘ve sat for hours on a plane next to someone without ever saying hello—ears covered in noise-canceling headphones, eyes cast downward at your pad or your book. The times you’ve sat alone in a coffee shop next to someone else alone in a coffee shop. How many people have you walked by on the street? What if in that person is a connection to something or someone you’ve been looking for?
Frankly, I’ve left a lot of these occurrences out of my essay today. You might ask what my recovery, if anything, has to do with these seemingly random moments of incredible connection. I certainly had those moments when I was drinking. I’ve had them since getting sober. I’ve always been a curious and social person—even in my cups. The difference is perhaps in the meaning they hold for me now. I don’t look for them. Certainly they’re not earned. They’re gifts of time and space and God and the Universe and our collective consciousness. We all have them. How many do we miss?
Fred and I are still amazed about Anne’s sister and him being born on the same day in the same hospital, how random is that?!?!?! Fred and I play golf every Tuesday and happened to be at Oceanside Municple Golf Course when we were getting ready to tee off and a couple came running up and saying they were sorry they were late… we’ve become good friends and have been golfing with them ever since!
I got clean and sober in 93 and have met a lot of people. The most memorable was Bill Bonds. He was a newscaster that challenged Colman Young, the mayor of Detroit to a first fight. He was nice as could be sober. I also met the daughter of the leader of the notorious purple gang that bootlegged booze from Canada. She was a hoot, and had stories that would curl your toes. The great thing about surrending, is that it turned a selfish sociopath who took myself out of society so I could be free to do what I wanted. Into a loving person who will talk and help anyone who needs it. When my sponsor passed she had 60yrs sober.