Lookout Road - 1/15/25 - A Lifetime of Yesterday's

This road is the road of broken hearts, the path of shattered dreams—a journey from desperation. The road we are on goes nowhere. It stretches from nowhere to anywhere. I wouldn’t be the first person to do some of my thinking on the road. Driving gives me the illusion of moving forward or just moving.

Lookout Road: I remember three significant places vividly. Scenic Drive in the Highlands of New Jersey was where I’d drive to gaze eastward at the calm blue Atlantic. As the clock approached 2 PM, a slight chop would surface on the ocean from the southerly wind. I would park at a scenic overlook and sit in my car, looking, thinking, planning, hoping—wondering where I was going and how to escape this place. I felt safe here, but the illusions would creep back in. It was a fallacy; the protection over our heads kept the outside out and the inside in. Sometimes, you feel most exposed and lonely—a target. I was unprepared, but I headed out to Pennsylvania to attend college. I thought I’d leave this place behind.

Williamsport, PA, where I attended college, felt safer but was uncomfortable. I wasn’t ready for more schooling, but the truth is that I am never quite prepared for anything. Outside of Williamsport, I found mountainous drives where I could lose myself. Route 15 offered an overlook like the Highlands, albeit without the ocean. The small city replaced the cool water, which once thrived on lumber production and parts manufacturing during World War II. It was a town with good jobs and the wealth that came with it, but after the war ended, so did the money, which sank into a hole to nowhere. At the scenic drive, I would stop and gaze over the area, my eyes clouded from seeing nothing and everything it offered. I was blind to it; I didn’t want to be here either. The difference was that I felt safer. I was exposed differently, peering into the vastness and feeling like I was standing on the edge of a plank with a sword called “Dad” pushing into my back. No amount of fear would make me more intelligent, mature, or ready to absorb whatever shit a professor was shilling under the guise of education.

When I returned to Jersey for breaks and after graduation, I often drove from Rumson to as far as Sandy Hook would let me. Next, I followed Ocean Avenue south through Sea Bright and down to Asbury Park. I’d drive past the Stone Pony to the carousel, loop around, and head home. I still occasionally make that drive today, though it’s a bit longer now that I live in Tinton Falls. I liked visiting those familiar places where I could show off as a young man seeking trouble. Looking back, I see a lonely, inexperienced young guy with nowhere to go but up. When I arrived, it was eventually a road full of wrong turns.

I recently talked with a friend about life. I mentioned something like, “Broken hearts remind us that love is tough.” To me, that sounded profound. I also shared how fortunate I felt to have retired young: “I get to spend the rest of my life trying to figure things out.” Then, something struck me on this cold winter day in 2025.

I remember two incidents from my past. One was the time my mom screamed at me for flooding our basement. “Christian, what the fuck did you do?” she shouted. It was the first time I had heard her say that word, and it would be the last. “Fuck” seems to come up when something terrible happens to me. For instance, in 2009, during dinner at my parents’ house in Rumson, I used the word “fuck” during a political discussion. My father exploded, screaming at me for my language, before throwing a punch that sent me crashing onto a glass table in front of my wife and kids. That incident led to a decade of silence between us.

I stayed away but returned to give my mother a respectful funeral in 2019. A few months later, my father passed away, and I did the same for him as the last surviving member of my family.

At sixty-four, I’m finally beginning to tie some things together. “Too little, too late” fits here, but I strive to glean lessons for my sons and find peace for myself before my time runs out. I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect on this and to pass on what I can. I feel like I am in a place where the sky and the road collide. That’s it. Tie a ribbon around my heart and call it a day.

Peace, Chris