All That Glitters

By James Minick

Ellie Perro harbored an unattained goal to travel to places she had dreamed to see since childhood. Now in the twilight of her life she has encouraged her husband, Rick, to retire from his accounting business in Pennsylvania and move to their condominium in Tropico, Florida. Rick is a workaholic and declines retirement until he experiences heart irregularity, and because of his doctor's advice, agrees to move to Florida.

Ellie has suspected infidelity on the part of her handsome husband ever since he had an affair with Julie Cordell during Ellie's second pregnancy. Overall the marriage of forty years has been essentially stable but has lost most of the luster once enjoyed by the couple. Ellie being ten years younger than Rick has found this frustrating and seeks the challenge of becoming a tour guide after they become settled in Florida.

The move during early February is marked at the onset by a near tragedy when they have an accident with a deer on the morning of departure in a snowstorm. Then they have a second misadventure during a monstrous storm in Charlotte, North Carolina. Arriving in Tropico, Florida, they find devastation from the same storm system and cannot occupy the condominium due to wind and water damage. They are forced to stay in the hospitality suite at El Tropico Condominiums for two weeks while damages are repaired.

The first day in Tropico they enjoy lunch at Barney's Place, their favorite eatery. Barney O'Toole, the restaurateur, has assembled a valuable collection of baseball memorabilia. A young man who seems unusually interested in the baseball items on the wall arouses Ellie's curiosity. Following lunch, the Perros rest in their rooms in the office building when Corey Parker, the manager, has a strange, nearly fatal, accident.

The next day the Perros learn that Barney's Place has been burglarized at great loss to Barney. A few days later, Ellie and Rick, with time on their hands, attend a flea market at Webster, Florida and the seemingly lackluster day becomes exciting when Ellie spots the young man she had seen in Barney's. The interest intensifies when she and Rick see some of Barney's stolen items on a flea market table.

Other episodes include: an inflammatory dinner in the condo of Ellie's friend Kit Carmichael, an early foggy morning at the pool when Perry Williams dives into the pool just as Ellie notices a large alligator dive in at the far end of the pool, a motorcycle club tours El Tropico at dawn, Ellie has a disastrous meeting with Charlie Lambert to pursue her goal to become a tour guide. Rick is forced to return to Pennsylvania when the replacement in his business has a serious automobile accident, Rick returns briefly to El Tropico for the Saint Patrick's Day Party involving a tragic death, and Ellie becomes engaged as a tour guide in Florida and later to Alaska.

Woven through this story are casualties of clandestine affairs, several humorous situations, a tragic fishing boat incident, and through it all the wavering love between Ellie and Rick. In the final analysis, Ellie is imbued with the realization that retiring is not necessarily the fulfillment of her dreams of the Golden Years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 5, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465331939

James Minick

Tragedy and human suffering are not strangers in the life of the author, James Minick. A native Pennsylvanian, he experienced the Great Depression in his hometown, New Castle. He served in Italy during WWII in the United States Army Infantry. He attended Westminster College (Pa.) and Temple University School of Medicine. After graduating in 1951, he practiced through 1989 in general practice and then moved to Florida where he worked as a physician with the Department of Corrections until 1999. Writing has always been an interest but more intensely since he began “All That Glitters” in 1999.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The only thing worse than a problem is a problem on a sweltering day . . . and this was a scorcher . . . my maternity smock was bursting at the seams . . . and I was sizzling mad. How could Rick, sweet ever-loving Rick, be so damned stupid? The irony is he must think he married a moron . . . a moron smart enough to check his shirt pockets before laundering the shirt.

The message on the snip of paper in the pocket was in Rick’s handwriting: Call Julie at her sister’s—531-0882. I read it five times trying to think of anyone we knew named Julie. After boiling over for the next two hours, there seemed to be only one channel open to me . . . to call the number and fake it through.

I dialed. The phone rang four times.

Hello. She sounded tired.

Hi, honey. Rick Perro told me to contact Julie at this number.

This is her sister. She ain’t here.

This is Mary Barren (wishful thinking). Rick dropped her watch off for repair. For some reason, he gave me your number.

Yeah. She’s stayin’ here a few days.

He just gave me her name as Julie.

Yeah. Julie Cordell.

Can you let her know the watch is fixed?

Yeah. But he won’t bring her home until this evening.

That’s okay. Tell her I have it ready for her.

I’ll do that.

When the phone stopped shaking on the stand, I sat back and closed my eyes—with teeth clenched even tighter. My scalp tingled, my hands trembled, and I was flying through a red morass. I had taken a holiday from reality.

Bewilderment changed to anger—livid white-hot Gaelic anger. How could I have been so blind? Were all of those extra training sessions on Saturday, Sunday golf outings, and special office evening meetings a lie? For now—absolutely! Tear-soaked crumpled tissues were scattered on the floor around my chair. My mind was oblivious to everything but his face—Mr. Congeniality—until Patrice cried awakening from her nap.

Feeding her didn’t give me the same maternal satisfaction as usual. All I could see was a replay of me standing on the stoop early this morning. Little Patrice was sitting on my distended abdomen as I waved and told him, Drive safely. We love you. He blew a quick kiss and shouted back, I’m late, with the enthusiasm of a baked potato.

After feeding Patrice, I bathed her and rolled the ball with her for a while. Why do babies become so irritable about dusk? Her gums were bulging in the back and tender. Two-year molars, no doubt. About 8 PM I tried putting her in bed only to end up walking her and singing for the next hour. I rubbed her gums with a cold spoon handle and about 9 PM she wilted with exhaustion. Finally a chance to consider the encounter with Rick.

My feeling of resolve indicated the crying stage was past. This was no time to be a spineless pipsqueak.

I had dozed off when the sound of the car entering the garage aroused me. A minute later, Rick came in appearing tousled. His tie was pulled through once without a knot. Where was the ever-present briefcase? He always brought it home Friday night. The wall clock showed me that it was 10:15 PM. Rick favored me with a gentle kiss on the cheek.

You’ve had a long day. I’ll bet you’re tired?

You’re right about that. These meetings take a lot out of me, especially with this hot weather. I’m surprised you haven’t gone to bed.

Patrice is cutting teeth. She kept me up.

Well, I’m ready for bed. How about you?

Not by a long shot, you mealy worm. I had to admire his ability to deign nonchalance.

What’s that all about?

That’s what I need to ask you. I wonder how Papa Perrotti would feel about this? WHAT?

You heard me, you crumb. He’d probably spit on you. You sleep on the couch. Since tomorrow’s Saturday, we’ll get down to the nitty gritty in the morning. Don’t try to come upstairs. The door will be locked. The remarkable facet of this conversation was that he never demanded an explanation.

I was up for two hours during the night and again at 6 AM with Patrice. Rick never stirred on the couch. The metamorphosis from Don Juan to church mouse was awe-inspiring. Patrice and I went back to sleep at 7 AM.

A half hour later, Rick knocked on the bedroom door. Ellie, I’m scheduled for a golf foursome at 8:30.

If you leave, pack your clothes. Otherwise we have to talk when I get up. I could hear creaking stair steps. The car never left the garage. About an hour later, I carried Patrice downstairs. Rick was watching TV in the den. I fed Patrice and poured coffee. She was content for the time being with a spoon, several pans and a tin cup on the kitchen floor.

The innocence-of-a-choir-boy expression that met me in the den deserved an Academy Award. Good morning, he said. He looked prepared for anything I could throw at him. What in the world got into you last night?

What in the world did you get into last night?

C’mon Ellie. Quit fencing with me.

Good. For openers, I’ll ask you to explain Julie Cordell. If she’s anything like her sister, she’s not very bright. He recoiled. I hit him in the solar plexus. Let him mull over how I knew about Julie. The slip of paper would remain my secret.

Julie is an old friend from high school. She’s a skilled secretary and has done some work for me, especially at meetings. How do you happen to know about her?

Do you have a habit of taking your secretaries home after work?

I . . . ah . . . sometimes. Her car was in for repairs. Accountants have to be quick thinkers.

His left upper eyelid was twitching as a dark expression spread across his face. Rick couldn’t mask his inner feelings well. Watching him squirm gave me some consolation.

I’ll do this, Rick. I’m not in the mood for sorting out the sordid details of your life. I’m going to have our baby. You’re going to continue to live with us and support us. I am a forgiving person. If you can demonstrate, not promise, but show remorse, in time our marriage might be mended. If you don’t do that—you have a lot to lose. I’m not asking you to do this; I’m telling you. Take your choice.

Rick coughed several times and tried to clear his throat. He went to the kitchen for water. When he returned, his expression was placid. He spoke calmly, It was a mistake. We met at a business meeting and had lunch. She was a high school friend. Now she’s divorced and . . . well, one thing led to another. I didn’t really want to get that involved. I only love you, Ellie. I was a fool; I can guarantee you, you’ll never have another act of infidelity to deal with.

Now that you missed your tee time, I believe the grass needs to be mowed.

Pittsburgh can be sweltering in August. The valley, in which it lays, pretty much limits air movement. August 15, 1950 our sweet little girl, Denise, was delivered at Allegheny General

Hospital. She had ten fingers and as many toes. Her cry was twice as loud as Patrice’s, but when she smiled from a gas bubble, she appeared identical to my baby pictures. As she developed, a genuine smile and laughter became her trademark.

Rick spent more time with Patrice, rolling the ball and reading. He helped Patrice hold her baby sister. The arrival of the second baby may have stimulated him; he developed signs of becoming an excellent father and a better husband. Strangely, there were seldom any special office meetings or weekend training sessions. Golf continued with his foursome who usually picked him up. Somehow, my need for the car became more urgent on most Saturdays.

Rick’s productivity improved at the office evidenced by larger bonuses. We entered the lifestyle of a typical middle class American family. Most of my time centered on the children’s activities in school and church. Summer vacations were a matter of course, usually—if I could twist Rick’s arm—a week at Lake Erie or a week at the Jersey shore. My yearning for travel and cultural enrichment started in college, whereas Rick found happiness in his work and sports. Golf on Saturdays and holidays occupied his spare time not devoted to baseball, mostly on TV, occasionally in the stands.

Life went on for the family. Sometimes I asked myself when my dreams would come into the scheme of things; the answer evaded me or was not forthcoming. Consequently, as the years rolled by, it became easier for me to put my modest goals in a maybe sometime category.

CHAPTER 1

My ears were bursting from the pounding; a pulsation reverberated through my head. Each deafening blow deepened my panic . . . echoing . . . one on top of the other . . . I tried to scream but the screams were muffled and soundless. Desperately I struggled to force the lid up before the box could be nailed tight. The sides were closing against me; my head and ears were throbbing . . . they would surely explode. Frantic effort stifled my breathing. Please, dear God, don’t let me suffocate! Frothy sweat flowed in cold streams from my forehead onto my cheeks and neck. The darkness diffused into oblivion.

I blacked out, and then consciousness began to disperse the attack as serenely as mist off a pond. My awareness cleared; I sobbed uncontrollably as terror from another claustrophobic nightmare faded. Cold sweat popped out on my forehead. I touched my neck—powdery dry. An overwhelming wave of relief swept over me. My extremities felt detached . . . distorted; my body was drained . . . lifeless. Squeezing my arthritic fingers quickly convinced me that I was back in the real world.

The subtle transition gave me a chance to assure myself that I was not really in a box—and to straighten the covers tangled around me. I drew the comfort around my neck and shoulders and felt my whole body relax with the realization that I was safe. A deep sigh relieved the tightness in my back and neck muscles.

Somehow these frightful dreams occurred when a crisis entered my life. I had never been able to pinpoint their onset, couldn’t recall experiencing them before I found out about Julie Cordell.

Completely restoring trust is difficult once the bond has been breached.

My eyelids don’t open right away when I awaken. At times there are strange visual changes seen with my eyes still closed. I’ve heard that we actually see with our brain; I wonder if other people see these odd visual effects: blobs of floating pale blue amorphous figures drifting lazily across a dark purplish background. They remind me of amoebas I had seen under a microscope in college. This peaceful display is interrupted by tiny lightning-like glints of light—icy blue—reassuring me that I’m awake and may relax. The cold sweat began to dry, and my breathing was slowing. Settling down under the covers allowed me to turn my thoughts toward the day now evolving.

The shutter continued to bang against the side of the house—the same shutter Rick promised to fix a year ago. Sleet was lashing the window like a pellet gun and gusting wind rattled the glass. Water running down the rain spouting splashed musically on the concrete slab below. Mother Nature was providing a melodic and soothing symphony, a precious gift—casual and no ticket required. The tympanitic beat of sleet and rain on the roof harmonized with Rick’s soft breathing next to me. Occasionally, the rhythm was broken by an expiratory flutter, as his lips vibrated in a staccato beat. I’ve always been a light sleeper, and at times, I’m mesmerized by the sounds he produces when he sleeps . . . usually pleasant . . . not always. But it’s always a comfort to sense his presence!

Rick has always fallen asleep on his right side, facing me, but invariably turns over onto his left side facing the window. Somehow, we always end up sleeping back-to-back. Thirty-eight years of marriage had insidiously taken its toll.

The bedroom was almost dark with only a dim glow from the bathroom night-light. Usually when I’m aroused and think of all the chores to be done, I sit right up on the side of the bed. My body is self-regulated to react by 5:30 without a clock. As long as we’ve been married, I can only recall setting an alarm three or four times. Sleep has always been more of a necessity for me than a pleasure, another facet of our lives where Rick and I are totally opposite. He usually awakens in a snarly mood. Then, once I get him on his feet, the mellow mood emerges . . . especially on Saturday when he’s going to play golf . . . then he’s sugar-coated.

On this particular morning, the bed covers made me feel so cozy, I decided to take advantage of this quiet time to think about our current problem—Rick’s impending retirement. There isn’t any easy formula to determine the best time to retire. In some vocations, it’s automatic. In others, it’s problematic, as it was in Rick’s situation. We agonized together over the crucial decision he needed to make. To me, it seemed like thirty-eight years in a stressful accounting business were long enough. He didn’t agree that longevity had anything to do with it. He was horror-stricken at first, pouted, fumed, and fussed . . . refused to even discuss selling his business for over a year.

The decision-making was taken out of his hands. The onset of heart palpitations caught us by surprise, a worrisome surprise, and the doctor’s warning carried a lot of weight. Work-related stress had finally caught up with Rick. He became apprehensive . . . you never would have known it . . . too much pride to recognize he was not made of iron. Reluctantly he casually announced one day his decision to give up the business. For three months we’ve been getting ready to move into our new condo in Florida and into a new lifestyle. Rick’s pouting and self-pity have effectively squelched the thrill of achieving some of my goals.

One evening, I mustered the courage to speak my thoughts, since Rick seemed to be in a receptive mood. I’ve accepted your frustrations about giving up a business that you’ve built from the ground up. Also, it’s hard to give up competition and involvements with clients. (I avoided mentioning ego). The time comes when you have to face the alternatives: sleeping in, golfing when you get tired of loafing, reading when you’re tired of golfing, and doing about as you please. Sounds good to me.

We all look at things in a different light, his face wore that dark expression. "Life is full of traps. Even the word, retirement, carries a resonance of doom. It’s more like a sentence rather than a reward." His agitation was evident, and he hadn’t even been sipping wine. Rick has never been one to conceal his annoyance during a sensitive discussion. His voice stepped up half an octave, and the words hissed through tightly pursed lips.

The situation was tense, but I had to stand my ground. Sometimes I don’t understand you. It’s like your brain has taken a holiday. You aren’t thinking. You’re not indestructible, you know?

You’ve never really had a career. What’ve you got to lose? It’s my career at stake here.

His anger was mounting. The left upper eyelid was twitching—always an ominous sign with Rick. His face was flushed, and his beautiful dark eyes were flashing like lightning bugs.

The conversation had to be concluded. "My career!! You must be kidding! My career has been spent right here in this house, and it’s time for a change. Enjoy the rest of your dinner!"

At another time later, when he was in a better mood, I reminded him that we were in this situation together—what was good for him should also be good for me, even though we valued different goals.

His expression changed from complacency. Marriage is supposed to bring two people together.

In body and mind, perhaps, but in spirit, not at all.

You’ve never had anything to worry about. Your needs have always been met.

"You’ve been too busy to understand my needs . . . that’s true of a lot of us wives. When have you considered what I need for retirement? For one thing, I need more affection. Yes, more affection. I still crave being petted and being admired. That didn’t go out with Social Security, you know. I’m still a woman. Besides that, I’ve always yearned to travel and meet new people. Seniors can still seek out some excitement in their lives."

Lots of people today skip the petting. You read too many magazines. The feeling of disbelief that swept over me was a harpoon into my soul. At that moment, he reminded me of a gladiator with one foot on his opponent’s chest and the tip of his sword at the poor guy’s throat.

These encounters had been more frequent in recent years. I gave him a chance to think it over and subsequently realized the value of a measure of discretion. Not long after that exchange Rick informed me that he was selling the business. My chief concern now shifted . . . would he be able to adapt to the new life style? That question would soon become more relevant in both of our lives.

CHAPTER 2

There are times when Rick and I pass through a phase where I have doubts about the honesty and sincerity in our marriage; then I wonder what the alleged growing mature love of adults is all about. Somehow it seems too much to expect love to flow constantly like current through an electric wire. When the switch is turned off, the guilt trip doesn’t strike me as justifiable.

The inconsistency is that love is supposed to grow stronger at the same time the passion between two people is reduced to a trickle. I’ve always supposed that happens in most marriages. Mother Nature plays funny tricks—I don’t always know why.

Rick groaned, jolting me out of my mental gymnastics. He stirred restlessly and would soon be awake, but I decided to let him catch the last forty winks. I couldn’t remember when he’d been late going to the office; he should be allowed one slipup since he was about to retire.

Sitting up, I slipped my feet into comfy L.L.Bean moccasins. My terrycloth robe had fallen behind the chair where I usually draped it. I groped for it in the inky darkness while the air nipped my skin . . . not an unpleasant greeting, but finding the robe restored that toasty feeling again. A faint glow from the nightlight in the bathroom guided me across the room. After years of these pre-dawn treks, I scarcely needed a beacon. The major threat was Old Squeaky, a warped oak floorboard that creaked in anguish when you stepped on it. Experience was on my side; I gingerly tiptoed over Old Squeaky. Rick had promised to fix the board about a year ago. Perhaps I had been too careful about avoiding it.

He continued to purr softly in rhythm with the tempo of rain on the roof.

I closed the bathroom door and turned on the light. Stretching to limber my back and shoulders, I glanced into the mirror on the back of the door. A sheepish grin crept over my face, looking at my figure in the full-length mirror. Hmm! A little broadening in the hips, the boobs sagged more than I liked, but not bad for a senior citizen. All of those years of swimming, biking, and gardening had been good for my physique. I could hardly wait to enjoy the outdoor activities in that delightful Florida climate . . . might even play tennis again. My skin didn’t appear too wrinkled: I never smoked, my eating habits have been better than average, and alcohol has been used minimally—I’ve generally been the designated driver. Except for the arthritis that came along with my genes, my health couldn’t be better.

The clock chimed a quarter past six just as I finished my first cup of coffee. Rick should get up. Calling up the stairs failed to produce a response. The bedroom was now utterly silent, as I climbed the stairs. A mouse scurrying across the floor could have been heard—even the soft pelting of rain on the roof and windows had subsided.

Rick was in the same position and was as immobile as a sack of wheat. He performed most convincingly on rainy mornings. I crossed the room—not concerned this time about avoiding Old Squeaky—and rumpled his hair. He feigned a groan . . . not one that would win him an Oscar.

C’mon, Rip. It’s time to rise and shine.

Okay . . . okay . . . I’m awake, he snarled. That coffee aroma has been tantalizing me for about twenty minutes. I’ll be right down. There are days when I practically have to roll him out of bed—like today.

"When have I heard that song before? If you’re not up by the count of three, off come the covers!" He drew the comfort tighter around his neck.

You missed your calling. You should have been a first mate. Gimme a break.

So! The cold water, is it? Okay! I stomped fiercely toward the bathroom. Rick muttered some smothered words recalling the effect of cold water in the past. I turned around. He was standing by the bed—glowering with a ridiculous grimace on his face. I threw him a quick smile and a wink. His face lit up with that engaging grin and broke into healthy laughter.

Once I see forward motion toward the bathroom, I’ll retreat to the kitchen. I couldn’t resist chuckling. Rick Perro was definitely not a morning person. He was a slow starter, but once in high gear, he was amazingly productive and had a strong work ethic. My fervent hope was for him to apply that same enthusiasm to activities in Florida. After all, golfing wasn’t a bad option.

Why does coffee always smell so good on a rainy morning? he asked, entering the kitchen. And you as well, you wily minx! His arms were strong and possessive, as he squeezed me from behind. He always thrills me when he whispers in my ear that he enjoys my natural vanilla flavor, gently nibbling the back of my neck. It gives me a little twinge. Rick can turn on the charm even in the kitchen at 7:00 A.M.

Hey, be careful! That kind of attention will get you anywhere. This would be a great morning for you to call in sick?

Whoa there! Don’t tempt me. Did you pour my coffee? I’m in a rush . . . gotta go! Today is my last day to see clients. Gimme a rain check.

You . . . since when did you need one? Besides, the rain stopped an hour ago.

Rick winced. Touché! Put a little honey in my coffee instead?

He was a typical A personality whose energy flowed in a productive direction. Rick maintained a good attitude and accepted new challenges. His ongoing success in business has been based on honesty, integrity, and hard work—and a wife who always offered her full support. Community service and devotion to the family qualified him as a solid citizen.

Keep your mind on your work today, Rick. Stay cool. Remember: dinner with Frederick’s at 5:30, I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He rushed into the garage carrying his coffee, even though he had plenty of time. He spilled about half a cup getting into the car. Perhaps he wanted to squeeze in every last precious moment at the office. I had to be patient and allow him to set his own pace in this move.

After he backed out onto the road, I waved goodbye. Now my attention turned to sorting through some small personal items in the attic. Climbing the stairs my thoughts were preoccupied with Rick. His temper, always a problem, has been fired by a hair trigger lately. He has become more impatient . . . with me most of all . . . typical I suppose . . . wants everything done yesterday. Arguments have been more heated . . . tempestuous. Fortunately, I can still smooth his feathers when that Latin emotion starts erupting. I’ve always had the ability to bring him back down to earth. We usually seem to settle our problems amicably, if I give seventy-five percent.

I’ll have to quit worrying that the move could be disappointing or that he’ll brood about his clients after we move. I’ll just have to try to keep him enjoyably occupied until he makes the adjustment. After all, aren’t these to be the Golden Years?

CHAPTER 3

Attics are usually cold, poorly lighted, draped in cobwebs, and crawling with spiders and silverfish—and yet, enticing and enchanting. I’ve never seen an unfinished attic that was pretty, but they all have a unique haunting charm.

Our attic had been partially cleared of larger items in November. Thanks to a yard sale and a church bazaar, the only items remaining were personal papers, a trunk full of pictures and personal mementos, plus a box of books. Rick will need to sort through these things to decide what he wants to keep. As soon as I throw something out, he’ll ask for it. He has been more of a packrat than I. We’ve had to trim back as much as possible; extra storage space is hard to come by in a six-room condo.

The old trunk was a good place to begin, they are always a challenge, and it hadn’t been opened in a coon’s age. Why do they always have to smell so musty? There were a few silverfish, but I didn’t see any mold or mildew. I emptied everything and intended putting back only worthwhile keepsakes.

There was a terrible picture of Mama and Papa Perrotti dated shortly after they arrived from Italy in 1898. They were attractive people, but the picture wasn’t . . . the drab clothes . . . everything dark, dreary . . . even the expressions. Next I studied a picture of Rick’s parents who came over shortly after Mama and Papa Perrotti. What a tragic life they had! Rick’s mother had pallor typical of chronic illness. She died about 1921 from tuberculosis. Rick was only six—only one when his Dad was killed in a munitions explosion during World War I. He and his older brother, Andy, were lucky to have such good godparents as Mama and Papa. I had to quit reminiscing and get on with it, or I’d have been up there all morning. The contents of the trunk needed to be saved. We had to keep some family mementos to pass on to the girls. They likely hadn’t seen any of these things since they were little. I decided to play it safe and keep them.

The box of books contained a McGuffey’s Reader and three Horatio Alger books. There were several Italian language books, which appeared to be novels, a few accounting textbooks, and an assortment of soft cover novels from the era of World War II. Rick would have to sort through this box—much of it would be given to Goodwill. As I put one of the books, a military training manual, back into the box, a black and white picture of an attractive young woman fell out—a picture I had never seen. She appeared to be about eighteen or twenty. On the back of the picture, there was a brief message, Come back safe and sound. It was signed, Julie. Hmm! Looks like that one had been worth saving.

The days passed quickly through January. Somehow, after the Christmas season and New Year’s, January always flashes by before I have my decorations put away—this year was no exception. I think of all the laughs Rick generated at the office Christmas party with his Christmas tree apron sporting the tiny flashing lights. The New