Today is the final day of my holiday break, and I honestly look forward to resuming my normal routine when the alarm sounds at 6 a.m. tomorrow. There has been ample opportunity to catch up on sleep and reflect on my life—including everything that’s happened over the past year and even what might lie ahead.

The middle months of 2011 were all about Dad. His surgery, hospitalization and eventually passing consumed my family’s activities. The period from May through August was grueling, and ultimately heartbreaking. But friends and the community provided a pipeline of support that sustained each of us throughout—a source of light during some very dark days.

I also struggled tremendously with the perils of parenthood. When not looking after Dad, the remainder of my time was largely focused on helping Austin survive high school and then prepare for success in college. Despite my best efforts, he will not return to campus following the holiday break, and I have no idea what’s next for him. He and I will undoubtedly face some hard decisions ahead.

Clearly 2012 will not be a cakewalk. But following a year that allowed me little time to focus on my personal wellbeing, I resolve to correct that in the year ahead. It’s time to shake things up!

First, I need to resume a regular fitness routine. In addition, I’m anxious to take advantage of some exciting travel opportunities, and I have already had some conversations in that regard. And finally, it’s time to evaluate where I’m at professionally and determine how best to maximize my talents.

Let’s admit it, new-year resolutions are normally an exercise in futility, but I owe it to myself to reject that mindset. I’m counting on the world’s survival well beyond 2012, and I want to make sure I’m ready to tap into whatever it might throw at me. I encourage you to join me in that pursuit.

Happy new year!

“What’s it like to get adopted?” he asked.

I immediately felt the weight of his question wash over me and I found myself fighting the urge to cry.

Austin showed me around the school he attended while a resident at Ramey-Estep

Standing there, inside one of the residential units of Ramey-Estep, a group home facility located in rural eastern Kentucky, Austin proceeded to discuss his pride in joining a family and the opportunity he now enjoys to build a promising future. But he quickly transitioned his focus toward the young man before him.

“Never lose focus,” explained Austin. “And never lose hope! It can happen for you too. Just keep working toward that goal.”

The teenager, never breaking his focus from Austin, drank in every word. Then, politely and quietly, he offered his thanks, turned around and walked down the stairs to rejoin his peers.

Watching the boy descend, it wasn’t difficult to analyze the source of my emotions. I knew in an instant this teenager was a reflection of my son before I even knew he existed—formerly conflicted and fighting to find his way. Austin, while speaking from the heart, had also spoken to the boy from experience.

Our visit to Ramey-Estep was the climax to a homecoming weekend of sorts for Austin. It was the first time either of us had returned to his native Kentucky since he came to live with me in February 2010.

Austin and I agreed to share our story at the request of his former caseworker Diane Underwood

We agreed to visit as part of a celebratory event sponsored by the state’s Department for Community Based Services. Adoptive families from across the commonwealth were invited to gather at the Kentucky Horse Park, just outside of Lexington, to mingle with each other and be acknowledged. It was a heartwarming sight to witness the variety of families that represent the tapestry of adoption. Organizers of the event even pointed out to me a couple who adopted 10 kids. Yikes!

Diane Underwood, one of Austin’s former caseworkers, had asked us to present to the entire group about our adoption experience, so I put together a PowerPoint presentation with photos that summarize our journey. He and I played off each other pretty well, describing the ups and downs of our relationship.

Patricia Wilson, commissioner of Kentucky's Department for Community Based Services, joined Austin as a star presenter

It was obviously well received. People were on their feet applauding as we returned to our table. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s my first-ever standing ovation. Also, more than a few in attendance—primarily caseworkers—asked if I planned to adopt again. The question always makes me a little uneasy as I concede my uncertainty.

“Probably not anytime soon,” I’d say.

“Well, keep us in mind,” was the standard reply, and I assured them I would.

Then, after an overnight in Lexington, Austin and I made our way east for the visit to Ramey-Estep. As we arrived on campus, I could sense he was anxious. Back when he was 14, having recently become an orphan by court order, he was placed in the restrictive group home in hopes of getting him beyond some behavioral issues. He remained there 16 months and now credits that time as a life-changing experience.

Austin looked forward to sharing this part of his history with me, but he was most excited about the opportunity to reunite with his mentor at Ramey—a group leader by the name of Dewayne Sammons. We tracked him down shortly after he had started his shift inside one of the residential units. The former Marine allowed himself a slight smile as Austin approached.

The opportunity to reunite with his former group leader, Dawayne Sammons, was particularly moving for Austin

The pair exchanged greetings, and I introduced myself to Mr. Sammons before listening to Austin summarize his new life in New York. Uncharacteristic of my son, he seemed to struggle for things to say and opted at times to inquire about the fate of the other boys who had lived with Austin at Ramey. Some found their way, Mr. Sammons indicated, while others only found more trouble.

As the current residents took part in a religious service in the hall’s common area, the three of us moved upstairs to tour the facility. Once out of sight from the boys, Mr. Sammons appeared more willing to let down his guard. He recalled Austin as “stubborn,” reluctant to change. But once Austin bought into the system, Mr. Sammons stated, the transformation was rapid. He was clearly proud of the young man that stood before him now.

“I’d be happy to come back sometime and talk about my experience,” said Austin.

But Mr. Sammons had another idea. “How about right now?”

Austin spent a lot of time at Ramey working on projects with Mr. MacAlister, the groundskeeper

He didn’t need to ask twice. When the service concluded, Austin made his way to the common area, and Mr. Sammons introduced Austin as a “former resident” who wanted to share some insights on his time living on campus. What I heard next astonished me.

Austin delivered his remarks to the group like he’d been rehearsing them for years.

“I’ve sat in that same furniture you’re sitting in now,” he said, “and I know what some of you are thinking. You just want out of here. I get that. It’s how I felt too.”

Austin urged the boys to own the behaviors that had them placed there while committing to whatever actions were needed to ensure change. He encouraged them to listen to their group leaders, as he acknowledged Mr. Sammons and the other staff in the room, and he told the boys not to focus on the amount of time it might take to earn their exit. The potential outcomes were worth the investment in time, and he pointed out himself as an example.

“Now I’m adopted, and I’m in my first year of college. My future can be anything I want to make of it.”

Ten minutes after he started talking, Austin received his second ovation of the weekend. I watched him with awe as he climbed the stairs and told him what an amazing job he had done. Mr. Sammons agreed, telling Austin that having an impact on even one of those boys made the effort worthwhile.

Enter the earnest-looking teenager wearing glasses.

- -

The impact of our visit hit Austin within moments after leaving the residence hall. Seeing tears in his eyes, I put my arm around his shoulder, expressed my pride, and thanked him for letting me share this opportunity. On that weekend, I believe Austin came to realize that his choice of direction in life had been validated.

As we returned to the car, my son returned to his usual form—inquiring about lunch and bouncing between various expressions of silliness. Our focus now transitioned to the nine-hour drive home.

But as we winded our way home on the interstate, I kept thinking back to that boy—and that question: “What’s it like to get adopted?”

I’ll never find out what becomes of that young man, but I will occasionally offer up a prayer that he gets to experience the blessing of adoption. And I hope it’s transformative, as I believe it has been for Austin.

I admit that gets me wondering about the other big question posed that weekend: “Are you planning to adopt again?”

I traditionally approach the ritual with such melancholy. Summer, my favorite season, formally ends when the pool cover goes on. Summer, for me, concluded this weekend.

This year, I approached my duties with unusual vigor. I felt ready to embrace the symbolism. Unfortunately, summer 2011 has been a season of sorrow, and it will inevitably trigger memories of challenge and heartache moving forward. The time has arrived to put it behind me.

And the sun seems to agree. You can tell from how it hangs in the sky. The warmth of its rays may still say summer, but the lengthening shadows it casts suggest otherwise.

But as I gaze into the crystal-clear waters one last time, I feel it—that melancholy. Stolen moments spent floating on my raft come to mind, as does the sight of my son and his friends performing various antics in the deep end.

Yeah, maybe I’ll miss it after all—at least until next summer.

This year marked my 12^th Move-in Day as a member of the RIT community, but I experienced this one in a way unlike any previous. I did this year’s as Dad. Check out my experience with Austin on The Tiger Beat Blog.

Kathy

One of my best childhood memories was when Dad made kites for us.  He would go to the lumber store and buy some thin sticks and glue newspapers together—then use some of his old neckties for the tail.

One morning, I was about 8 or 9 years old, I decided to fly the kite on my own. I saw Dad, down on his knees, sanding a car in front of the garage. Within a few minutes of successfully launching my kite, I carelessly let go of the ball of string and the kite went sailing out across the backyard and into the weeds behind it.  I screamed out that the kite had gotten away, and he jumped to his feet and took off across the yard—running as fast as he could—until he chased that kite down and brought it back to me.  I think he would have chased it to the end of the world for me. That’s just the kind of dad he was.

In the past few years, Dad had many doctor appointments in Rochester, and I would always take him to make sure he could hear what the doctors were saying—and also that he would tell the truth when asked certain questions.

He would always ask me, “What time should I be at your house?”  If the appointment was at 2 p.m., I would say 1:15 knowing he would probably be a little late.  I’d look for him at 1:30—then begin to get mad around 1:40 when he still hadn’t appeared.  Just a few minutes later, as my blood pressure started to rise, I would see that brown Chevy Cavalier come slowly around the corner with Count Basie blaring on his CD player.

As he pulled into my driveway, I could see the brightly colored sunglasses he’d wear (which probably belonged to Mary) and he would give me that Joe Stella grin, and I just couldn’t be mad any longer.

When we were kids, everyone always said how lucky we were to have such a great dad.  They were right.  I had the best dad ever, and my kids had the best Grampa and Great Grampa ever!

Love you, Dad, and I’ll miss you everyday.

Bob

As a small child growing up, going to war had no meaning to me. But my dad had all these friends who would, at any time, lay down there lives for one another. This crazy bunch of men truly was the Band of Brothers—a friendship that lasted for over 70 years.

Thank you, Dad, for showing us the true meaning of love and respect for one another.

Pattie

Dad had his own language.  At the age of 9 or 10, I remember asking my mother, “What does ‘stratonduton’ mean?”  Mom answered that it didn’t mean anything.  It was a made up word that Dad and his Army buddies came up with while serving overseas.  It was only one of many such words.  To me, ‘stratonduton’ does have a meaning.  It’s a word that means friendship, and camaraderie, and fun—as only Dad would describe it.

And then there were childhood memories of Christmas.  All children love the arrival of the Christmas tree.  But for us, we didn’t just have a ‘Christmas’ tree—we had a SILVER Christmas tree that was painstakingly painted by Dad down in the paint shop.  Once the tree was standing tall, he would put up very special lights.  You remember the colored lights that would bubble when plugged in?  My current, artificial, very green, very real looking Christmas tree, just doesn’t measure up.

I have lived in California for almost 33 years.  My house is nestled in the center of a grove of Valencia Oranges.  When Dad would come to visit, or I would return to visit him, a box of oranges usually came along.  I am sure some of you here have tasted these fabulous oranges.

Well, Dad, I am sure that the oranges in heaven are as sweet, or sweeter, than the ones you picked off my trees.  I will never pick another one, when I won’t think of you.

Chris

For the past 3-and-a-half months, my family and I—and close friends—have sat with Dad as he fought to recover from heart surgery. In that time, we all received multiple phone calls, text messages, and even welcomed visitors to his room wishing and hoping for his full recovery.

It’s hard to imagine that a man 92-years-old would know so many people—young and old—that cared so much for him. We got to hear many stories about our dad—some funny, some sad, and others that would just touch your heart.

He once said at a party he hosted that he just liked people. I think that’s an understatement. A good friend of mine recently told me that he didn’t have many people he thought of as heroes, but Joe Stella was his hero. That says it all.

I love my dad and will miss him more than he’ll ever know. Thank you, everyone, for coming and sharing our dad’s life.

Paul

As I reflect on Dad, I can’t help but recall his sense of adventure. Not as any sort of daredevil necessarily, but he did not like being confined at home. He enjoyed being out – somewhere! Doing things!

That took many forms – including frequent visits to “the track” in Batavia, weeknight cards games at the K of C, and simply holding court with friends in the backroom at Stella Collision.

This also included travel. Vegas? Of course! But my siblings and I also recall each summer included a family vacation. For them, it meant the annual car ride to Canada and a week at Wasaga Beach. One of the advantages of being youngest was a gradual uptick in the quality of the summer destinations.

Shortly after the demise of the Wasaga Beach era, I recall plans for the first-in-a-series of trips to Ocean City, Maryland. I was probably 10, maybe 11. It excited me, and I couldn’t resist the urge to pull out the road maps and study our likely route there. I still wonder if my true calling isn’t a job as travel advisor at Triple-A.

Anyway, come travel day, things were progressing smoothly. Having crossed into Maryland, heading south on Interstate 83, I recognized we were within a few miles of a critical juncture. I sat in the backseat, behind Mom, with maps close at hand.

“Dad,” I said, “Coming up is where you need to take Route 695.”

He disagreed. “No,” he said, “We need to stay on 83 and go through Baltimore.” But I sensed some hesitation in his voice, so I continued to press my case.

“No,” I replied, “695 will take us around Baltimore, and then we…”

He interrupted. “Be quiet, Paul.” So I complied, and the exit for 695 went flying by.

A relatively short distance later, I-83 reached an abrupt end, and we found ourselves somewhere in not-so-welcoming inner city Baltimore. After some recalculating, Mom and Dad figured out our escape, and soon we were back en route to the Maryland shore.

“You were right, Paul,” Dad later conceded. I was grateful for his concession, and smart enough to accept it with little fanfare.

I share this as one of the few times Dad may have lost his orientation. Throughout his life, he maintained a firm sense of direction. And he never failed to point the way for others. Without even knowing, he did so by setting an example.

He loved life, and he was passionate about having fun. And it was infectious. People enjoyed being in his presence, and he often taught them it was okay to let go of their troubles, if even just for a while.

But he also worked hard—made an honest living. And he did well for himself in the process. Don’t think that didn’t make an impression on his kids. Each chose a different vocation, but we applied the same work ethic that Dad exemplified throughout his lifetime.

And speaking of family—nothing came ahead of family. I’ll never forget the day I presented him with a picture of Austin. “I’m going to make that boy your grandson,” I told him. I actually worried a bit about how he’d react—I mean, his bachelor son adopting a teenager?

But as the smile widened across his face, he pointed at me and said, “I’m happy for YOU!” Why would I suspect otherwise.

Family. It really mattered more than anything to Joe Stella. He recently reminded us of that—literally pointing it out—in the moments leading up to his surgery, as we gathered at his bedside.

“1-2-3-4-5,” he said as his index finger bounced from each of his children. “They’re all here.”

We still are, Dad.

Dad served with the 108th Infintry during World War II. My brother Bob found this photo and now has it displayed on Dad's hospital room wall.

Joseph Robert Stella served in World War II as a member of the 108^th Infantry, 2^nd battalion. My dad served this country during a tour that included Asia Pacific. As I understand it, he never saw combat. In 1944, Dad returned to the states in order to observe the death of his mother and did not resume duty. Instead, he and my mom began the process of raising a family.

Today, Dad is embroiled in a more personal combat. You see, three weeks ago today, at the age of 92, he survived surgery to replace a heart valve. I doubt the need to explain that, at his age, surgery of this type comes at an elevated level of risk. But the decision to move forward was a relatively simple one for my dad.

One week prior to surgery, I sat with Dad, my sister Kathy and brother Chris at Rochester General Hospital, and we listen as the surgeon presented the situation. Without the surgery, Dr. Ronald Kirshner explained, Dad might survive another two years—in slow decline. With surgery, the odds of survival were surprisingly high, 80/20 in my dad’s favor.

“I’m pretty confident I can get you off the table,” Dr. Kirshner explained, “but there are any number of complications that can conceivable stand in the way of your recovery.” He went on to describe a few of them.

“You hear him, Dad?” asked my brother Chris, fully aware of my dad’s habit of faking his way past severe hearing loss.

“Yeah,” replied my dad with unyielding conviction. “Let’s do it!”

His decision, of course, surprised no one who knows him. Life—if not lived well—is not worth living. Even within the hour before surgery, as we gathered at Dad’s bedside, my siblings and I marveled at the strength of his resolve. But with a series of small gestures, he revealed his source.

“1-2-3-4-5,” he said pointing out each of his children. “They’re all here.” Family, you see, provides strength—his reason for living.

Fast-forward three weeks, and Dad’s recovery continues but at an agonizingly slow pace for his family. Stellas, as is the case with our patriarch, are not blessed with boundless patience. Treatment for seizures that occurred shortly after surgery has kept him largely unconscious throughout. But he is strong, and there is fight in each and every breath!

Yesterday, for the first time, he went off the ventilator. And as he opened his eyes and looked at me, I grabbed his hand and told him all that I believed to be true.

“You’re doing great, Dad! You look good, and you’re making terrific progress. You made the right decision—having the surgery. You are going to get your life back. I know it!”

I watched careful as my dad began to move his lips.

“Just relax, Dad. You can’t speak.” The trachea still implanted in his throat prevented it.

But I kept watching. And, I can’t be certain, but I believe he mouthed these words to me: “I want to go home.”

“You will, Dad,” I replied with a smile. “Can’t wait to get you there.”

I grew up Roman Catholic, and it remains the foundation of how I live my life. But I do not attend mass regularly, and I do not consider myself prayerful. That said, it has been extremely moving to know how many people are praying for my dad.

Over the past several weeks, as I effort to put my intentions before God, I struggle to identify exactly what it is I’m asking. At 92, Dad has enjoyed a remarkable life. Is it appropriate, even fair, that I ask my father be spared? Many other veterans, loyal servants of God and country, never came home—never had the opportunity to raise a family of their own. I feel selfish—so I ask God to bless my Dad and remain at his side regardless the outcome. That gives me peace.

I will return to Rochester General Hospital today, and I will look for more signs of progress—more assurance from my dad of his continuing recovery. But in a moment of reflection, I will not struggle to offer my intentions. I will ask for God’s healing hand on my father, of course, but I will also pray for the many souls that have gone on before him.

May God’s blessing be with you and your family this Memorial Day!

On May 24, 2011, I joined 9,000 other runners at the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge, which is regularly hosted by RIT. I’ve run the Challenge a half dozen times, so I thought I’d try something different this year.

I shot this video with one of my office’s Flip cameras, figuring it might be fun to showcase the event from a runner’s perspective. While it kept me from fully competing in the race, it turned out to be an enjoyable experience. And the video was fun to put together.

I’m sure more than a few of my fellow runners thought I was nuts, and they were probably right. This was not the safest exercise I’ve ever performed. At one point, I nearly ran into a light pole. I wonder how that would have looked on camera.

The famous 'Southernmost Point' in the U.S. monument

As I sit and reflect on my short time away, I find myself recalling an expression that sprang from the aftermath of the 2008-09 stock market crash: “We’re experiencing a reset.” Despite the shock and worry that came over many of us who watched retirement funds cut nearly in half, there still existed opportunity on the horizon for those of us with time to extend our savings. It simply required a shift in perspective.

That expression of a ‘reset’ resonated with me then as it does right now. I don’t need to explain to you the personal toll that result from the day-to-day drumbeat that is life. Demands of my time and energy have been extensive, and the fairly unrelenting nature of this past winter hasn’t helped. As the stresses build, there often seems to be nowhere to escape.

That’s why I decided to jump through a small window of opportunity to make my getaway. The weather during my stay has been perfect

The lighthouse was built in 1847

—plenty of sun and temperatures in the mid 70s. Perfect opportunity to hang by the pool as well as sample the distinctive charm of this tropical paradise.

One of my favorite activities here is to climb the steps of the Key West Lighthouse and peer out as far as the eye can see—scanning boats on the ocean to the streets directly below. It’s ‘uplifting’ in more ways than one.

I know the challenges I left back home will greet me when I return, but hopefully I’ll have the fortitude to not allow them get the upper hand—at least not too soon. It’s human nature, I guess, to let the stress creep its way back in, but the ‘Key’ is to acknowledge when its time to reset, then go ahead and make it happen.

The view from atop the lighthouse

God, I look miserable!

According to the Forbes rankings, Seattle is most miserable. It indicates that Seattle sports fans have endured a total of 111 seasons from its major league franchises and celebrated ‘only one’ champion: the 1979 Sonics. Only one, huh? Makes me want to put on some Nirvana and go drown my sorrows with a nonfat vanilla latte.

When it comes to modern professional championships, we in western New York have celebrated…um, let me think…oh yeah, none! And, of course, when our teams do ultimately go down, they do it spectacularly: “Wide right” (Bills), “In the crease” (Sabres, in triple overtime), and the ever-popular Music City Miracle—the last time the Bills actually made the playoffs (11 years ago!).

Additionally, Buffalo fans are always worried about whether we’ll even hang on to our teams. Remember the Sabres bankruptcy of 2003? If not for Tom Golisano’s rescue, the team would most certainly be elsewhere—depriving us of four less-than-memorable seasons of the ‘Buffaslug.’

And, of course, what will happen to the Bills in a post-Ralph Wilson era? I owned season tickets for three years partly to show support for keeping the team put. I finally decided to give them up—too costly to waste entire Sundays on location being frustrated and/or bored.

You know, our region rarely gets credit for its positive aspects, so at least give us full credit when things really suck. Got that, sports fans?



This dates back to my days as a TV news producer at 13WHAM-TV, known back then as WOKR. It wasn’t hard to predict the storm’s impact on my upcoming workday and, since ‘adrenalin junkie’ is part of a producer’s job description, I knew sleep was formally out of the question.

I soon decided to call a coworker, the morning news anchor who lived just blocks from me on the city ‘s east side.

“Are you seeing what’s going on out there?” I asked.

She hadn’t. A sound sleeper, her schedule as morning anchor required an early bedtime, several hours before the storm got underway. “Let’s go in to work together,” I said. “I’m coming to get you.”

I’ve never personally witnessed combat, but I dare say the city was quickly beginning to resemble a war zone—a ‘cold war’ of sorts. Many ice-covered traffic lights were already disabled and entire tree limbs were blocking some residential streets. Occasionally, on our way to the station, we’d drive upon sidewalks to make our way through. Looking back I wonder what in the hell we were thinking. I shudder now to consider the ill-timed possibility of a huge limbs falling atop my tiny Plymouth Sundance. But somehow we made our way safely.

Power outages were widespread, and Rochester’s ABC affiliate was not immune. A handful of the station’s engineers were able to muster enough power to activate a few lights and one studio camera, in addition to transmitting something resembling a signal. There were no fancy graphics and no videotape that morning, just anecdotal evidence of the storm’s magnitude relayed to us by phone. It was all very primitive by modern newsgathering standards, but no less rewarding for those of us privileged to make it happen.

Eventually the station powered up and staff trickled in, and together we would begin the process of documenting one of the biggest stories in Rochester’s history. Statistics I recall include more than 300,000 customers without power, some for weeks, and about one-third of the region’s greenery destroyed.

I recall participating in the coverage of many amazing stories during my years in TV, but I doubt any rose to the level of impact as the one that began 20 years ago today.