Rejection, Acceptance & The Importance of Trying

“I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” -Sylvia Plath.

Whether you’re a writer, musician, artist or job applicant rejection can be soul crushing.

You can read all the case studies about famous people who overcame rejection and it helps. A little bit.

Yes, J.K. Rowling was rejected by 12 publishers for Harry Potter, Michael Jordan was cut from his high school team (that must have been some team), Walt Disney was fired from a job for a “lack of ideas” and Decca declined to sign The Beatles in 1962 because they thought guitar bands were on the way out. Those stories provide some comfort for the rest of us mortals.

Perhaps my favorite rejection saga is the story of Abraham Lincoln.

Before becoming the 16th President of the United States in 1860, Honest Abe faced decades of business failures, political defeats, and personal losses.

Consider this curriculum vitae.

1832: Defeated in his first run for the Illinois State Legislature and lost his job.

1833: Failed in a general store business venture, leaving him with a debt that took him 17 years to repay.

1836: Suffered a severe nervous breakdown.

1838: Defeated in his bid to become Speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives.

1843: Failed to secure the nomination for a seat in the U.S. Congress.

1848: Lost his bid for renomination to Congress.

1849: Rejected for the position of Commissioner of the General Land Office.

1854: Defeated in his first run for the U.S. Senate.

1856: Lost his bid for the Vice-Presidential nomination at his party’s national convention.

1858: Defeated by Stephen A. Douglas in a high-profile second run for the U.S. Senate, despite gaining national attention from their debates.

Lincoln was said to have a “slip not fall philosophy”. After a loss he once said: “My foot slipped from under me, knocking the other out of the way, but I recovered and said to myself, ‘It’s a slip and not a fall'”.

 

Despite these “slips” he ended up being a pretty good president. More than 160 years after his death, we quote him, glean lessons from his leadership style and long for a president who will unite us.

All the examples of rejection and failure mentioned above worked out in the end.

Rowling did OK. Michael Jordan had a pretty good career and Disney certainly proved that he had some enduring ideas.

I share this because as a writer, I experience a fair amount of rejection.

As a new playwright, I’m sending my work out into the world and …waiting. And waiting some more.

Most of the time you send your work to a theater or a festival and you hear nothing back. Crickets.

Other times you get a kind email encouraging you to try again—next year.

And sometimes you get a yes.

We celebrate those wins. We post them on social media, email our friends, share them in playwriting groups and we’re greeted with kind words and encouragement—all of it deeply appreciated because rejection stings. It just does.

My writing coach, Jack Canfora, tells me I have a good batting average.

Playwriting seems to be a little like baseball. If you’re a ball player and you fail 7 out of 10 times but get hits with your other three at bats, you’re an All Star.

By that measure, I suppose I’m doing OK.

I get a fair number of “acceptances”—meaning my plays get chosen for a festival, a reading, or a production of some sorts.

Still, those rejections hurt.

Again, I turn to my friend and coach Jack who describes himself as an “award winning and award losing playwright”.

I like that.

Truth be told, the rejections shouldn’t hurt because the stakes are low— at least for me.

I don’t rely on my writing to make a living.  I used to, when I was a journalist in my younger years, but no longer. I’m also at a stage in life where I write for pleasure, no pressure, no expectations, just the joy of staring down the blank page and seeing if I can fill it with something that I can tolerate. If I like it, I might send it out into the world. If I don’t, it sits in a folder, which I may or may not ever look at again.

Like most people who write, I’m in service to the muse. For close to 40 years I’ve been thinking like a writer, looking at the world with the goal of finding something I can write about.
It’s a good way to live, I suppose. You learn to look closely at your surroundings, you notice things and you lean in. It’s a way of life.

There is no happier moment than when your work touches a nerve or elicits a positive reaction. And consequently, even though it shouldn’t hurt because it doesn’t really matter, it hurts when that work misses the mark. When someone reads your words and says “no thanks.”

I’ve been selected and rejected. I’ve been accepted and passed over. It’s our lot in life.

To quote The Godfather: “This is the life we have chosen.”

We just keep writing and hoping for a yes.

MLK 2026

Every January, we quote Martin Luther King Jr., share a line or two from the “I Have a Dream” speech, and remind ourselves that progress has been made.

And it has.

The arc of American history has bent in meaningful ways because of the moral force Dr. King helped unleash. But if King were only relevant as a historical figure, a chapter in a textbook, we would not still feel the uneasy tug of his words. We feel it because much of what he warned us about, and hoped for, remains unfinished business.

King did not speak only about racial harmony in the abstract.

He spoke about systems.

He spoke about poverty, access to opportunity, fair wages, voting rights, housing, education, and the corrosive effects of fear and dehumanization. He challenged not just personal prejudice, but the structures that quietly keep inequality in place. In a time when economic anxiety, political polarization, and cultural division dominate our headlines, his insistence on justice rooted in dignity feels less like history and more like a live wire.

One of King’s most radical ideas was that nonviolence is not passive. It is active moral resistance. It demands discipline, courage, and imagination. In an era of social media outrage and instant condemnation, his model asks something harder: to confront injustice without becoming shaped by hatred, to seek transformation rather than humiliation, and to remember the humanity of even those with whom we fiercely disagree. That is not easy. It never was. But it remains one of the few paths that reliably builds lasting change instead of short term victory.

King also warned against complacency.

He spoke often about the “tranquilizing drug of gradualism,” the temptation to delay justice because the moment feels inconvenient or politically risky. Today, whether we are talking about racial equity, economic mobility, voting access, or how communities care for their most vulnerable, that warning still applies. Progress that moves too slowly for those suffering in the present is not neutral. Delay has a moral cost.

Perhaps most importantly, King believed deeply in the power of moral imagination. He asked people to envision a society that did not yet fully exist, and then to act as if it could. That kind of imagination is desperately needed now. When cynicism feels safer than hope, King reminds us that hope is not naive. It is a discipline. It is a decision to believe that people can grow, institutions can change, and the future can be better than the present.

Remembering King should not only be about honoring a dream. It should be about accepting a responsibility. His life challenges each generation to ask: Where does injustice persist in our time? What comfort am I protecting instead of confronting? How am I contributing, even quietly, to the world I claim to want?

King is relevant today not because the past repeats itself exactly, but because the moral questions remain the same.

Who counts?

Who is heard?

Who is protected?

Who is left behind?

As long as those questions are unresolved, his voice continues to echo, not as a monument, but as a call to action

Where Is The Love?

Social media is an interesting place to visit (but I wouldn’t want to live there.)

Spend five minutes on Facebook and you’ll see the full spectrum of human interaction. Spend two minutes on X and you’ll need a shower.

Recently, I went doom scrolling on Mark Zuckerberg’s creation and found myself marveling at the stunning array of opinion.

One post celebrated someone who has taken up art in her retirement with kind words of support and praise for the beautiful work being created.

Another expressed admiration for a woman who has overcome a health issue with a barrage of loving words expressing thanks and appreciation for the strength it takes to battle a disease.

But a few posts down, past the pictures of dogs, kids and great nights out at restaurants I found a post about the new Sundy Village.

In full transparency, I haven’t been there yet. But I drive by it every day and have watched the project take shape during months of construction on my way to work.

For weeks, I saw a statue of a guy wearing a hat sitting amidst the dirt and heavy machinery. Who was it? Could it be a statue of John Shaw Sundy, Delray’s first mayor?

I thought it was interesting to see the transformation of the landscape and the preservation of some historic homes including the Sundy House, the mayor’s iconic home said to be the oldest in Delray.

Regardless, I kind of liked what I was seeing.

John S. Sundy and family at his home on South Swinton Avenue.

Pebb Capital, the developers of the project, did not take the easy way out. In a world where developing retail is increasingly difficult, Pebb leaned in. There’s no residential buildings on the site, its office, retail, restaurants and services. Pretty bold in today’s world.

There’s also no parking garage.  All the parking is underground and out of sight, an interesting and expensive choice that’s aesthetically pleasing. I find all of it fascinating.

Some of my neighbors and fellow Facebookers felt otherwise.

“Disgusting,” was one word that was used. Hmm, I thought. Disgusting? That’s a harsh word, usually reserved for stuff that arouses revulsion.

Pretty soon, like in most posts of this ilk, it degenerated into screeds about Delray Beach itself.

“My hometown has been ruined,” cried one post.

“We are Fort Lauderdale,” said another. And I thought, “have you been to Fort Lauderdale lately?”

“We are Miami,” said another. And I thought, well Delray has surely changed (what hasn’t) but Miami? That’s kind of a stretch.

“No longer quaint,” someone else weighed in. Well, we’ve been hearing that since Atlantic Avenue made the turn from moribund to vibrant a generation ago.

“Ruined the whole town,” said another. Well, that’s quite an indictment.

From there it got worse—with complaints about New Yorkers (good lord is that tiresome) and “idiots” who buy houses with no driveways or side yards.

Now to be fair, there were quite a few posts singing Sundy Village’s praises, design, vision and execution. There were also quite a few defending Delray Beach itself.  Hallelujah!

Still, all in all, I think there’s something missing around these parts—and I think it’s civic pride.

I don’t have any data to back up my instincts, just a feeling that we love to gripe about Delray and Florida as a whole.

I’ve been guilty of this myself. But as I thought about it, I came up with a caveat. When I complain, it’s mostly with an eye toward improvement and it comes from a deep well of affection that has been tested at times but remains intact if tattered.

A good example is my notion of patriotism. You can criticize something and still love it. So, while I am a proud American, there are times when my country breaks my heart. That only happens when you love something. If you are devoid of feelings—you just don’t care.

I feel the same way about the New York Giants. Love the team, can’t stand how bad they are these days. Still, I’m rooting for the G-Men.

But I think there’s something going on here that ought to be addressed. Don’t ask me how, but we can use a dose of civic pride.

So, what might we look for? What might be a sign that pride is on the upswing?

Here are a few markers.

Voter turnout: Do citizens care enough to vote in local elections?

Civic engagement: Are citizens informed and keeping up to date on news and happenings?

Volunteerism: Are residents volunteering? Do they support local organizations and nonprofits. Do they belong to a civic organization?

Is Delray Beach just an address or is it your home?

Santa Monica, a pretty city in Southern California, surveys their citizens regularly and has created what they call a “Well Being Index.”

The index measures the happiness and quality of life of residents.

Santa Monica analyzes six key metrics—outlook, community, place and planet, learning, health, and economic opportunity—using data from city departments, research institutions like the RAND Corporation, and social media. While 68% of residents report being happy, recent reports have highlighted concerns about financial stress, a lack of time for leisure, and inequalities experienced by certain communities, according to santamonica.gov.

While that nearly 70 percent figure is pretty good, many residents do not feel a strong sense of belonging in their neighborhood.

That finding intrigued me, so I dug a little further. Some residents feel connected due to their history in Santa Monica. while others feel a disconnect due to gentrification and cultural changes.

Regardless, I like the concept of a survey. Santa Monica claims it is the first city in the world to measure and track its citizens’ happiness. They’ve been at it for over a decade.

The idea sprung from a simple question: what is the purpose of government? Is it to keep people safe? To make sure the toilets flush? Yes, but what’s the overarching purpose?

Santa Monica believes the answer is simple: to improve the well-being of its residents.

Food for thought.

Meanwhile, I am going to make it a point to visit Sundy Village. I may even look for that statue or try to find the spirit of John Sundy, our first mayor. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him.

 

Note:
I wrote far too many obituary/tributes in 2025. I delivered far too many eulogies. I was hoping for a respite in 2026. It’s hard to lose people you love.

So far, 2026 is off to a tough start. We lost two good people recently. I want to tell you about them.

Kris Garrison

Kris Garrison was a lovely person who was a prominent planner in Palm Beach County for over 35 years. She worked for the county and the school district and was town manager in Gulfstream for a spell. I really liked and respected her.

When I served on the city commission, we were focused on education issues and Kris was a huge help. She served the district as its Planning & Intergovernmental Relations Director.

She also served as Executive Director of Planning, Zoning & Building for Palm Beach County, overseeing six County Divisions.

She was a force. Smart, easy to work with. She was a visionary with a big heart.

At the time of her passing at the young age of 64, Kris was serving as a North Palm Beach Councilwoman. They were sure lucky to have her. We were lucky to know her. She will be remembered.

Alphonso Mayfield

Last week, I also learned of the passing of Alphonso Mayfield, who served as president of SEIU-FPSU. Alphonso was a formidable union leader with a blindingly bright future.

We would meet periodically at the Coffee District in Pineapple Grove to talk  politics and the plight of communities and workers.

He was intellectual, tough, fair, always prepared and I would come away from these meetings endlessly impressed with his insight. He was a great political mind and while his portfolio was Florida—a huge undertaking—he was also focused on the southern United States.

Talking shop with a guy like Alphonso keeps you sharp. He was a tough-minded, no nonsense kind of guy, but I sensed a softness too. He was dedicated to his family, his membership and communities in need. He understood the struggle of workers. He understood the nuts and bolts of politics, and he was dedicated to making change.

His loss, at age 46, hits hard.

Born in Mississippi to a working-class family, Alphonso understood the plight and troubles of regular workers, and these early experiences shaped his outlook and his passion for economic and social justice. He was appointed as the Interim President of FPSU in 2009 and was elected to serve as the President in 2010. He had been president ever since.

My heart goes out to his wife Alexis and his daughter Eden.

On a brighter note, if you want to see a feel-good movie run don’t walk to see “Song, Sung Blue” starring Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson.

The movie is based on a real-life husband and wife team called “Lightning and Thunder” who fronted a popular Milwaukee-based Neil Diamond tribute band in the 90s.

The performances are amazing. Jackman and Hudson have chemistry that crackles off the screen.

We saw the movie on a big screen at the Movies of Delray —still the best way to see a film despite the annoying lady three rows in front of us who couldn’t stay off her phone. That darn blue light…oy.

I’m a Believer that you should put the phone away for a few hours and not act like you’re a Solitary Man (or Woman) at the theatre.

Until next week….

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry…

I can feel a love of poetry developing.
Another late life love proving that you can grow, evolve, learn and enjoy new things at any age.

Prior to this recent development, I never really appreciated, understood or enjoyed poetry.
But I’ve always loved song lyrics. I think the best lyrics are poetry.
Springsteen is a poet.

So is Dylan.

I thought John Lennon’s lyrics were magical—”In My Life”, “Norwegian Wood” and “Strawberry Fields” transport me and millions of others to a special place of joy.

Over the weekend, we saw a production of “Both Sides Now” at the Delray Beach Playhouse. It was incredible. Truly special. The show celebrates the words and music of Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen.

When put to music, their poetry elicited tears from the audience. Only art, only poetry, can do that.

Still, conventional poetry? It’s never been my thing.
That’s beginning to change.

In the past year or so I discovered Mark Nepo, rediscovered Robert Frost and found myself seeking out poetry during particularly tough or joyful moments.
Some poems land. Some poems don’t but I find if you make an effort the poem will meet you half way.

My friend Andrea is a poet.

She has been kind enough to send me her work which is touching, funny and very relatable.
She’s involved in a group called “Poets on the Fringe” which has open mic nights at a coffeehouse in Boca. Many of the poets also share their work at Delray’s wonderful Arts Garage.

Inspired by my friend, I’ve written a few poems and one even got published last year in a poetry anthology called “Alone Together.” Seeing my poem “Sit Spot” in a book was a thrill. But I haven’t yet found the courage to stand up in public and share. I will someday—maybe. I’m not quite ready.

Recently, my friend sent me a video of her reciting her poetry at an open mic night. I was struck by the joy on her face. It made my day. I’d like to experience that feeling. So someday. Maybe.

The same friend helped me discover the work of Andrea Gibson, an amazing poet who died tragically at age 49 in 2025.

I loved reading Gibson’s poetry and I highly encourage you to seek it out. Her story is a sad one, but she did leave an amazing body of work.
I found a newsletter Gibson wrote shortly before dying. It was basically a list of things she loved.
Gibson introduced the list with a great piece of advice: “the world is heavy right now, friends. Spend some time every day reminding yourself why the world is worth saving.”
Indeed it is.

Be thankful for the people who introduce you to the poetry of life. Those brave and generous enough to share it too.

Looking Ahead: Notes On A New Year

Wishing you a happy, healthy and safe new year.

Looking Ahead: Notes on a New Year

I’ve been thinking about clocks lately. How arbitrary they are. Midnight on December 31st doesn’t really change anything—the same problems we went to bed with, we wake up with on January 1st.
And yet. There’s something we need about the ritual  of turning the page, isn’t there? The permission to believe that what comes next might be different from what came before.

2025 tested that belief. For a lot of us.

The economy found its footing in ways the forecasters predicted and ways they didn’t. Inflation cooled, but not enough for the family at the grocery store doing math in their head before they reach the register. The AI revolution kept accelerating—creating efficiencies, yes, but also a quiet anxiety about what we’re becoming when machines do more of our thinking. We gained tools. I’m not sure we gained wisdom about how to use them.

In public health, we saw breakthroughs that deserve celebration—new HIV prevention options that could transform lives, childhood cancer deaths continuing to fall—and we saw trust in institutions erode in ways that make the next crisis harder to fight. The homicide rate dropped significantly in cities that had seen so much pain. That’s worth noticing. Worth saying out loud. Because good news has a way of getting lost.

What I’m looking forward to in 2026 is mostly small. Local. The places where connection actually lives.

I’m looking forward to communities continuing to figure out how to take care of each other when the systems above them can’t or won’t. Mutual aid networks. Neighbors knowing neighbors. The nonprofit sector—despite the funding whiplash and the burnout epidemic among its workers—keeps showing up. That’s not nothing. That’s everything, actually.

I’m looking forward to the arts doing what they do in uncertain times: telling the truth, holding a mirror up, reminding us we’re not alone in our confusion. Theater, especially. There’s something about sitting in a dark room with strangers, watching people work out their humanity in real time, that still matters. Maybe more now than ever.

And I’m looking forward to watching the next generation of local leaders step into roles that will test them. City councils. School boards. Community nonprofits . That’s where democracy actually lives—not in the fever dreams of cable news, but in zoning meetings and budget hearings and the hard work of showing up.

What am I wary of?

The impulse to retreat. When the world feels overwhelming, there’s a pull toward the private—my family, my bubble, my curated feed. Understandable.  But also dangerous. Democracies don’t die from dramatic coups nearly as often as they die from citizens who stop paying attention, stop participating, stop believing their voice matters.

I’m wary of the way technology is fragmenting our sense of shared reality. When we can’t agree on basic facts, we can’t solve problems together. That’s not a partisan observation—it’s a structural one.

And I’m wary of cynicism masquerading as sophistication. The easiest pose in the world is the knowing shrug, the assumption that nothing will ever change. I spent seven years in local government. I know what’s possible when people decide to show up. It’s not perfect. It’s almost never fast. But it’s real, and it matters.

So here’s what I say as we step into 2026: Stay specific. The antidote to despair isn’t optimism—it’s action. And action happens in specifics. One meeting. One relationship. One hard conversation that you’ve been avoiding.

The clock is arbitrary. But we’re not. Happy New Year.
Notes:

Condolences to the family of Dick Hasko who passed December 22.

Mr. Hasko was the long time director of environmental services for the City of Delray Beach.

I had the pleasure of working with him for seven years. I always enjoyed his company and thought Dick did an exemplary job.

Mr.  Hasko  was widely credited with starting the city’s reclaimed water program and also stepped up in a major way during the many hurricanes we faced from 2004-2006. His intimate knowledge of our aging drainage system allowed him to deftly manage the storms making sure our lift systems worked despite the stress of the storms.

He will be missed.

I was remiss in not mentioning the loss of Betty Diggans a few weeks back.

A legendary Delray businesswoman and downtown advocate, Ms. Diggans was widely known and universally loved. She will be remembered and missed by all who knew and loved her.

Front Row Blues

The opposite of “Bob Uecker” seats. If you know, you know.

A few weeks ago, we went to the Fern Street Theatre in West Palm Beach to see the delightful play “Dear Jack, Dear Louise.”

I’m a fan of the playwright Ken Ludwig so when I saw that the theatre department at Palm Beach Atlantic University was producing one of his works I jumped on it and snagged tickets in the front row.
I thought it was great. The actors, singers and dancers in this amazing production were a few feet from us. I felt like we were in my living room.
My partner wasn’t as thrilled. She will go nameless, but I was advised “please, no more front row seats.”
This puzzled me. I mean we just had a wow experience enhanced—I thought— by our proximity to the performers.
So I asked why and was told that being too close made it impossible to zone out, cough, etc.
Fair enough. That’s honest. And next time I will shoot for second row seats but it got me thinking.
Isn’t it the point to pay attention?
For me, one of the pleasures of live performance is it places me in the moment and I stay there.
When I’m at home watching Netflix, I’m often scrolling on my phone, nodding off, playing with the dogs and generally daydreaming.
But at the theatre I’m in it. I’m listening. I’m watching. I’m off the phone and if the play is doing its job I’m in the story.
I find it a great respite. My phone, full of texts, emails and notifications will be there waiting for me when the show is over.
Attention is what I love about theatre.
At a time when distraction is constant and authenticity feels scarce, the theatre remains one of the last places where we must show up fully, listen closely and connect honestly.
Count me in!
Magic happens when we show up.
Knowing this, I recently gave myself a challenge. 
Let me see if I could pay attention at home, in my comfortable chair, with a chihuahua on my lap and a golden retriever staring at me with a toy in her mouth begging for yet another game of tug of war. 
I’m proud to say I did it! 
I started with the amazing Beatles Anthology documentary on Disney Plus. 
I saw it 30 plus years ago and had forgotten how amazing it was. As a lifelong Beatles fan, I was cheating a little bit. I mean it’s not hard for me to immerse myself in the music and the story of my favorite band. The songs remain sublime. The charisma of John, Paul, George and Ringo radiates off the screen and the story itself is remarkable. So much amazing footage to enjoy , so many songs that just make you feel good. Breathtaking…
Now Disney Plus, at least my version, has a lot of ads. And so I was able to indulge the dogs, check my phone and lose four games of tug of war while the ads ran. 
Armed with the confidence that I could pay attention to the content if I really put my mind to it, I upped the ante and rented one of my favorite movies while my anonymous entertainment partner was out at a party last week. 
I ordered the 1979 movie “Starting Over” starring Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Candice Bergen and one of my favorites Charles Durning. 
“Starting Over” is a criminally underrated romantic comedy and I’m pleased to report the movie holds up despite being 46 years old. 
It’s funny, touching and I’ve been a fan of Burt Reynolds for decades. When I was a cub reporter I did a story about the Burt Reynolds ranch and met his dad Burt Sr. A year later, I interviewed Burt himself when he filmed an episode of B.L. Stryker at the Cathcart House (now part of Sundy Village) on Swinton Avenue. What a thrill! I got to meet and interview Burt and his co-star Maureen Stapleton. He was gracious once he was convinced that I wasn’t working for the National Enquirer which was just up the road in Lantana. 
Anyway, I made it through “Starting Over” without any commercial breaks. It helps that I’ve had a crush on Jill Clayburgh since “Silver Streak” and once clipped her picture out of Newsday because I thought she looked like the girl I liked in English class. When I presented the photo to the young woman after class, she looked at me funny. I think she was insulted. Turns out, my Jill look alike grew up to be a prominent prosecutor. Here’s hoping the statute of limitations on poor flirting strategies has passed. 
But I digress; the point is paying attention is possible. It’s hard, but still doable. 
It just takes a front row seat, or Beatles music or great stars acting in a beautifully written story with music by Marvin Hamlisch. 
Now if I can just make it through a Giants game.

Wishing all of you a wonderful Christmas season.
“The earth has grown old with its burden of care, but at Christmas it always is young.”

—Phillips Brooks

An Extraordinary Life

An extraordinary life

On Saturday, I was honored to speak at a celebration of life for Tony Allerton, a civic giant who passed in September.
Tony was uncomfortable with the word legend, but that’s what he was and still is, because his good works will outlive him and all of us.
I was asked by a few folks who couldn’t attend the event at the Drug Abuse Foundation to post my remarks. Here they are.

 

My heart goes out to Tony’s family and the thousands of friends he made during his extraordinary life. It is a great honor to speak about his impact today.

Tony’s loss leaves a void…we are blessed to have known him, but we miss him terribly. We always will.

This has been a year of loss—the Delray Beach community lost several bright lights in 2025, people whose spirit made this place so special. Tony Allerton was one of those people. He was so special and his light burned bright.

Tony was a “get it done kind of guy” and we need these people. They are the people who move the needle….the people who ensure progress, the people who enrich and save lives.

And so when I think of Tony and how we can cope with the grief we feel, I think there’s an arc we can follow….gratitude, remembrance, testimony, legacy and blessing.

And those are the five things I want to leave you with today…

At his essence, Tony Allerton was a man who exuded optimism, love, empathy, and care. In a world that can often feel hard, cynical, even unkind, Tony stood tall and stood out. He was someone you could always count on to find a way forward, a way toward a better future—a path toward grace.

He lived 97 years, that’s a good run. but for people like Tony… it never feels like enough time. He leaves a void in so many lives, but he also leaves a legacy of hope, compassion, understanding, and belief in others that will ripple through this community for generations.

 

If that sounds like an exaggeration, then you didn’t know Tony. All of us here, we knew Tony.  We know Tony didn’t just touch lives—he transformed them.

One of the great privileges of my life was getting to call Tony a friend for nearly 40 years. And when you’re my age, it’s not every day you get to share lunch with someone 36 years your senior—especially when that someone is a local legend.

 

Earlier this year, I had the honor of having lunch with Tony at Granger’s. We were deep in conversation—grilled cheese sandwiches, stories of Delray through the decades, old memories—when a gentleman walked across the restaurant, grabbed our check, and thanked Tony for a lifetime of good deeds.

Isn’t that beautiful?

That happened everywhere Tony went.

Gratitude followed him like a shadow.

 

During that lunch, as we talked about the past—about his arrival in Delray in the 1950s, about the people he’d known and the mayors he’d worked with, I noticed something extraordinary. While we reminisced, Tony didn’t live in the past. He honored it, yes, but his heart beat for the future.

 

At 97 years old, Tony was still raising money for Crossroads, still searching for ways to help more people recover, still dreaming up what was next.

That’s what legends do.

They wake up with purpose.

They live to serve.

Tony understood recovery because it was his struggle too. And because of that, he became a beacon—a model of what’s possible when someone chooses a life of sobriety, service, and dignity.

 

The word recovery carries enormous weight in Delray Beach. Over the years, we’ve seen tremendous compassion—and, sadly, we’ve also seen fear, intolerance, even cruelty. While we’ve been called a welcoming community. We’ve also heard people use the ugliest words to describe those who come here to heal.

But through it all, Tony never wavered.

He never stopped caring.

He never gave in to anger.

He never lost hope.

He responded to darkness with light.

He met judgment with kindness.

He met despair with possibility.

That’s rare.

That’s heroic.

That’s Tony.

Some of the very best people I’ve met in my 38 years in Delray came here to recover. Many stayed. Many built successful lives. Many are community leaders today. And Tony played a role in every one of those stories because he believed, fundamentally and ferociously, in people.

 

His civic résumé alone is breathtaking—Delray Beach Playhouse, Rotary Club, Lake Ida Property Owners Association—but his truest, deepest work was with the Crossroads Club, the nonprofit he led for more than four decades, quietly saving lives every single day.

 

Thousands of people owe their sobriety, their second chance, their dignity to Tony’s steadfast leadership.

I will never forget the day he walked into my office at City Hall after I was elected to the Commission in 2000. He told me Crossroads needed a new home—somewhere out of the path of downtown’s progress, somewhere with parking, somewhere to grow.

 

And then he said the line I’ll never forget:

 

“When we shut the lights downtown, we need to be turning them on in the new building.”

The message was clear:

People are counting on us.

Meetings can’t be missed.

Lives are at stake.

 

He said it once with that warm smile… and then again, leaning forward, with that Tony intensity that made you sit up straighter.

We got the message.

And that’s exactly what happened. Lights down, lights up. He loved telling that story and I loved hearing it.

 

Tony’s wisdom, compassion, courage, and clarity guided so many of us—me included.

 

We are told, as leaders, that people are replaceable. And in many aspects of life, I suppose that’s true. But I’m here to testify:

There will never be another Tony.

You can’t go to the shelf and pluck out another leader with his heart, his humility, his joy, his fight.

But here’s the part that gives me comfort:

People like Tony live on.

His legacy is alive in every person he helped recover.

It’s alive in every life saved, every meeting attended, every family restored.

It’s alive in the thousands of ripples of good he set in motion.

 

There are people doing remarkable things today because Tony once believed in them. There are children growing up with sober parents because Tony gave someone the courage to walk through the doors of Crossroads. There are men and women who found grace, purpose, and redemption because Tony was there to show them the way.

Those ripples endure.

They always will.

I’m grateful to my friend Steve English for making sure I had one last lunch with Tony. It was a gift. A blessing. A moment I will hold close for the rest of my life.

To Tony’s family—your loss is profound, and my heart is with you. But what an extraordinary blessing it is to have loved and been loved by such a man.

And to all of us who were touched by his life:

Tony was a bright light.

And that bright light will continue to burn bright.

It lives in us now.

It is our turn to carry it forward.

Thank you.

 

Old Friends, Bookends

Technology–in this case–has strengthened the bond.

Regular readers know that since Covid, I have been participating on twice monthly calls with a rotating set of old friends.

We meet via Zoom every other Wednesday evening to spend an hour or two with people we have known for 50 plus years.

What started as a way to cope with the pandemic, has turned into an important ritual for a set of guys who grew up on Eastern Long Island in the 70s and 80s. We are now in our 60s.

A recent call had a smaller than usual contingent of participants. It’s the holidays—people travel for business and have busy social calendars. But in 5 years of wonderful, fun, lively and enjoyable conversations, this call may have been at or near the top. At least it was for me.

I won’t betray the confidence of my buddies and disclose the contents of the conversation, but it was deep and special in a way that you can only find with people you know and trust for a long time.

It ended with a discussion about friendship itself, the loneliness epidemic in America and how our kids’ experiences have been so different from ours.

We concluded that we grew up in a golden age. We weren’t captured by screens, algorithms, smart phones, social media and endless distractions designed to keep us swiping, clicking, viewing and scrolling.

We played video games—Pacman, Super Mario Bros—but we were together in arcades with other kids fishing for quarters in our Levis before heading outside to shoot hoops or play stickball.

It sounds trite, but if you could hit a Spalding (and if you have to ask what a Spalding is, I can’t help you) over the Linger’s house across the street you felt like Babe Ruth. It didn’t hurt that when you went to retrieve the ball –if you were lucky—you might run into one of the Linger sisters—always a treat.

Ahhh memories.

Anyway, we know that what we have is rare and precious. Americans—especially men, especially young men are lonely. There is a brand new #1 best selling book on the subject by Scott Galloway, a popular podcaster and NYU marketing professor.

The book, “Notes on Being A Man” is a treatise on everything ailing young men: suicide, depression, lack of purpose, disengagement.

The stats are stark and dark:

Young men are 4x as likely to die by suicide, 3x more likely to suffer an addiction or homelessness, 12x more likely to be incarcerated and men are dropping out of college at higher rates creating a 33:66 male/female grad ratio. On the social front, the news is also grim.

Here’s a stunner: 45 percent of 18-25 year -olds have never approached a woman in person. Wow.

People need purpose, relationships and mentors, Galloway posits. And today, they are lacking all three.

My generation had all three.

We believed dreams were possible, we had friendships and many of us had career and life mentors who changed our lives.

My friends on the call agreed that we grew up during a magical time in a magical place. Of course, it wasn’t all laughs. There were heartbreaks, there were family issues, there were friendships that didn’t last and career hurdles we didn’t see coming. Two of our friends jumped into pools senior year and broke their necks. One survived, one didn’t.

When I talk to these guys, I see two faces on the Zoom call. I see my friends at their present age, with thinning hair (or no hair) and I still see the kids I hung out with. They were good athletes, funny, smart and very Long Island. I mean we went at each other in a particular way that is hard to explain unless you were there. We looked for any and all openings and we pounced. I think it toughened us up. But we knew it was all good fun. We knew, then and now, that we were the guys who had each other’s backs no matter what.

I never felt alone. Ever.

Still, after this call I became curious as to why we’ve been able to maintain these relationships through the decades, through the miles and the fact that we don’t see each other for years at a time. I mean we haven’t been a part of each other’s daily routines since 1982.

I asked the guys on the call for their thoughts. Why us? How did this last?

I’m not sure we know.

The guys grew up to be amazing men. Great dads, husbands, in short it’s a band of mensches. I’m proud of these guys—everyone one of them. Well, most of them. Sorry I couldn’t resist.

Sure, we have a lot in common, we do share a common history. We know each other’s families, we know about old girlfriends, favorite teachers and we had a lot of memorable adventures. All that helps, but I’m not sure it fully explains the magic of enduring friendship.

Some guys rotate in and out—but they are always welcomed back. And they know that they can call any of us in the wee hours and we would move mountains to be there with whatever was needed.

I’m doubly blessed, because I have my old buddies and I’ve made incredible friends who I can see on a regular basis.

The night after our call, I went to Hyde Park in Atlantic Crossing, with two of those guys Randy and Scott. We sat in this lovely restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed the company and the conversation. Of course, I told them about “the call” and asked them what they thought the secret sauce was to old friendships that last.

They had an answer, and it made some sense.

We went through ‘The Wonder Years’ together, the “new” friends opined. That means a lot.

The Wonder Years, once a great TV show, has become a term that describes the sheer magic of growing up. A time of discovery, adventure, fun, goofiness, innocence, curiosity and coming of age joy.

I shared my wonder years with these great guys who are now scattered throughout America. We developed a bond—dreaming of the future while having a great time growing up and goofing off.

From the 70s to the 2020s, they’ve been a constant. We are in it, happily, for the duration. And I’m thankful. I also realize that these too are wonder years and I treasure every moment.

 

 

 

Celebrating Placemakers

Carol Coletta

Here’s to the placemakers…the visionaries who build our communities.

Placemaking– the art of planning and designing public spaces that strengthens the connection between people and the places they share—breathes life into our cities.

The best placemaking is community-driven and focuses on the social, cultural, and emotional life of a space—not just its physical features. At its best, placemaking helps communities create public spaces that are welcoming, active, inclusive, and reflective of local identity.

It turns people into co-creators, honors everyday life as rich with possibility, and transforms parks, streets, plazas, and neighborhoods into vibrant places where community can flourish.

It’s an art form.

I’ve been thinking about the special people attracted to this pursuit of late.

First, we lost Kathy Madden, a legendary placemaker, with long time ties to Delray Beach and then my friend Carol Coletta received the 2025 Urban Land Institute’s Prize for Visionaries in Urban Development, the most respected and prestigious honor in the land use and development community.

If the name Coletta rings a bell its because two decades ago, we hired Carol to help us draft the Delray Beach Cultural Plan, a wonderful vision that in a roundabout way led to the creation of the Arts Garage, which has become a local jewel and an important cultural institution in South Florida.

I discovered Carol through her excellent radio show “Smart City” which used to air on public radio. I used to wake up early on weekends to catch the program. Later, I was thrilled to be on the show to talk about what we were building in Delray Beach.

I recruited Carol to help us devise a strategy for the arts and culture in Delray Beach. She worked with the community and produced a plan that 20 plus years later is still relevant and actionable. Yes, she’s a visionary.

Since those days Carol has left her mark on cities. As president and CEO of the Memphis River Parks Partnership from 2017 to 2024, she led an effort to raise more than $100 million for riverfront improvements, including $61 million for the award-winning Tom Lee Park, a national model for inclusive public space.

These days Carol is a Bloomberg Public Innovation Fellow at the Bloomberg Center for Public Innovation at Johns Hopkins. Prior to her current position, she held leadership roles at the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation and The Kresge Foundation.

She’s the real deal. But besides her resume, she’s a terrific person whose passion for cities and placemaking is contagious.

I’ve kept up with Carol through the years following her work and occasionally reaching out to say hello. Here’s some things she’s taught me and others.

Four lessons for transformational placemaking:

  1. You Have to Really Want Change—and Be Ready to Persist

 

Transformative placemaking is not for the faint of heart. Carol reminds us that change always meets resistance, and nostalgia—“the most powerful hallucinogenic”—can stop a community in its tracks. Visionary leaders must be prepared to push through doubt, fear, and opposition. You can’t create great places unless you’re willing to fight for them.

I’m intrigued by her reference to the nostalgic “hallucinogenic.” I get caught up in nostalgia—often. And when I was an elected official I ran into that mindset whenever we proposed change. In hindsight, just about every major project or initiative was met with resistance—often tied to nostalgia. Such an interesting insight.

 

  1. Think Bigger and Smaller at the Same Time

Great public spaces require a big vision—not just a single park or plaza, but the context, connections, and complementary uses that allow a place to thrive. But we can’t forget the small stuff either: plants on a porch, a flag on a stoop, a neighbor’s handmade sign.

Carol calls this the balance between engagement and agency. Engagement is when people show up to a meeting. Agency is when they shape their block with their own hands. Transformative places embrace both scales.

 

  1. Lead With Narrative—the Soft Infrastructure of Place

 

Storytelling is not decoration; it’s foundation. Carol’s work at Tom Lee Park shows how a powerful local story can animate an entire public realm, giving a place emotional meaning and civic identity. Narrative turns a park into a memory, a plaza into a shared inheritance.

Great placemakers don’t just design spaces—they surface stories that bind a community together.

Frances Bourque, the founder of Old School Square, was the best example of a local storyteller that I’ve encountered. She used narrative (and it was natural for her to do so) and built an army of civic changemakers who bought into the vision.

 

  1. Design for Belonging—On Purpose

 

Connection doesn’t happen by accident. Carol argues that public spaces must start with the explicit intention to mix people across lines of class, race, and background. At a time of increasing income segregation, parks and plazas may be among the few democratic spaces left where diverse people can encounter one another.

Placemaking at its best creates welcoming, inclusive, human environments where everyone feels they belong.

As for Kathy Madden…well she leaves behind a remarkable legacy. We lost her in October. It’s a big loss for those of us who value placemaking. While I’m in fairly regular touch with Kathy’s husband, Fred Kent, legendary founder of the Project for Public Spaces (PPS), I only met Kathy on a few occasions. But she was Fred’s partner in life and placemaking, serving as co-founder of PPS and later co-founder of the Placemaking Fund, Placemaking X and the Social Life Project–global networks aimed at expanding the reach of placemaking even further. Despite health challenges, she remained active and engaged, still showing up (virtually or in person) to conferences and summits, including recent gatherings in Mexico City and Toronto.

Kathy is perhaps best known for her work in placemaking education. She co-authored and wrote several books and articles, including the PPS best-selling publication “How to Turn a Place Around”, translated into more than ten languages. She also launched PPS’s popular training course of the same name. In fact, the very term “placemaking” first appeared in Kathy’s educational materials, describing PPS’s collaborative approach to the design and management of public spaces.

I’ve read many of her works and she taught me a lot about what it takes to make a place.

She wanted people to understand that great places aren’t designed by experts working in isolation; they’re shaped by the people who use them, love them, and depend on them every day.

Delray was Kathy’s second home for 68 years. She had deep family ties to our town. Fred remains deeply involved and the two created a series of interesting in-depth articles about Delray that can be found on their Social Life Project website.

Delray was not just one more project location — it was part of her personal geography, a place she kept returning to and cared about deeply.

I recommend reading “How Delray Beach’s Atlantic Avenue Can Become the Best Main Street in Florida.” Here’s the link: https://www.sociallifeproject.org/delray-beach-atlantic-avenue/

We Remember, We Mourn

This has been quite a year.
I’ve literally lost count of the friends I’ve lost. Today, I want to call your attention to two more special people who passed in recent days: Keith O’Donnell and Tom Johnston.
I don’t relish writing these tributes but I think it’s important to celebrate the lives of extraordinary people who made a difference in our community.
Keith was a local legend in real estate and civic affairs. He was a thinker, a believer. He liked big ideas. He saw the big picture and remained focused on what I call “the big rocks.”
He played a major role in bringing corporations to Boca Raton and Palm Beach County. He was involved in just about all the big initiatives that you can think of in Southern Palm Beach County and beyond.
Lynn University, the Arvida Park of Commerce, the Congress Avenue corridor in Delray, downtown Boca, Mizner Park and the list goes on.
I can’t remember exactly when I met Keith. I know we served on the Business Development Board of Palm Beach County together. I know he was active when I was elected official and he was at the center of some of my company’s work in recent years including the purchase of the old Office Depot headquarters and the Bank of America assemblage on US 1.
I considered Keith to be a friend and a teacher of sorts. He always left me with something to think about. He was a big believer in Boca, Delray, Boynton and all of Palm Beach County.
He saw places and immediately knew how they could be better.
I will miss Keith. He left his mark on our community. He was a long term player. And we need those.
Last week, we also lost Tom Johnston, a retired teacher, all-around good guy and the man known as “Mr. Garlic” thanks to his long term affiliation with the Garlic Festival.
Tom was a former neighbor of mine. He was a favorite teacher for many children who attended Banyan Creek Elementary School in Delray and he and his late wife Beth were active in many local activities.
Tom had a wonderful laugh. He also had a great sense of humor and was always quick with a kind word, a timely text and a good joke.
They don’t make em like Tom or Keith anymore.
I sure wish they did.

Thankful…

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

I know I’m not alone in that regard. Many people love Thanksgiving.

It’s not the turkey (which I can take or leave) or the stuffing (which is always delicious) it’s the sentiment; being thankful is the key to happiness.

Truth be told, this has been a tough year.

If you know, you know. No need to list the many horrors playing out across our world.

We owe the holiday to President Lincoln, who in 1863, declared a day of thanks at a difficult time in American history. I find President Lincoln to be remarkable. He can still teach us lessons if we choose to listen. But while Lincoln was a singular figure in American history, the story of Thanksgiving cannot be faithfully told without talking about Sarah Josepha Hale, who spent decades campaigning to make Thanksgiving a national holiday; proof that every accomplishment often has multiple authors. That Lincoln proclaimed a day of thanks in the midst of a Civil War is a lesson that the best leaders seek to unite us, not divide us.

Here at home, we’ve lost many amazing civic leaders in 2025. Their accomplishments were awe inspiring, but I knew them as friends as well. And I miss them. I really miss them.

Still, while the losses we suffer are painful, I find myself thankful for having had these people in my life.

I spoke with a friend who recently lost a parent, and we talked about the void that loss creates in your life. Life most certainly moves on, but for those of us who lose loved ones, which is all of us at some point, the world is never quite the same.

We heal, but never fully.

For me, each loss reminds me to appreciate those we love who are still here.

I’m thankful that my father is still front and center in my family’s life.

He’s been given the gift of longevity and good health. We are thankful for that and for his life partner who looks out for him and has provided my dad with happiness and companionship.

I’m thankful for the community servants I get to work with as we build a philanthropy that will be here in perpetuity. What a unique and wonderful opportunity. We are reminded that a lot of good can come from hard work, freedom and generosity.

I’m thankful for the meaningful conversations I get to have with great minds.

Recently, I had lunch with Kevin Ross, president of Lynn University. I’ve admired Kevin for years. He’s an extraordinary leader. And he’s been tested in ways that nobody could have foreseen.

But with each crisis, I’ve seen him and his outstanding team rise to the occasion and find innovative ways to not only survive but thrive.

Lynn University is a special place. I’m thankful to be a trustee and see the university become a national pacesetter in higher education.

This year, I’ve met several times with the dedicated team at Stet News who are finding a way to cover local news in an environment where the business model for journalism has been completely upended. That’s a euphemism for destroyed.

I’m thankful for the good people at Stet. There’s so much happening in Palm Beach County. We need reliable coverage to understand all the moving parts. A free press is essential to Democracy (big D) and to a community. We need to find a way to support news gathering.

Speaking of great journalists, my friend Michael Williams, retired WPTV News Anchor and veteran political reporter Brian Crowley have created a terrific podcast “Top of Mind Florida “which gives me a half hour plus of learning every week. I’m grateful for their intelligence and perspective. I urge you to check it out.

Speaking of local podcasts do not miss “Culture Under Fire” featuring the President of the Arts Garage Marjorie Waldo and “Create for No Reason” starring the multi-talented Kate Volman. It is important for voices in the community to defend and celebrate the arts and the artists in our world. Art is what clarifies and helps us see. Art unites and builds community. We need culture now more than ever.

This year, I had the privilege of sharing notes with great philanthropists near and far. I get to pick their brains and listen to their “theories of change” which inform my work and understanding of the world.

For me, there’s nothing more exciting than to meet with people like Patrick McNamara and Carrie Browne of Palm Health Foundation, Raphael Clemente of Palm Beach Venture Philanthropy and funders networks in Broward and Palm Beach counties. These people are hard at work thinking about the future of our community. Thankfully, we are in good hands.

This year, as many of you know, I indulged a new passion: playwriting.

I’ve turned my inability to sleep well into a productive creative process. So, at 3 am, instead of staring at the ceiling I write stories.

I don’t recommend my hours, but I do recommend finding a creative outlet. I’m grateful for the creative community I’ve found and the local institutions who gave me a shot. Here’s looking at you Arts Garage and Delray Playhouse.

Please support live performance, it’s one of the last activities we do together; in community, with each other, without a screen.

It’s worth saving.

So much of our daily experience is worth savoring.

Florida is a vexing place in many ways. But when I step outside and feel a cool November breeze, I’m reminded that we are fortunate to live here. Yes, the tropics are menacing, the insurance costs high and the humidity can be stifling but…the winters are sublime. Be thankful.

Have a wonderful, safe and happy Thanksgiving. Thanks for reading.