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.

Lessons Learned…So Far

So far…

Over the past few weeks, we’ve had a chance to sit down with several of the wonderful organizations we support at the Carl Angus DeSantis Foundation.

It’s been a lot of running around, a lot of deep conversations, a lot of learning and a lot of anxiety as well. These are not easy times.

But meeting with the exceptional leaders running local nonprofits and foundations gives me hope. It’s the best part of a great job.

After a career spent in business, a season in politics and journalism—all wondrous in their own ways—I have to say that this work is the most fulfilling. Every day your heart breaks when you see the need and every day your heart gets filled when you see how local heroes are making a real and lasting difference.

We are preparing for our annual meeting in January and that requires us to reflect on the lessons we’ve learned since 2021 when our founder, Carl DeSantis, asked me and a colleague to help him create a charitable foundation that would help people in Palm Beach and Broward counties.

We started from scratch.

While I’ve been on numerous nonprofit boards over the years and have been involved in our community since 1987, learning about philanthropy and the nuts and bolts of foundations was a mountain to climb. Philanthropy is both an art and a science. It asks us to look at data and outcomes but also requires us to examine things you can’t measure—heart, passion, and a feel for people and what it takes to build and sustain community.

We do this work together—with teammates, partners, advisors and a legion of people who are in our ear vying for finite resources.
When I tell people what I’m doing these days, I often hear “wow, it must be fun to give away money.”

It is.

But it’s hard work too. And we don’t just give money away. We do our homework. We dig deeply into organizations and treat our grants as investments. We want a return—not a monetary one– but results. If you say you are going to help people, we want to see and verify that you are.

Unfortunately, there are times when you must say no. Saying no is never easy because just about every cause is a good one. But we’ve learned to stay focused on our four pillars: health and nutrition, leadership and entrepreneurship, civic innovation and faith-based giving. We’ve been entrusted to honor our founder’s intent. Carl’s wishes guide everything we do.

This is a unique time for our Foundation because right now several key staff and board members knew (and loved) our founder.

Because our Foundation is designed to be “perpetual” that won’t always be the case. There will come a time when the folks running this foundation will have had no personal connection to our founder.

That’s sobering.

It also makes us focus on creating a ‘foundation for the Foundation’ that will imbed Carl’s spirit into this work that will last beyond our tenure as stewards of his generosity.

So, when we meet with the EJS Project, Bound for College, The George Snow Scholarship Fund, the Alzheimer’s Drug Discovery Foundation, FLIPANY, 1909, 4Kids of South Florida and Boca Helping Hands among others, I try and imagine my friend Carl in the room sitting alongside me. We lost Mr. D in 2023 and there’s not a day that I don’t think about him. My job, and frankly my heart requires that I do so.

For years, I had the blessing of wandering into his office, pulling up a chair and talking with Mr. DeSantis about life, business and a whole range of topics because he had an active and restless mind. We laughed. A lot. For some strange reason, we had a bond that I can’t put into words. I wasn’t alone. Carl had that connection with so many, but I count myself exceptionally blessed to represent his generosity until someday someone else will step in and carry it forward.

When we started this work almost 5 years ago, my colleague Maritza and I searched high and low for advice, knowledge and inspiration. We spoke to foundation leaders, nonprofit executives, attorneys and bankers from sea to shining sea. Everyone was so generous with their time and their experience. They gave us their playbooks, the lessons they learned, and their best practices. From that source material, we created a stew that is uniquely ours always measured against what we thought Carl would want or believe in.

Thanks to Karen Granger of 4 Kids, we met with Stephan Tchividjian, co-founder and CEO of the National Christian Foundation of South Florida, to give us advice on our faith-based pillar. Stephan is the grandson of Billy Graham. Like his grandfather he’s charismatic, smart and a deep thinker.

I’m a Jewish kid from New York. We come from different worlds. But in many ways, I found a kindred spirit. Since that meeting, Stephan checks in with us regularly always asking what’s giving us joy and what’s draining us. It’s nice of him. How often do we slow down enough to check in with others? And bother to listen.

Anyway, Stephan told us at one of our get-togethers that Carl’s work would continue, and that in many ways his most important work was ahead of him. I think of that beautiful idea all the time. That belief resonates and, in many ways, defines my understanding of legacy.

As I prepare for the annual meeting of our Foundation, I’ll be reflecting on how philanthropy should be trying to address the root causes of societal challenges. But I’ll also be thinking about community, legacy, grace, and empathy.

We read an awful lot about Artificial Intelligence. I am fascinated by its potential and its pitfalls too. Still, I can’t help but believe that community, legacy, love, grace, art and  philanthropy remain a distinctly human endeavor.

(Note) In the coming weeks, I hope to share more about root causes, legacy and community. I hope you’ll join me.  Please share your thoughts on lessons you’ve learned along the way. Thanks for listening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Chiefs Among Us…

Riviera Beach Chief Coleman.

Note: Here’s a special early edition of the blog. I have jury duty next week…so here it is in case I get sequestered. 

If you can use a dose of civic pride stick with me.

Last week, late at night, I got a text message from the Riviera Beach Police Chief.

Now, normally a late night text message from a police chief is usually not good news.

But in this case, Chief Michael Coleman is a long time friend. And the text included a press release that made me smile.

Three Palm Beach County law enforcement agencies (Delray Beach, Highland Beach, and Riviera Beach police departments) were among 30 agencies from across the state who earned re-accreditation last week from the Commission for Florida Law Enforcement Accreditation.

That’s a big deal.

Accreditation is hard to achieve.

This recognition reflects a rigorous review of policies and procedures, affirming each agency’s commitment to excellence in law enforcement standards, accountability and community service.

They don’t just hand this recognition out. You have to earn it.

What makes this achievement especially noteworthy is a common denominator – all three departments are currently led by chiefs who began their careers with the Delray Beach Police Department. This shared legacy underscores the department’s longstanding culture of leadership development and professional excellence.

 

“This speaks volumes about the caliber of training that Delray Beach police officers receive,” Chief Coleman said. Coleman also serves as chairperson of the Palm Beach County Law Enforcement Planning Council (LEPC).

Highland Beach Chief Hartmann.

 

Reflecting on this milestone, “Accreditation is more than a certificate, it’s a commitment to our community. I’m proud of our team’s dedication and grateful for the foundation I received at Delray Beach P.D.,” Highland Beach Chief Craig Hartmann said.

 

“We are honored to be recognized alongside our neighboring agencies,” Delray Beach Chief Darrel Hunter said. “It’s a testament to the professionalism and heart our officers bring to the job every day. Seeing former Delray Beach officers now leading other departments is a point of pride for all of us.”

Indeed, it is.

Here’s a little historical perspective to put this into perspective.

When I came to Delray Beach in 1987, the Police Department had a very different profile in town.

There were scores of great officers and wonderful detectives, but the chief at the time was how shall we put it…controversial.

As a result, police/community relations had its challenges. As a young reporter, it was an interesting time to cover the Delray beat. There was a lot of crime and there was a lot of tension too.

Things began to turn around when Rick Lincoln briefly took the reigns. Rick was a great guy who came up through the ranks. He was respected and believed in what was then a new concept: community-oriented policing. Things really began to turn around when Chief Rick Overman came from Orlando and stepped on the community-oriented policing gas pedal.

In a few years, there were over 1,000 citizens on patrol, volunteers who provided a set of eyes and ears for officers. Chief Overman invited citizens into the department offering a Citizens Police Academy, which brought down barriers and lifted a veil of mystery. With officers assigned to neighborhoods they were encouraged to develop relationships and they did. It was a golden age and ushered in a sea change in police/community relations.

Delray Chief Hunter.

Chief Overman always preached that he couldn’t fight crime alone. He needed citizens to be engaged and take ownership of their neighborhoods. Crime fighting was a partnership.

Crime rates fell and the ground was seeded for a Delray revival.

I’ve long felt that public safety is the table stakes for a community. With it, you can attract investment, families and visitors. Without it, you’re toast.

As a result, the Delray Beach Police Department is the unsung hero of Delray’s success. Along with Fire Rescue, Delray offers citizens and businesses outstanding public safety services.

Along the way, Delray became known as a breeding ground for chiefs. I’ve lost count of how many former Delray officers became chiefs in other cities, a testament to the department’s training and leadership. It’s also a credit to the taxpayers who have wisely invested in these life saving and life protecting services.

We’ve sent chiefs to Stuart, Waco, Texas, Juno Beach, Peachtree City, Georgia, Manalapan, Douglas, Arizona, Lighthouse Point, Longboat Key, Lantana, Tequesta, Lauderhill and yes Riviera Beach and Highland Beach. I know there are more. Chief Lincoln ended up as the number two at the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office, a huge organization.

It’s a proud history. Other cities look to the Delray PD for leadership and innovation.

I wanted to share, because it’s important.

 

 

 

 

Time Marches On–Relentlessly

 

You blink and decades fly past.

I was always the youngest guy in the room.

When I walked into board meetings at Delray Medical Center or the Chamber of Commerce  I was often the youngest person—sometimes by a decade or more.
When I served on the city commission, I was the youngest elected official on the dais.

My first year, I served with a gentleman named Bill Schwartz. He was born in 1924 and passed last year one week after his 100th birthday. I was born in 1964. Bill was middle aged by that time.

We were friends and got along great, but I remember a goal setting session with the commission in 2000 when the facilitator made it a point to note that Bill and I came from different worlds.

World War II broke out when Bill was a freshman in high school. When I was a freshman the biggest thing I remember was the opening of Rocky II.

We stood in line at the Loews Triplex in Stony Brook. Three screens were a big deal back then.  A triplex felt like a modern marvel.

Still, despite the age gap, Bill and I became friends. We came from different ends of the political spectrum, but when it came to Delray we were united in our views and affection for our town. Those were different days. Local government was devoid of party politics as it should be.

I miss having Bill around. He told some great stories of his service in World War II and I remember going to lunch with him one day at a chain restaurant in Boynton Beach. I noticed that he kept looking at the photographs decorating the walls of the restaurant. He was staring at the stock photographs that are the same whether you are in a Red Robin in Miami or in Pittsburgh.
There was an old photo of a World War II soldier that captivated him. Turns out, it was him. Someone had taken his photo back in his military days and it magically appeared as a stock photo throughout the chain.

Imagine the coincidence. Bill served in the European theatre during the war and was part of the Normandy Invasion.
It was fascinating to learn about history from a participant.

I used to hang on every word my grandfather told me when we visited him.

Stories of fleeing Russia, coming to America through Ellis Island, working as a tailor on the Lower East Side and how he met my grandmother when she was a little girl on a farm in Russia before finding her again as a recent immigrant in the 1920s. They married. Had a family and enjoyed the American dream.
I loved my grandparents. They were my heroes. But when I was a kid they seemed impossibly old.

My grandfather had thinning hair, owned a stylish fedora and often wore a tie around the house even through he was retired and it was Sunday when we would visit.
But he wasn’t stuffy. He was warm, sensitive, loving and had a great sense of humor. He routinely made my grandmother laugh out loud. I couldn’t understand what they were saying–because while they spoke excellent English– they told jokes in Yiddish, a wonderful, descriptive language.

I loved it when they laughed. Visiting them in their apartment in Queens and later Brooklyn was a highlight of my childhood.
They had Al Jolson albums, plastic covers on the couch and endless Hershey kisses in glass bowls around the apartment.
Still, they seemed to come from another time and place. A time and place I loved, but very different from the world I was living in.

I raise this observation because lately I’ve been feeling all 61 of my years.
Mind you, I feel good. But the world is starting to see me differently.
For the first time when I went to the Norton Museum I was charged a senior admission.  I didn’t ask for one. The 20-something attendant just looked at me and assumed senior citizen.

And recently when my wife and I had lunch at BJ’s Pub in West Palm Beach a bus boy came over and told me I looked  like his grandfather.

He thought I took offense and made sure to tell me that he was 18 and that his grandfather was a cool guy who lived in the Keys and once served in the Coast Guard.
I assured him that I was flattered.

Truth is, I wasn’t, but that’s on me. After all, I can easily be a grandpa.
In real life, I’m not a grandfather yet. I thought I’d be by now. But not yet.
I still have hope though.
Still, mentally it’s an adjustment to go from the young guy in the room to the graybeard. It feels like just a moment ago that I made those “40 under 40 people to watch” lists.
These days I’m just as likely to hear “hey, you still working?” as I am to hear “what’s the latest thing you’ve got cooking.”
Again, I feel young— most of the time. I’m grateful for that. But I’ve noticed something that most people my age would agree with; time seems to go faster as the years go by.

This year is a prime example. It’s almost Thanksgiving…already.

Still, I am determined to get the most out of this phase of life. I listen to a podcast called Middle Age Chrysalis. It’s produced by the Modern Elder Academy founded by a guy named Chip Conley. Chip was a famous hotelier who was hired by the Airbnb guys when they were scaling their company. They were wise enough to understand that it often pays to have someone with gray hair around to help steer you through the inevitable rocks that life throws at us. Chrysalis is an interesting word. It signifies transformation and is often used to describe when caterpillars become a butterfly. We break through the protective casing of youth and transform into adults. We carry scars, experience, wisdom and knowledge. In short we become…and we grow from there if we are lucky.

So while I don’t relish the tough parts of aging, I have to admit there are rewards (and senior discounts apparently). We have to stay engaged. We have to savor the seasons of life. We have to live.
And so I have a new goal: maybe I can be the Grandma Moses of playwrights. Or maybe a grandfather someday.