I grew up just outside of New York City in a small, relatively affluent town in Westchester County. It was the town where my father was raised by foster parents. There were nice people, but I never felt “home.”

We were renters in a town of owners. That was the first thing. Families ranged from working-class to the filthy rich. There were good people and bad people throughout the spectrum of class and wealth.

I was always on the outside looking in, as they say.

I was “weird,” “too sensitive,” and an easy target for the alpha bullies who were venerated from birth as local Gods. I grew up in a town that valued athleticism and status above all else. If you could play football and endure a troglodytic abusive coach, you were celebrated.

I tried to play sports. When I realized the cruelty of the coaches, I stopped trying.

If you were able to conform academically, you were rewarded.

I wasn’t celebrated.

I was made fun of. Bullied. Eventually ignored.

Dad was the head custodian of my middle school. Mom, a registered nurse who worked 4-12 most of my childhood. Some of my classmates were of similar backgrounds. Some lived in multi-million-dollar mansions. Some were humble and kind. Some were born on third and thought they’d hit a triple (to borrow a phrase once used to describe GW Bush).

My home town was not a happy place for me.

It was a lot of suffering and alienation punctuated by moments of brightness from the few independent souls who could see beyond the provincial fog.

But Buffalo….

Mom saved all her vacation time to visit her family in Buffalo.

Mom was the oldest of eight. It was a loving family, scores of cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, pets… Contrasted with my father’s foster family upbringing, it just hit different, as the kids say.

While my peers were gearing up for vacations to Disney World, Mexico, California, Europe, we were packing for an 8-hour drive or Amtrak journey across the frustratingly large state of New York. I say frustratingly large because I wished I could fold the state so that my home and Buffalo were adjacent and not miles away.

And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Sure, I would have liked to have seen Disney World or London or San Francisco…. but if it meant less time with my people in Buffalo, it wouldn’t have been worth it.

So we would spend 3-4 weeks of the summer, and also the week between Xmas and New Years, in a village nestled just south of Buffalo called Blasdell, NY (tagline: One Square Mile of Heaven). Part of the larger town of Hamburg, NY, Blasdell was an extension of Lackawanna, NY, which was in turn an extension of the city of Buffalo (New York’s 2nd-largest city).

Papa worked for Bethlehem Steel until it closed in 1983. I remember being practically a toddler in the Hills Department Store parking lot looking at the smoke rising from the coke ovens and my Mom saying, “Look Tommy, that’s where Papa is…”

My Grandparents were pure love. I could write chapters on their beauty and I already have. They had that uncanny knack for making every grandchild, all 20+ of us, feel equally adored, yet uniquely honored.

I can, have, and will write more about the paradisical wonderland Buffalo, NY was to me growing up. But for now, I want to focus on the juxtaposition.

Coming home from Buffalo after a vacation was devastating in ways that crushed my nervous system into dust. Imagine being a hyper-sensitive kid who finally gets to a place where he is unconditionally loved, valued, celebrated even, being plunged back into a grimy suburban hellscape just north of Bronx, NY. The pace, the overcrowding, the haughty cosmopolitan self-importance of The Big Apple were daggers in my heart. And every time our journey turned Southeast toward NYC my nervous system plunged into misery. I would be inconsolable for days, weeks even.

To this day, the air where I live is oppressive and laced with trauma.

But at my better moments, there have been ways of parting the smog….

I’ve found ways to bring the love of Buffalo into my life down here.

Shaking off years of feeling victimized by my hometown, I’m trying to be the change I wish to see down here…. trying to bring Buffalove to a hostile environment.

I say all of this to contextualize the beauty that materialized in my darkest moment today.

My mom passed away last week. My mom, who carried all of that Buffalove in her massive heart, left this realm. My purest link to that childhood paradise is now a vibration in my soul.

A caravan, the cavalry if you will, came barreling down the NYS Thruway to celebrate the life of my Mom. Her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, cousins and friends were all with us for the wake and funeral. Now aside from a few special occasions (weddings, Mom’s 50th, 60th, and 70th birthdays — this November would have been 80 and what a party that would’ve been) having so many of those loving people “down here” is barely conceivable…

After the funeral, after the luncheon, we wanted to just be together. My wife and I rarely entertain guests, let alone a large party of guests. Nervously, I opened my home for everyone to come, gather, eat, drink, be merry, cry, love, hug…. and it was beautiful. In the midst of a nightmare, I found beauty.

At one point I just stood in the living room, all of these angels from my childhood, all of these people who reminded me twice a year that I wasn’t broken, that I was valuable, funny, likeable, they were all in MY HOUSE just north of Bronx, NY. In the middle of a nightmare of loss was a dream come true. The sheer magnitude of the collective love condensing in my living room — not a room in Buffalo, not 400 miles away, right here. Years and distance couldn’t touch the restorative power of my family’s love.

My house will hold that loving energy, that special vibration, for eternity and for that I am eternally grateful.

And Mom was there. Without a doubt. Mom was there.