See the latest Downtown News.
Al Bick, Friends of the Lebanon Art Gallery and Guild
Nothing prepares you for grief, but somehow this town helped me through it.
I was born in Portsmouth Naval Hospital in Virginia and spent part of my childhood in northeastern Pennsylvania before moving to upstate New York. I finished high school and college in the Binghamton area. I went on to work for the state of New York as a cartographer.
After that, I did property tax mapping and worked with the USGS in Reston, Virginia. Then, sight unseen, I took a job in St. Louis with the Defense Mapping Agency. I packed up what I could fit in my car, shipped a few boxes, and moved. I ended up staying in St. Louis for 40 years. For most of that time, I worked as a cartographer, and in my last 10 years, I transitioned into being an intelligence analyst. I even got to go to China four times in just a few years, which was incredible.
I retired at 60 after a 35-year career. They offered me a $25,000 buyout or five more months on a rotating watch schedule that changed every week. I took the buyout and thought I was done, but then I worked harder than ever managing all the properties my wife and I inherited, some of it in Lebanon. It was too much.
When my wife Lisa died, everything changed. She had pancreatic cancer. Toward the end, the doctors told us the chemo was only palliative, it was just to give her time to get her affairs in order. She knew what was coming, and in those final days, she told me something I’ll never forget: “Don’t sit at home and be sad. Live your life. Don’t worry about all this.” That was Lisa. Strong, practical, and always thinking of me, even as she was fading.
Her brother had taken his own life in our backyard. That was a turning point for both of us. She couldn’t even look out the window anymore. We couldn’t barbecue without her breaking down. So we made the decision to leave St. Louis. We didn’t really have a plan, we just knew we couldn’t stay.
It took two and a half years to find a place in Lebanon that felt right. We ended up in a house on 13 acres. When Lisa died, I was lost. I’d spent my whole adult life working. I gave briefings to generals. I worked with maps and data and complex systems. But none of that prepares you for grief. None of it teaches you what to do when your home is quiet and your partner is gone.
So I remembered what Lisa said: live your life. And I tried. I started parking my car at Atchley Park and riding my bike through town. I’d pass the Art Guild building over and over again until one day, I finally went inside. I just walked in. And the people there – kind, generous, open – welcomed me in a way I didn’t expect. They didn’t care what my politics were, where I came from, what I believed. They just cared that I was there. It was the first time I’d felt like I might belong somewhere again.
I took a drawing class. Up until then, everything I’d ever drawn was technical: lines, angles, precision. But, the instructor, Patty, she challenged me to loosen up, to try something new. And slowly, something in me began to open back up.
Not long after, I got involved with the Friends of the Library, then Kiwanis. Melinda Fries encouraged me to apply for the Library Foundation Board. I started helping with events, selling tickets, knocking on doors, walking into businesses downtown and explaining why something like the Festival of Trees or a murder mystery night mattered. Emily Huckaby calls me the MVP because I’ve got the time and the will to connect. But truthfully, I just wanted to be useful again.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I met Patricia.
We’d seen each other around. Patricia was always quiet, kind of like a ghost in the room, soft-spoken and a bit guarded, someone who had grown up off the beaten path. I didn’t know much about her, but one day I saw her name on a birthday post on Facebook, and I realized we were the same age. So I called her.
She answered.
Patricia and I have been together ever since. We’ve built something really meaningful, and we make each other laugh. Life with her has been full of moments I never thought I’d get again.
Jeffrey Myers, who I met through a fluke when he managed my mother-in-law’s account, became the best friend I’ve ever had. He helped me navigate everything Lisa and I inherited. He talked me through hard decisions and encouraged me to stay in Lebanon when I thought about leaving. He said, “You’ll never find anywhere else what you’ve found here.” He was right.
This community has given me something I didn’t expect to find again. This town, it’s just different. I’ve lived in D.C., St. Louis, Albany. Lebanon’s not like those places. There’s a warmth here, a kindness. I’ve seen downtowns fail. I grew up in Endicott, New York, where IBM was born. When IBM left, the whole town collapsed. I watched it happen. But I’ve also seen places rise again when they have the right people and the right vision. I see that happening here.
Lebanon wasn’t a place I ever planned to end up. I came here when we had nowhere else to go. I stayed because people made room for me. Because kindness showed up where I least expected it. Because someone special told me to live, and this town reminded me how.
