There's a Fat Man Freezing on Throgs Neck Bridge

It was a bitterly cold late Saturday afternoon in New York. We had just crossed the Throgs Neck Bridge on our way back to Bronxville from Long Island. The scenic bridge sits astride the meeting place of the East River and Long Island Sound, serving as a vital link in the city's interstate highway system. The Throgs Neck is about 176 miles from home, and home was exactly where I wanted to be at that dreadful moment.

Marie—my wife's sister—and her husband Bob lived in Bronxville, New York. At their invitation, we'd taken the whole family; Catherine, Maggie, Olivia, me, and yes, even our dog Stanley, for a weekend trip to visit them.

From the moment of our arrival, the energy felt tense and out of sync with our mood. We wanted to unwind from a difficult week; they were all revved up to enjoy company from out of town. Marie and Bob have no children. Their only child is the small biotech company they started and have nurtured for the past decade. They had just completed moving their lab from Columbia University out to Long Island: a ninety-minute commute from their apartment. On Saturday morning, we left for a look at their new baby.

The ride down was miserable. Cramped in a brand-new vehicle that was spacious for two and overcrowded with six, our driver Bob had that kind of herky-jerky driving habit that would have a NASA-trained astronaut hugging the commode. Still, we endured the journey in silent agony, but the return trip was no better. This time however, Olivia and I took our place in the far-back seats; we slept to avoid the claustrophobia. We approached the tolls at Throgs Neck at 80 miles per hour and at the last possible instant, Bob slammed on the brakes hard enough to wake Olivia and me from our fitful sleep.

That was it – this was the end. My queasy stomach could take no more. I felt myself begin to smile uncontrollably. And any McMahon worth his or her salt knows exactly what that means. With nary a moment's notice, the contents of my stomach hurried up my throat and out of my mouth in a splendid, golden, fairly lumpy arch onto my shirt, legs and finally to the car seat and floor. Bob pulled over, and we all bailed out. I stripped down to my briefs and stood there shivering. Catherine ushered Maggie and Olivia off the road and began cleaning up the mess I'd made.

Marie and Bob stood there exchanging angry glances and whispering. Not a finger was lifted to help Catherine, not a word of comfort to our children was uttered. Bob whispered to Marie that my clothes could not be brought into the car. He also insisted that my shoes remain behind with my clothes – we disregarded that instruction. Lastly, I asked for my coat to put around my bare shoulders. I also asked for Bob's coat to wrap around my waist. Bob, refused, through Marie, to let me use his coat to cover my nearly naked body. Catherine gave me hers and rode back to the apartment in the freezing back seat of the vomit-filled car.

As I stood there shivering and humiliated on that far away bridge, I imagined the spirit of the McMahon family surrounding us: Mom, Dad, the Sloans, Dave McMahon's family, and the Guarneris. In that briefest moment of clarity, I envisioned someone comforting my crying children, another cleaning up the mess I'd made in the car. Another two removed pieces of their own clothing and offered them to cover my icy body. The air warmed with empathy, easing my pain through the love of my family.

Make no mistake, we have our differences in the Clan McMahon: religious, political, and personal. But to us the word "Family" is more than a convenient phrase that people use on those few occasions when they get together during the year. To us, Family is the thread that weaves a strong and intricate fabric that spans both time and space.

So, it was you to whom my thoughts turned when I stood cold and shivering on the Throgs Neck Bridge. In you, I found warmth, strength, and – in the true McMahon way – even some humor. In you – my family – I found my strength.