“A Life in Motion” by Lenny Muzzi

I grew up in Hingham, Massachusetts, about twenty miles south of Boston, just a mile from the Atlantic Ocean. I was born and raised on a small farm—just a few acres—but it was full of life. We had chickens, pigs, goats, and sheep. I remember plowing the garden with horses before we ever had a tractor. Everything we did was by hand—just like the Amish people. We didn’t have chainsaws or power tools, just axes and two-man saws. We worked hard, but we also grew everything we ate. The only thing we had to buy was milk because we didn’t have a cow. That’s the kind of life I had as a boy—simple, tough, but good.

My father came from Italy, and my mother was born in Massachusetts, though she was also of Italian descent. We were a close family. My earliest memories are of playing with things you don’t see today—pedal cars, bicycles, little scooters. I loved anything that had wheels or made noise. By the time I was twelve, I was already driving around on homemade tractors made from old trucks. When I turned sixteen, I bought my first scooter—a Vespa—and that started a lifelong love affair with anything that had a motor. From scooters, I moved to motorcycles, and I’ve owned just about every kind there is. My first real motorcycle was a 1948 Indian, but my mother hated it. She told me, “If you ride that thing, you can get out of this house.” So I sold it. But the love for motorcycles never left me. Even today, I still ride whenever I can.

Life wasn’t always easy, but I learned the value of hard work. We didn’t have much, but we made do with what we had. I had one brother and one sister—both have passed away now. I miss them dearly. I sometimes wish the world today could bring back some of the old ways. Life was more hands-on then. People fixed their own things, built their own stuff, and helped their neighbors. Technology today is amazing, but it’s gone too far in some ways. I like things you can touch and fix—real things that matter right here on Earth.

I was brought up Catholic. I went to church and Sunday school regularly. But after I got married and later divorced, the church became a difficult place for me. When I called the priest once to ask if I could attend a father-and-son breakfast, he scolded me for getting a divorce. That conversation ended my connection with the church for a long time. Later, when I remarried, I tried again. But something terrible happened—a priest I knew came to my house one night, saying he wanted to bless the children. Instead, he molested one of my sons. When I discovered what he had done, I threw him out of the house. The church moved him to another parish, like they always did back then. Years later, I learned he had abused other boys too. My family was part of the lawsuit against the Catholic Church. That experience broke my heart and my faith in the institution.

Eventually, I found my way back to faith—but in a different form. I went to a church with a friend one day, and it was unlike any church I’d ever been in. They had music, instruments, and joy. When they passed around the bread and wine, I thought, This feels right. Later, when Mary and I moved to Houlton, we found the United Methodist Church. From the first Sunday, we knew it was home. The warmth, the kindness, the sense of belonging—it felt genuine. We’ve been part of the church ever since.

I’ve had many chapters in my life. I’ve worked as a police officer for five years, owned a restaurant for four and a half years, restored antique vehicles, and even raced cars. I loved racing—it gave me a rush. I wasn’t a professional, but I competed in the older drivers’ division. It was fun until I had a stroke that slowed me down. Actually, I had two strokes at once. I lost control of my left side for a while, but with therapy and determination, I got most of it back. I still walk with a limp, but I’m grateful to walk at all.

Music has always been a big part of my life. I can play just about any instrument, but my favorite is the harmonica. I play at the senior center in Presque Isle every Wednesday at noon with a small band. We have fun, and the people there love it. I used to have a whole set of harmonicas and an amplifier, and I donated them to folks learning music. Later, I bought myself another set. My favorite song to play is Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash—it always gets a laugh.

I also love to cook. I had my own restaurant once, and I learned that good food brings people together. I’ve always been hands-on—fixing cars, cooking, playing music. Those are the things that make me happy.

And then there’s dancing. That’s a big part of my story. I was a rock-and-roller when I was young. I couldn’t really dance, but I learned the jitterbug and the twist. I met Mary through dancing. At first, I thought she was too fancy—a ballroom dancer! But she taught me, and we became dance partners in life. We’ve been together since 2000—twenty-five years now. We’ve traveled all around Florida, dancing in different places, even teaching others how to dance in campgrounds and parks. We bought a motorhome and spent twelve wonderful years dancing our way around the Sunshine State. Later, we sold the motorhome and settled down. Now, my dancing days are fewer because of arthritis and a bad hip, but the music still plays in my heart.

I have one biological son and two adopted children, a boy and a girl. The girl has children of her own, so I’m a grandfather. I don’t see them often because they live far away and travel a lot, but I think about them all the time. My son became a state trooper, and when he graduated from the academy, that was one of the proudest moments of my life. Later, the governor asked him to serve as his personal bodyguard and driver. I was proud beyond words.

Life has given me its share of challenges and blessings. I lost a lot through divorce—money, property, and trust. But I gained something more valuable—peace. When my first wife left, she took half of everything I owned, but I used what was left to buy a motorhome and start over. I’ve learned that happiness doesn’t come from what you own. It comes from who you are and who you share your life with.

If you asked me the greatest lesson I’ve learned, I’d probably joke and say, “Don’t get married.” But the truth is deeper. I’ve learned that life is about kindness, loyalty, and gratitude. People today rush too much. They forget to sit down, talk, and listen. In my day, family meant everything. You stayed together, worked through your problems, and took pride in what you built.

I don’t need much now. I’m happy with the life I’ve had. I want to be remembered as a kind man, a good friend, someone who could make people smile. A man who loved music, dancing, motorcycles, and simple joys. Maybe they’ll also remember that I could fix anything with my hands.

At eighty-nine, going on ninety, I look back and say thank you—to God, to Mary, to my family, and to every person who’s crossed my path. I’ve lived a full life. And for that, I’m grateful.