Greg Kagan:  

CLASS OF 1966
Greg Kagan's Classmates® Profile Photo
Mepham High SchoolClass of 1966
Bellmore, NY

Greg's Story

I dropped out of Cornell after three years, joined Vista and was posted to Minnesota. I spent a few years knocking around, periodically traveling around the country (including an estimated 16,000 miles hitchhiking and 6000 on freight trains. I eventually settle into corporate jobs, spent 16 years in Minneapolis and then, for reasons I still can't explain, accepted a transfer to Los Angeles. I tried, I really did! Lived a block from the beach, bought a surf board, and drove a convertible, but after two years (six months, actually) I had to admit that I'm not an L.A. kind of guy. (How much of an L.A. guy wasn't I? Well, my sales territory included Hawaii, which I gave away to another salesman in the region at the earliest opportunity.) My company offered me a management position in Dallas, which I accepted largely as a ticket out of Los Angeles (never a good reason for a move). Having, at that point, lived North, South, East, and West, I felt prepared to make a final decision regarding locale. Still, it took four more years to transfer back to Minneapolis in 1992, which felt, and still feels, like home. Soon thereafter I quit my job and took up freelance writing and marketing consulting, which has been my livelihood ever since. In 2001, I met Julie, and in '03, at the age of 55, relinquished the title of Minnesota's Oldest Never-Married Straight Guy. We live in a 140 year-old former farm house that used to be on the outskirts of Stillwater MN. After WWII, the town grew, so our place is now surrounded by post-war houses on what, I suspect, were pieces of the farm. A house that old can keep you pretty busy. I do a...Expand for more
lot of gardening in Spring and Summer. Julie's a corporate trainer, currently between positions. She does yoga--boy, does she do yoga--and though she's given up on ever getting me on a mat, she does get me to the gym five or six times a week; ironic considering that Coach Hunt couldn't get me to work out three times a week. We go motorcycling when weather permits, and try to get to NYC once or twice a year. My mom lives in Lincoln Towers on the West Side, where she's hooked up with The Bellmore Mafia, a cabal of hyperactive, transplanted Jewish widows from Long Island. Personally, I prefer a slower pace; five days is about all the New York I can handle at a time before I get sleep-deprived and grouchy. We try to get to Mexico for a week every spring while we're waiting for Minnesota to warm up. I've discovered that, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, enough of the Spanish I learned from Senor Whatever-his-name-was remains that I can actually have a meaningful conversation with the locals in Puerto Morelos. My work isn't the sort of thing you retire from, so I assume that I'll keep writing as long as mind and hands keep working. I'd like to transition from commercial/corporate work to fiction, though my first novel, now in its fourth revision, is still sitting in a drawer. (Fortunately, I told myself when I started it that my goal was just to write it, and that if it got published that would be gravy. So it actually feels like and accomplishment rather than a disappointment. I think I've reached the point at which a new start on a different story makes more sense than another round of revisions to the old one.
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