About

Author's Foreword

As you explore the stories, essays, and reflections gathered here, you might occasionally encounter thoughts that seem critical of established systems—whether that involves specific religious traditions or other institutional norms.

I want to clarify my motivation: 

You can pick up good advice from almost any perspective.

My perspective draws from a simple observation about how we begin our lives. Most of us arrive in this world and immediately have our most crucial, foundational decisions made for us. 

Our religious beliefs, our educational paths, and our cultural paradigms are often preordained from birth. 

In an ideal universe, we might view this as a necessary shield—a way to instill strength and a structural foundation in a brand-new spirit just starting out in life.

However, as we grow, we often discover that these inherited decisions do not always align with our unique blend of DNA, our personalities, or the environments we actually inhabit.

People can figure out their own way in life just fine, provided they're free to explore and debate their options.

The key is in having the freedom to let this happen organically, without being pushed in one way or the other. 

Some groups within our society already understand this, exposing children to more neutral curricula that allow them to eventually make their own choices, rather than arbitrarily assigning them to a theology from day one.

The Linkatarian is, primarily, a tool for my own continual, lifelong learning. 

Distilling these ideas has an effect on me very similar to meditation. Getting completely lost and focused in the writing pulls my mind away from the exhaustion and anxiety generated by the modern barrage of news, conflict, and endless debate. 

That quiet focus has been a grounding good in my life, and I hope you find some value in the ideas cultivated here.

 

About Me

My grandmother, Giovanna Montereale, was the one who really taught me what "grit" looked like. After losing her husband in a train accident in the late 1920s, she raised six kids in Solvay, New York, with basically no safety net. 

I still have this vivid memory of her at the huckster truck, taking raw, unrefined ingredients—livestock and plants—and turning them into the meals that kept us going. 

She was a living lesson in resilience, showing me that survival is often just the process of distilling tragedy into something that can sustain you.

Looking back, my real education started on the village streets. Long before I ever cracked a textbook, I was learning about connection as a toddler in the '50s, fishing in the Erie Canal, and exploring the local swamps. 

By the time I was a kid at Cherry Road school, my life felt like a page out of a Fun with Dick and Jane reader—only rawer around the margins. 

I think I’ve walked every inch of this village. I was the kid delivering papers, posting brochures for local candidates, and selling Christmas cards door-to-door. My world was defined by the walk to Tanzella’s or Pontello’s corner stores to pick up the latest comic books or to buy Columbus Italian bread.

That sense of community followed me into the soda ash plant. I spent thirteen years there, working in almost every section of a facility built in the late 1800s—a place that still had leather belt pulleys humming until it closed in 1986. It was a harsh, dangerous environment, but it was "home." 

We were neighbors working together, sharing "beverage-inspired" lunches at Pozzi’s, the Lamont Grill, or the Bridge Street Tavern. 

Whether it was a union clambake at Hinerwadel’s or rushing from a shift to make a Wednesday tee time at Westvale Country Club, those days were about a specific kind of closeness that defined our quality of life.

Eventually, my path took me into the federal government and back to school to study human resources. 

But as my work took me to different states and new roles, I noticed something strange: I kept seeing Solvay everywhere. 

I’d see a face in a different city that reminded me of someone from the old neighborhood. I’d see a tradition in a new community and instantly link it back to the village.

That’s how I became a Linkatarian. To me, being a Linkatarian is about tracing those threads. It’s the realization that no matter how far we travel or how much our roles change, we are constantly seeing the present through the lens of the past. 

This website is a place where I collect those fragments—essays, memoirs, and historical echoes—and see how they connect to the larger story we’re all part of.

Welcome. I hope you find a few links here that remind you of your own "village," wherever that might be.