Flying back from Daytona Beach to New York's Laguardia Airport following the Daytona 500 I made a decision.

I missed Judy and the kids and leaving the family to fend for themselves for an indefinite period just didn't feel right.

Getting off the plane I headed straight to the office to see if I could have a talk with Wick Temple about my situation.

I walked into his office and closed the door behind me. Then, nervously, I told him my concerns about my situation at home and about my discomfort in the new job. Wick listened quietly and took a few moments before replying.

"Look, you're doing a great job on a tough beat," he said. "I can understand that you're worried about your family and feeling homesick, so let's fix that situation. I'll talk to the seventh floor (executive suite) about sending you back to Cleveland on a temporary basis.

"Go spend time with Judy and the children, sell your house and we'll get you back here full-time. As for the auto racing beat, you're a natural. You'll grow into it. And, in the meantime, Cleveland has a decent airport, so you can keep covering races."

I called Judy right away and told her I was coming home. She didn't say anything for a moment, but I heard a big sigh on the other end.

"Thank goodness," she said. "Just come home."

I was on a plane to Cleveland the next morning after checking out of the hotel that I had lived in, on and off, for four weeks.

It was great being home, at least for a few days. But there was absolutely nothing happening with the house sale.

I called our realtor, a young man named Mike, and he explained again that with interest rates over 10 percent there simply wasn't a lot of buying and selling going on in the housing market. Judy and I tried to remain optimistic, but it was hard when we weren't even getting anyone coming to look at the house.

I said, "Well, at least I'm here now."

Judy replied, "Yup! You can shovel that damn driveway."

Knowing that I was now working out of Cleveland made it easier to continue on the auto racing beat.

Very early that Friday morning, I took a taxi back to the airport and flew to Charlotte, N.C. Knowing I was going back to Cleveland after the race made leaving a lot easier.

After renting a car, I drove the 70 miles to North Carolina Motor Speedway in Rockingham, where the next NASCAR race was scheduled that Sunday.

NCMS was nothing like Daytona International Speedway. It was in a rural setting, a long way from any big city. The track officials had gotten me a room at the media hotel, a Holiday Inn in Southern Pines, which was a 30-minute drive each way.

And the track itself, a flat one-mile oval, was not very exciting to look at.

It was a cold, windy day and the press box was unheated. People around me were talking about possible snow that night, a thought which didn't make me feel any warmer.

They got qualifying in that day and, after finishing my writing, I headed for Southern Pines, a very touristy town just down the road from the Pinehurst Resort, a famous golf venue. The motel was your typical Holiday Inn. One of the other writers suggested a nearby restaurant for dinner and I went there alone.

Behind me was a table filled with other writers and public relations people and the rest of the big room was dotted with other people whose faces I recognized. Again, I felt very isolated and wondered why I had taken this job.

It began snowing as I drove back to the hotel and light snow quickly turned to wet, heavy flakes. By the time I woke up Saturday morning we were in the midst of a blizzard. At breakfast, I found out the race had been postponed to the next week, but the roads had become treacherous and the Charlotte airport was closed anyway.

I was stuck in Southern Pines along with a large contingent of writers, photographers and NASCAR officials staying at the motel.

It turned out to be another serendipitous moment in my career. As I sat alone at breakfast, feeling sorry for myself that Saturday morning, several of the other writers came up and asked if they could join me.

Tom Higgins of the Charlotte Observer and Steve Waid, then writing for a NASCAR-themed magazine, were highly respected insiders. Both had appeared distant and mostly unapproachable at Daytona. But I found out that couldn't have been further from the truth.

Stuck in that Holiday Inn for two long days and nights, I got to know Tom and Steve and many of the other NASCAR folks.

There was a constant poker game that I quickly found out was too rich for my blood. And a few brave souls ventured out to play in the snow drifts. That's where the "Fiji Islands 5-man bobsled team" was born.

There were also plenty of volunteers to trek through the snow to the nearby 7-Eleven for snacks, beer and soda. It was definitely a fun-loving group of people.

By the time I headed for Charlotte on Monday morning on the slush-covered roads, I felt more at home in the NASCAR milieu and better about my new beat _ although I still had my reservations.

A few more weeks went by before Judy greeted me upon arriving home from another race with the news that Mike the realtor had called to say he had a couple interested in the house. It was exciting since we had had zero interest up to that point.

They came by the next afternoon and took a tour of the house and told us how much they liked it.

Mike took us aside and explained that it was the second marriage for both the husband and wife, neither of whom looked old enough to have been married before, and that each had brought a child to the new marriage. He also said that they were both working but did not have enough money saved to get a conventional mortgage.

Would we be willing to take a land contract?

That meant no down payment, monthly payments that would go toward the eventual sale of the house and a bubble payment at the end of five years.

We had little choice at that point and I said, "Draw up the contract."

I was relieved that we were going to be able to move out East, but I was also concerned that the land contract meant we wouldn't have a down payment for a house when we got there. Our equity remained tied up in the house until it actually sold.

"I guess we'll just have to rent," Judy said. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

After we signed the deal, I called Wick and told him I was ready to make the permanent move to New York. He sounded relieved.

Judy's mom came in to help with the kids while we packed up the house. One night, she overheard me lamenting the fact that we'd have to rent instead of buy.

Mom Rosée asked why and I explained to her about the land contract and the fact we wouldn't get our money out of the Cleveland house for five years.

"I don't want you two to fall behind economically. It's important to invest in a house," She said. "What if I loan you the down payment? Judy's dad would have wanted to help, too."

Judy and I were stunned at the offer. It didn't take us long to gratefully accept.

When we finally found our house in Westfield, NJ, mom's check for $20,000 was our down payment. We loved that little Cape Cod bungalow and lived in it for 16 years, all thanks to the generosity of Mom Rosée. 

It was now time for the next step in my career and in our lives.