The Pathfinder: Finding the Right Path

By Mark Mahaffey

Mark T. Mahaffey, a living legend in Saint Petersburg, Florida, shares the story of his life-long journey as The Pathfinder. More than the name behind the iconic Mahaffey Theater, Mark Mahaffey is the patriarch of one of the largest, family-owned, real estate companies in Florida. Reflecting on the road that brought him to where he is today, he recognizes the defining moments that were the tailwinds to his success. Finding the right path is never easy, but with the support of his family, friends, and some key mentors along the way, Mark confidently navigated through some of life’s most challenging obstacles. The Pathfinder is a loving tribute to all those people who helped pave the way of the Mahaffey legacy and the friendships that have blossomed along the way. From growing up in Indiana and attending the University of Notre Dame, to serving in the Vietnam War as a U.S. Navy Lieutenant, to growing the Mahaffey Apartment Company, to exploring the world with his closest kin and kith, Mark Mahaffey hopes to inspire his readers to live life to the fullest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richter Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215284292

Book preview

Prologue

It is not what we have in life, but who we have in our life that matters.

— J.M. Laurence.

If I had one wish, just a single wish that a genie could grant me, it would not be for fame or fortune. It would not be to glance into the future or be blessed with infinite youth. What I would humbly request of this magnanimous genie would be two hours of time—one hour to sit down with my father and one hour to sit down with mother—to ask them all the questions I never thought to ask while they were living. What I would give to hear their stories now. Perhaps I was ignorant, or perhaps I was simply focused on the road ahead. Whatever the reason, it appears that I only choose to reflect on the past, when time has gone by. As the wheels in my mind cycle through memories and I remember bits and pieces of my own life, the story begins to unfold. Ironically, the more I remember, the more I realize I do not remember, or perhaps never knew. This awareness entices me to crave even more.

If I were given those two hours of time to visit with my parents again, I would ask them to share with me their memories. I would love to hear as many stories, big or small, as they could remember. I would beg them to enlighten me with as much family history as they knew. I long to discover the narrative of my ancestor’s lives—their struggles, triumphs, and journeys to and across America. Coming from Ireland, my grandparents’ parents started from scratch and built the American dream. To know all the details that went into creating that whole Mahaffey odyssey would be so fulfilling.

But alas, I am aware of no existing genie to grant me this wish. I must console myself to settle on what I do know. And I say settle in no diminishing sense, as I still have a full story to share. I am very blessed to be part of the Mahaffey legacy. I was fortunate to have incredibly involved parents and grandparents who were passionate believers in the strength of family and tradition. My goal is to keep that strong folklore going.

One grand observation I make as I look back on my own life, is that I have been blessed with the presence of an immense network of friendships and partnerships. My parents’ and grandparents’ devoted efforts to connect with people and build lifelong bonds has supported every aspect of my life, either directly or indirectly, from my childhood to now. Seeing my individual life’s success story as a compilation and continuation of that endeavor makes me feel both proud and grateful. I have made it my goal to uphold the principle of maintaining and building new relationships, knowing that each person is a thread in the great Mahaffey tapestry of success. I couldn’t feel more blessed to be surrounded by such a vast, interwoven group of special people.

I feel a strong responsibility at this point in my life to pay tribute to those important people—my family and friends of past and present. I offer a great thank you to those who inspire me and guide me every day. I also aim to give future Mahaffey generations a glimpse at that portrait, so they can feel the same honor and appreciation for the people that built the vision. And perhaps, just perhaps, I hope to answer some questions that they would have never thought to ask.

1

Thumbs Up

Normality is a paved road. It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow.

—Vincent Van Gogh.

I carefully stepped in my polished brown loafers onto the ice-covered sidewalk. The path, which laid at the threshold of my family’s meticulously manicured lawn, seemed to extend as endlessly as the sea in either direction. It was a frigid Monday morning in Indianapolis, Indiana, and the first day back to school after the Thanksgiving holiday. It was unusually cold for this time of year. It was 1958. I was fourteen years old, a proud freshman in high school. My school and my friends were the utmost center of my world, and my life was about as all-American as the typical high schooler in the 1950s. I was lucky to be a part of a generation that experienced a coming of age during an idealistic era, where people had the attitude that life is what you make it. The 1950s suburban culture focused on hard work, leisure, sports and community. Life was good, and as a high schooler, I appreciated the simple freedom of navigating this chapter of my life with some newly acquired independence.

Turning south, I strode purposefully along the tree-lined sidewalk. I felt the warmth of the morning sun extend like a handshake through the clouds, offering a welcoming cordiality despite the bone-chilling air. Snow delicately fluttered and swirled throughout this suburban landscape and reflected the light like an illuminated snow globe. The grand, towering oak trees began to hum and moan in baritone manner as a soprano squall swooped in for her exuberant cadenza. I shivered in its imperious presence. How the season had managed to drop to the mere single digits Fahrenheit after reaching the high seventies only the week before I would never comprehend. The Indiana weather was as enigmatic as the mysteries of the Twilight Zone.

I fastened the top brass button of my heather-gray woolen jacket, hoping the top few inches would offer me the warmth my body craved. I immediately regretted the effort however, as I subsequently reminded myself that I was in high school now, and top buttons were most certainly not in vogue. I discreetly unclasped the button and grasped my fingers, numb with cold, tightly around my leather-bound stack of schoolbooks. Tilting my head down to brace against the biting gale, I continued to walk quickly and steadily along North Meridian Street.

Just a few houses further, I said to myself.

I counted the driveways as I strode.

One… two…three…four…five.

Meridian Street was the center artery that ran north and south through Indianapolis. It was flanked with mature oak and maple trees that seemed to arc over the road if they were nobly protecting it from the rest of the world. My childhood home, built in 1927, was proudly situated on a one-acre lot at 5300 Meridian Street in the prestigious North Meridian Historic District. It was a beautiful, traditional Jacobean-style home, cloaked in brick masonry and adorned with stoned accents. It was originally built by my maternal grandparents, James and Elizabeth Watson, as a family home to raise their three children. When his daughter, Jane (my mother) married my father, Thomas Mahaffey, they bought a smaller home on the next street over, where they raised their four young children. After my grandfather passed away in 1948, when I was just four years old, we traded houses with my still living Grandmother Elizabeth and my maiden Aunt Lizzie, who had still been living with her mother at the time. It was a reasonable trade, as there had been six of us living in that smaller home, which included my father, mother, my two sisters, my brother, and myself. We were all excited to move into our grandparents’ big house.

Image 01 Chapter 01

The Mahaffey family home on North Meridian Street, Indianapolis, Indiana

Even though our new home was just a street over, it was a big deal having an address on Meridian Street. All the residences along this thoroughfare were owned by some of the wealthiest and socially elite individuals in Indianapolis. These grand homes boasted some of the best of 1920s architecture. Old World European design elements, such as masonry, columns, and intricate stone and trim work were on-trend in the 1920s. To walk along the street, one would experience a display of the most romantic and regal of English, Dutch colonial, and Italian designs. Years later, in 1986, that stretch of road where I grew up was officially listed on the National Register of Historic Places as One of America’s Great Streets. Of course, to me at the time, it was simply my home—and my world.

My school, Cathedral High School, was an all-boys school about four miles to the south on Meridian Street. I could have taken the city bus to school. My parents naturally thought I did take the city bus. But the city bus was agonizingly slow and a real hassle. I painstakingly rode it perhaps once or twice before I thought to myself, there has to be a better way. Gearing my mind in focus, I was on a mission to get to school as efficiently as possible. I decided I needed to find my own path.

Image 02 Chapter 01

Original Cathedral High School building on North Meridian Street

Finally reaching my chosen spot, a half-block south and just out of sight of my house, I watched the blurred line of vehicles zoom by on Meridian Street. I observed the businessmen in their expensive suits drive their cars—their heated cars—playing the morning radio that promised the start of a successful day. I held my books tightly with one arm, and with resolute motion, I stretched out the other toward the road. Confidently, I held up my thumb, pointing it high to the sky, like a lighthouse in the fog. Locking it strongly into position, I was determined not to let it shake and succumb to the chill of the wind.

I watched the road carefully. One car went by, and then, another.

Finally, I saw Mr. Adams approaching, driving his new, light tan Mercedes.

Jackpot, I thought.

Grinning and full of hope, I patiently waited as the vehicle began to slow. Like the anticipating sense of watching a golf ball fly through the air knowing that it will sink the hole before it actually does, I observed the gleaming car approach me and stop. Mr. Adams rolled down the window, letting a slight burst of steam escape the confines of the vehicle.

Good morning, Mark! Hop on in, he said in a cheery, yet deep and sophisticated tone. He wore a gray, woolen coat similar to my own, with the addition of a charcoal-gray felt fedora upon his head. His freshly shaven angular jaw was just about as shiny as his new automobile.

Thank you, Mr. Adams, I replied gratefully in an equally poised manner.

The sweet and woodsy smell of the ivory leather interior signaled to me that I had made it. I sat up straight, shoulders back and chin up in the passenger seat of that toasty car. I was proud. I felt grown up. I had made my own way.

I continued to hitchhike to school for all four years of high school. If I timed it precisely, there were four or so regulars—some were friends of my parents—who would stop and drive me to my destination. If I was a little late, my chances to get a ride were slimmer, but there was usually some kind commuter who would stop to help me out. I got home that same way too, which was a little more challenging, but I always eventually got home. Cities were much safer back in the 1950s. Hitchhiking was considerably more common at that time than it is now. There was a strong sense of community and togetherness, and people sought out to help one another.

Even still, I did not feel compelled to share with my parents that I did not ride the bus. During all four years of high school, my mother never knew that I hitchhiked to school. I suspect my father might have known, but he never said a word. My three older siblings were all much older than I was and were either in college or moved out by the time I was in high school. My sister Ann was the oldest. She was ten years older than me and already married. My only brother, Jim, was eight years older than me and away at college at Tulane in New Orleans. And lastly, my sister Kate, who was four years older than me, was away at college at Pine Manor Junior College, and later, Michigan State University.

I, Mark Thomas Mahaffey, may have been the youngest of my siblings, but I was not hindered by it. I developed a sort of resilience and an independent attitude that I could figure out things my own way. Little did I comprehend at the time how much this hitchhiking experience would form me. It allowed me to develop the confidence to take charge and the bravery to tread new waters. And most importantly, it taught me the value of trust. Life is a journey, and no one is meant to take that excursion alone. Having trust in people, whether strangers or life-long friends, has been the number one principle moving me forward in life.

In my younger years, neither my parents nor my older siblings ever put their arms around my shoulders to show me the ins and outs of navigating boyhood. I never recall my father or older brother, Jim, teaching me how to throw a football or how to win a girl. I never even shot a basketball until I was in seventh grade. However, I do not fault either one of them for that. We just did not have that kind of relationship. I eventually would form a much closer bond to them in my adult years. But as a child, I leaned on my school mentors, coaches, and friends. I can think back and recognize a few influential people in my childhood who helped me on that journey.

The very first person who comes to mind is Mike Johnson. In middle school, we were best buddies, at least from my point of view. He had an athletic build, slick black hair and charisma enough to make everyone feel like his best friend. He was especially popular in school and an incredible athlete. I am forever grateful to Mike Johnson because he taught me how to throw a football, how to ice skate, and how to play basketball. He had the benefit of several older brothers who also taught him poker and chess, which he, in turn, taught me. We spent a great deal of time together, and I soaked in every minute of it.

Mike’s family home was perhaps a mile from my home, and I would ride my bicycle there often. In the 1950s, bicycles were absolutely essential for getting around, especially in Indianapolis—especially for a kid. I treasured that green and ivory-striped Schwinn Racer more than life itself. It was my ticket to freedom and my vehicle to life experience. It would not be unusual for us to ride two to three miles into the city to visit a friend’s house. Once seventh grade began, we started visiting girlfriends’ houses. We would cruise to midtown and spend a couple of hours with girls whom we met from another parish. The girls from our parish were nice and good looking enough, but it was exciting expanding our territory and meeting new girls. Those were wonderful, carefree days full of excitement and pure enjoyment of life.

Alas, as our middle school chapter began to close, and we entered our high school years, Mike Johnson and I began to drift apart. He became more of what I can only describe as a wild child. For instance, I remember him as the first person in our grade to drink alcohol. He did not get into a great deal of trouble, but he had a new set of friends I did not care to join. I would not call us adversaries, but he had his group, and I had my group. I believe that was the first time I truly contemplated, I am going to go this way. I can think back to many forks in the path of life where I had to choose right instead of left. Reflecting on my journey, I think I did a pretty good job choosing, because I am proud of where I stand today. I can also look back and see how each decision helped me grow in some way.

Looking back, I can see that letting go of Mike Johnson allowed me to develop a close friendship with another fellow schoolmate, Bob Desautels. In my freshman year of high school, Bob quickly became my best friend. Because he had attended a different grade school than I did, I did not know him well before high school. I had perhaps seen him a few times at social gatherings, such as at the ice skate social at the Coliseum on Friday nights—but not much more than that. Luckily, both our grade schools fed into the same high school, and we began to spend a lot more time together. I can recall those early days of our friendship like it was yesterday.

Image 03 Chapter 01

Mark Mahaffey, Sophomore at Cathedral High School, 1959

Mark! Come on over to my house later. We’re playing basketball at seven, I can remember Bob saying persuasively at school one day early freshman year.

Sure thing, Bob! I’ll be there, I said.

Later that evening, after hastily plowing my mother’s (well, more specifically, Swanson’s) chicken pot pie into my mouth and scraping my plate clean within minutes, I patiently waited for my father and mother to finish their meals. Supper time was sacred, and I was not to leave the table until my father directed. My mother gingerly forked a single pea and daintily brought it to her lips. I fidgeted in my chair with eagerness and eyed the clock that hung on the wall behind my father’s chair. It was 6:50, and the clock hands seemed to move faster than my parents’ forks. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to ride my bicycle to Bob’s house and was hoping to leave about now.

Gee, Sweetie, you must have been hungry! Would you like some more pie? my mother inquired. She swooped up my plate to serve me another slice without my answering.

No, no, mom. Really, I’m full. It was very good.

My father chimed in, The boy isn’t hungry. He’s got something else he’s wanting to do. What is it, son? My father spoke in a very matter-of-fact, emotionless tone.

I responded, Well, you see…I’m meeting Bob Desautels at his house for a basketball game at seven.

My father nodded in approval, Desautels. Yes, good family. He paused, You may go.

I leapt out of my chair as quickly as a caged bird being finally released and darted toward the front door.

Mark. My father sternly called after me.

I turned around to see his eyes signaling toward my mother. I walked back to the table, kissed her cheek and said, Thank you for dinner, Mom. I won’t be late.

She smiled and replied, Have fun. Tell Mrs. Desautels we say hello.

Yes, ma’am, I said.

Hurriedly, I slipped on my Converse high-top sneakers and hopped onto my green Schwinn Racer. Having mastered bicycling without holding onto the handlebars, I held my arms at my side and zipped across Meridian Street, following the sidewalks to the east. Bob’s house was about ten blocks away, across the street from Saint Joan of Arc Church. It was a crisp, cool day in early autumn. The oak and maple trees were in full color, flaunting vibrant shades of scarlet and gold. The setting sun painted the sky, echoing the hues of the fall foliage. I felt as if I was sailing under a dome of color, as if Van Gogh had painted the route.

Quickly grabbing the handlebars to steer my bicycle onto his street, I was at his driveway in no time. I hopped off my bicycle and walked it up the long driveway. Bob’s home was a stately red, colonial-style brick house with tall columns framing the front door and a balcony up top. I veered my bicycle to head toward the front door, when I heard a voice call my name.

Mark! Over here!

I shifted my gaze toward the voice and looked up the driveway, which continued past the house. Squinting my eyes into the setting sun, I saw the silhouette of a free-standing garage, a basketball hoop mounted above the garage doors, and five boys playing basketball. I quickly leaned my bicycle against the iron fence that ran along the driveway and ran up to play. Getting closer, I could make out the faces of Bob Desautels, Hugh McGowan, Tom Holland, Joe Tynan, and Jerry Bintz.

Without hesitation, Bob passed the ball to me. I dribbled it a few times and took a shot at the hoop. Whoosh! It went in! I was glad Mike had taught me some moves. I beamed with pride and could not hold back a wide grin. Then, out of the corner of my eye, someone caught my gaze. Peering into the far side of the yard, I saw a girl, perhaps a few years younger than I was, sitting on a chaise lounge chair next to the Desautels’s backyard swimming pool. She was Bob’s younger sister. It appeared she had been reading a book, but had paused to watch the game. She had wispy black hair, fair skin and a few freckles—and the sweetest smile I had ever seen. Our eyes met, and she nodded in silent applause. My grin stretched even wider in appreciation.

Bob’s house was undoubtedly the hub of neighborhood activity. I spent a substantial amount of time at their house, bicycling over there every moment I could. Between the basketball court, swimming pool, and large backyard perfect for football, there was never a shortage of things to do at their house.

I learned that back in sixth grade, Bob had started a basketball competition with his classmates at Joan of Arc School. Teams of guys, three against three, would play in a big tournament every May. They even set up brackets. It was called the DBY, which stood for the Desautels’ Back Yard. I joined Bob’s team my freshman year in high school. It was amazing how that small backyard tournament turned into a big neighborhood event every year. The tournament at its peak had twenty teams. Friends from school, parents, and neighbors would all gather to watch and cheer us on as the competition heated up in the Desautels’ backyard. See you at the DBY! became a familiar cry throughout our neighborhood as games were played almost daily throughout our four years of high school, and even in college. At one point, we even had one of the stars from the Indiana Pacers come referee for the final game. It was a big deal! The local newspaper, The Indianapolis Star, featured an article about the DBY, written by none other than my good friend, Hugh McGowan. Even more than being competitive, it was about having fun.

The relationships that I formed at the Desautels’ house changed my life forever. Those five boys, Bob, Hugh, Joe, Tom, and Jerry, became my best friends, and I have continued those friendships to this day. I especially admired Bob’s family. His parents were so gracious and kind to me. Our families had known each other for years, even before I was born, and it wasn’t before long that the Desautels felt like my second family. Little did I know at the time, they would one day be my family. That little girl, who I first saw lounging by the swimming pool, would eventually become my wife.

Image 04 Chapter 01

The Indianapolis Star newspaper article, September 30, 1961. Written by Hugh McGowan

Image 05 Chapter 01

The Desautels family home on Central Avenue, Indianapolis, Indiana.

2

I’ve Had The Time Of My Life

And so, with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Only an hour further, my mother hollered back to me as I slumped in the rear bench of our family Ford Station Wagon. Our summer expedition took a pause as we refueled at Wilson’s Gas Service Station in Gaylord, MI. The friendly gas attendant, in his faded uniform, began to fill our tank as my mother, my sister Kate, and I stepped out of the car to stretch our stiff legs. Despite the lingering dust kicked up by the occasional car driving over the dry, unpaved roads, I breathed in the fresh, oxygen-rich forest air. The sweet, earthy fragrance of the surrounding balsam firs seeped into my body as if I was inhaling life itself. It was a great relief from the usually pleasing new-car scent that we had begun the road trip adoring, but had become stale and resentful after seven hours of travel. My father’s automobile financing company blessed us with many new cars over the years, but I was ready to get out of the car and get to our summer cottage at Burt Lake in northern Michigan.

Image 01 Chapter 02

Mahaffey family cottage at Burt Lake, Michigan

It was the summer of 1959. My freshman year in high school had ended just a week earlier, and this getaway was a welcomed break from a long school year. It was an annual tradition for our family to head up to Michigan for the summer, but this year, it was just my mother, Kate, and I traveling. My father would join us a few weeks later.

Back in middle school, when I was ages twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, I had spent my summers at Camp Al-Gon-Quain, located on the same Burt Lake as my family’s cottage. Founded by Herb Twining in 1925, it was a private, sleep-away camp with an incredible reputation that drew the more prominent families from around the country. I stayed at this all-boys camp for eight weeks each summer of middle school. Activities included boating, ball sports, horseback-riding, sailing, fishing, and every other northern Michigan outdoor hobby you could imagine. Those summers offered an adventurous experience that was truly unforgettable. Beyond the practical sportsmanship skills, it taught me the importance of comradery and teamwork, as well as the value of tradition and honoring history. At age fourteen, during my final year there, I remember taking a two-week canoe trip to Canada. Our group, which included fourteen campers and two counselors, packed a weeks’ worth of supplies and food into eight canoes, and we set off into the rugged Canadian wilderness. It was a tremendous experience living in the wilderness for those two weeks. It is something that I will never forget.

Image 02 Chapter 02

Camp Al-Gon-Quain at Burt Lake, Michigan

After that year, as I was now a freshman in high school, I was offered the position as CIT: Counselor in Training. I hemmed and hawed for a bit before deciding to turn it down to take a different fork in the road. I thoroughly enjoyed my time at camp, but I was ready for a change. I longed to spend my summers relaxing at my family’s cottage on Burt Lake, exploring the nearby town, and boating and fishing on the lake in my own free time. I can remember that summer just beginning, and I could not have been more excited to get to the cottage and start a new adventure.

Hopping back into the freshly fueled automobile, my mother, Kate, and I continued north. I leaned my head against the glass window watching the wall of dense forest quickly pass, like a stage curtain drawing quickly to open, but never seeming to clear. Finally, a half-hour later, the brilliant stage was revealed—beautiful, glimmering Burt Lake was before us. My mother carefully steered the car to the left and followed the road that traced the shore of the waters. The sun was beginning to settle in the cloudless sky, and the rippling waters glittered like millions of crystals.

Rounding a curve, we finally got to our lakefront cottage. It had never looked so picturesque. Nestled in the trees was our white, wood-clad home that fashioned a Dutch gable roof and a tall stone chimney. A large, screened-in porch, trimmed with scarlet geraniums and snow-white petunias, wrapped around the side of the house like an embrace. Similar to my family home in Indianapolis, this was a historic property. Bought by my maternal grandparents, James and Elizabeth Watson, in the 1930s, it was the pride and joy of Mahaffey generations. My grandparents had first decided to purchase a summer home in Burt Lake, as it was a popular destination for their circle of friends in Indianapolis. Northern Michigan offered the perfect summer escape from the suburban heat and bustle with its cool summers and peaceful wooded landscape. Being comprised of mainly rugged wilderness pre-1900s, Burt Lake was only newly developed and still had that magical forest ambiance. Most importantly, it boasted some of the best fishing around—small mouth bass, trout, and walleye were just a few of the myriad of different fish species in the water. I could not wait to cast my reel into those shimmering waters. I knew this was going to be my best summer yet! What I did not foresee was how the events of that summer would change the trajectory of my life forever.

Soon after arriving at the cottage, I settled into my summer routine fairly quickly. Reading books, fishing, and navigating every nook and cranny of Burt Lake became my everyday pastimes. On special occasions during past summers, our neighbor in the cottage next door would give me rides in his turquoise MG, which was a vintage English-made car. Summer days at Burt Lake were wonderful. However, during this particular summer, the days began to get long and dull, as I