At Huntley Springs, a retirement community in Huntley, Illinois, time seems to slow down just enough to let stories of yesteryear take center stage. And if you listen closely, the men who live there will take the time to tell you what really matters. Their lives are filled with chapters of service, family, loss, reinvention, and joy, not just accomplishments measured in medals or miles, but in the love they’ve given and the wisdom they’ve earned. These are men who’ve seen the world from the clouds, from a small-town basketball court, from a classroom, and even from the quiet of a Lego-filled apartment. Now in their 90s, they each carry the same message: it’s not how far you go, but what you learn along the way and the people by your side through it all. Recently, I was fortunate enough to sit down with four of these gentlemen, hoping to hear some interesting tidbits to include in this article. What I received was so much more. Meant to only last 90 minutes, I sat for hours, riveted by not just their stories but the way they lit up when they told them. What they shared was more than stories, they shared the love and zest they had for life, it was evident in the way their eyes shone, the way the corner of their mouth would turn up in quiet pride, or the tears that would well, yet never spill over, when talking about the proudest moments of their lives.
Len Bunge, Ken Spooner, Peter Mazzoni, and George Bracke followed very different roads, from the battlefields of Korea to the basketball courts of Hebron, Illinois. From engineering dreams out of Legos to soaring through the clouds at supersonic speeds. But what ties them together is not where they’ve been, it’s how they lived: with purpose, with passion, and with pride.
Len Bunge is one of those rare individuals whose life seems stitched together by adventure and resilience. A Korean War veteran, former pilot, and USTA-rated senior tennis player, Len has spent his life chasing goals both in the air and on the ground. At Huntley Springs, it’s easy to see that the spirit of this man hasn’t dimmed with time. His smile is quick, his memory sharp, and his passions, whether for flying, tennis, or his grandchildren, still shine through. Len started playing tennis as a boy when his sister needed a partner and had no one else to play with. That early sibling moment sparked a lifelong love for the game. Tennis became more than just a pastime, it became a path of discipline, camaraderie, and competition, continuing well into his senior years with national rankings. His career with State Farm, where he rose to agency manager, brought opportunities to travel the world, and his feet never stopped moving, on courts, in airports, or along life’s winding paths. Even after losing his wife, Len has remained open to new experiences, showing off a photo of his latest outfit for an all-white party and a trip to the drive through safari with his companion, Dottie. He proudly pulled out a list of loved ones birthday’s from his wallet, rattled off photos of his grandkids with the ease of a man half his age, and joked about his frequent Amazon orders. There’s a vibrancy to Len that suggests some people don’t slow down, they simply shift gears.
While Len’s journey carried him across continents, Ken Spooner’s roots run deep in the small farm town of Hebron, Illinois. A starting guard on the legendary 1952 Hebron High School basketball team (locals know the water tower well), Ken was part of a story that still inspires; a small-town team of six players who beat every school in the state to win the championship, before divisions existed. Ken lights up when he talks about that time. He remembers practicing with cottage cheese containers and a tennis ball, playing with the same boys he grew up with, and the thrill of hearing the crowd roar. Decades later, the high school surprised the team by embedding their signatures into the gym floor, a tribute that moved Ken to tears as he relayed the experience. Still proudly driving with a "Hebron 6" license plate, he often gets stopped by strangers wanting to hear the story.
But Ken’s life wasn’t all victory and applause. He grew quiet when speaking about his first marriage and the time he missed with his children. There was regret there, not dramatic, just honest. It made his love for his current wife, Katie, even more touching. They met through a mutual friend when he worked in the men's department at Carson Pirie Scott, a job he took after years as a biology teacher and basketball coach. "That place brought me more than a paycheck," he said, with a smile. Ken still keeps in touch with the last living teammate from Hebron and says the underdog win wasn't just about basketball, it proved to him that anything is possible.
Peter Mazzoni's apartment is a world of color, structure, and memory. A retired mechanical engineer, Peter discovered Lego building during the pandemic, and now his shelves are filled with intricate models, from the Titanic to the Millenium Falcon. Humble and soft-spoken, Peter brushed off compliments about his work, but you could sense the quiet pride in the way he pointed out the added lights and custom touches. His creations aren’t just hobbies; they’re bridges. They offer ways to connect with his grandchildren and the broader retirement community, where his pieces are displayed.
Peter’s walls tell a story, too. Alongside his Lego builds hang family photos, including wedding portraits from his own marriage and generations before and after. "That’s my legacy," he said, gesturing to the frames. The son of Italian immigrants, Peter didn’t learn English until he was six. He was drafted into the Vietnam War at 23, and though he was in love, he delayed marriage until he knew he wouldn’t be sent to the front lines. The day he got his orders, nuclear research, stateside, he married the love of his life. It was the right decision, he said, with quiet conviction.
Where Peter was warm and reflective, George Bracke was reserved, the kind of man who doesn’t need to speak loudly to command attention. A retired USAF fighter pilot and later a commercial pilot with United, George has spent more time in the air than most, nearly 26,000 hours, or close to 1,000 days. He knew at age seven that he wanted to fly. As a boy, he’d hang around the local landing strip offering help, often rewarded with rides from pilots. One pilot asked where he lived, and after doing a flyby over his house, George’s dad, out washing the car, recognized the small plane. “You weren’t in that thing, were you?” he asked later. George just smiled.
When asked what flying felt like, George paused. “It’s something I wish I could share. Flying among the clouds… there’s nothing like it.” He got misty-eyed remembering those days. But his real pride was his wife, who earned her GED at 16 so they could marry, and with whom he shared 67 years before her passing. George also lit up when his daughter entered the room, and the way he looked at her said more than words ever could. One son became a pilot, another an airplane mechanic. His legacy is, quite literally, in the sky.
Together, these men represent more than just impressive résumés. They remind us that a life well lived isn’t defined by titles or timelines. It’s shaped by resilience, by love, and by the willingness to grow, even in the final chapters. It’s the ability to sit across from someone, share a story, and feel it land. Life happens in the seemingly little moments, picking up a tennis racket with your sister, shooting hoops with friends, saying yes to something new, and showing up when others don’t.
In the sunset years, the applause may be quieter, but the meaning is deeper. What lives on are the people you show up for, the passions you pursue, and the lessons you leave behind. If there’s a common thread running through these conversations, it’s that connection matters. Connection with family, with community, and with yourself. The best lives aren’t perfect. They’re full, they’re honest, and they’re lived all the way through.
It’s not how far you go, but what you learn along the way and the people by your side through it all
a life well lived isn’t defined by titles or timelines. It’s shaped by resilience, by love, and by the willingness to grow, even in the final chapters