Attitude of Gratitude

Attitude of Gratitude ~ 2006 - 2022

“Endings are not only part of life;
they are a requirement
for living and thriving,
professionally and personally.
Being alive requires that
we sometimes kill things off
in which we were once invested.”

Henry Cloud
Necessary Endings

It’s been almost sixteen years since I created this Attitude of Gratitude blog site. During this time, I have written and posted more than 2,000 articles, mostly focused on the theme of gratitude. A few years ago, I acknowledged to myself that I had gotten a bit distracted on a number of posts, mostly pieces I wrote related to my workplace experiences. Those posts reflected a variety of reactions, feelings, and emotions which were anything but grateful, so I deleted them… about fifty of them, in all. My original intent of this blog was to share my passion for gratitude. For the most part, I think I’ve done this.

In the spring of 2015, I knew, with a high degree of certainty, that it was time for me to retire after more than thirty years of teaching at Saint Lawrence Academy in Santa Clara. The writing on the wall regarding the future of the school was fairly clear, and I didn’t want to be any part of the “surprise” closure of the school in June 2016. Retiring when I did was definitely one of the best decisions I’ve made in my lifetime. It was time.

Well, it’s time... again. Just as a gut feeling led me to initiate this gratitude writing project back in December 2006, I am confident that now is the time for me to move on to something new. Have I lost my passion for gratitude? Not at all. I do, however, have an overwhelming sense that the time has come bring this Attitude of Gratitude blog to a conclusion. This article will be my last on this site.

The stats page on the dashboard of my Typepad account indicates that over the course of the past sixteen years, an average of 53.6 people per day have visited this site. That’s approximately 311,000 lifetime views. This is yet another blessing for which I am tremendously grateful. I don’t know who reads my blog and who doesn’t, but if my writing has inspired a few individuals to focus on gratitude in their lives, that’s enough for me. 

Thank you to those of you who have taken the time to read some of my writing. Thank you to those of you who commented on any of the Attitude of Gratitude posts on my Facebook page. Thank you to those of you who encouraged me to publish some of my work in my first book, A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude. And thank you to those of you who have given me so much for which to be grateful in my life. It’s been a wonderful ride.

Finis. 

November!

National
Gratitude
Month

“Gratitude is the single most important ingredient
to living a successful and fulfilling life.”

~ Jack Canfield

Ah, November… sweet November… my favorite month of the year. Those who know me might assume that June would be my favorite month, as it is in the month of June that we celebrate my birthday, Kathy’s birthday, our anniversary, and, during the years I was teaching, the beginning of summer break. I do like the month of June. Very much so, in fact. But there is something about November that’s like putting a warm blanket on the bed on a cold winter night. 

Yes, June is filled with wonderful occasions to celebrate, yet my favorite holiday of the year is Thanksgiving, and my favorite season of the year is autumn. November is National Gratitude Month, though, for some strange reason, World Gratitude Day is celebrated in September. Go figure.

For those unfamiliar with my journey of gratitude, it began in November 2006 when I attended a weekend retreat at the Jesuit Retreat Center in Los Altos. The theme of the retreat was “A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude.” Much to my surprise, it was a life-changing experience for me. My eyes were opened to the many blessings for which I should be grateful in my life. Until that point in time, I had taken much for granted. An intentional focus on gratitude changed that for me.

I began this Attitude of Gratitude blog in December 2006 as a way to maintain the awareness of gratitude I had gained on the retreat. There are now almost 2,000 posts on this site. In October 2017, I published my first book, A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude. Yes, I borrowed the title from the theme of the retreat. Of course, I acknowledged this in the introduction of the book. In 2018 and 2019, I spoke on the topic of gratitude to about thirty different groups — community groups, churches, schools, and public libraries. It was a delightful experience which, unfortunately, was cut-off by the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic. 

While I no longer do presentations on gratitude, I do my best to live each day with an attitude of gratitude. This is not always easy to do. There are times when circumstances in my life make it difficult for me to focus on those things for which I am grateful. It is easy to get distracted by the challenges of everyday life and forget all the ways in which my life has been, and continues to be, blessed. 

For gratitude to have value, it must be intentional and it must be expressed. Author William Arthur Ward nailed it when he said, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” 

I invite you to join me in celebrating the month of November by identifying the people, experiences, and opportunities in your life for which you are truly grateful — and, if it is at all possible, to express your gratitude to those individuals who have been a blessing in your life.  

For a Friend

You Are Not Alone

 

It's alright to be discombobulated.
It's ok to live in the shambles
where everything is blown apart.
 
Those who live lives of firm certainty
cannot know transformation.
Fundamentalism is a head game
of our self-control.
 
Until your life has been torn apart
as you stand on the edge of oblivion
Until our control falls apart
into the chaos of unknowing
Until our ego melts and burns
in the cauldrons of life
Until we have no whisper of hope left within us
as we stand naked and broken
our molecules on the cusp of being unmade
We cannot know in every cell of our being
the grace and love of God that transforms us

Being in being
Woven with eternal threads
of burning, living, light
where we become
Something we cannot fathom

Such is the grace of God
that unmakes us to make us whole
Where rivers of bottomless compassion flow,
with the imperishable light burning in our souls.
 
Where we companion with grace,
and walk each other home.
You are not alone.

 

~ Bob Holmes
Contemplative Monk on Facebook

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

 

At 1:15 P.M. on Tuesday, April 24, 1984, I was enjoying lunch with a colleague in the main dining room, just off the lobby at the Red Lion Hotel in San José. We were sitting at a table directly below a large glass dome. It was at that moment that an earthquake of Richter magnitude 6.2 struck near Mount Hamilton, about ten miles east of San José. There was no question from the outset that it was a significant temblor. My colleague literally freaked out, bolted from the table, and ran out the restaurant door. I quickly looked up and realized that she had the right idea.

At 5:04 P.M. on Tuesday, October 17, 1989, I was in our living room at home watching the beginning of Game 3 of the World Series telecast between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland A’s. It was at that moment that a magnitude 6.9 earthquake struck in the Santa Cruz Mountains near Loma Prieta Peak, about twenty miles south of our home in San José. Again, there was no question about the severity of this temblor. A six-foot tall bookshelf in our master bedroom crashed to the floor. Some of the Waterford crystal glasses in our China cabinet got knocked over and broke. Other than that, the only consequence we experienced in our family was a severe case of frayed nerves.

The past 33 years have been relatively quiet here in Santa Clara County. We’ve had a few minor quakes which caught our attention, and there have been hundreds, if not thousands, of temblors which were so small they were not noticed by the general public. That streak of peacefulness ended this morning.

At 11:42 A.M. today, Tuesday, October 25, 2022, (Hmmm… I see a pattern here.) a 5.1 quake jolted the South Bay. The epicenter was similar to the 1984 temblor — about twelve miles east of San José, not far from Mount Hamilton. My oldest son, Tom, is Principal at Morrill Middle School on the northeast side of San José. Everyone felt it, and evacuated the school as a precaution. My middle son, Steve, teaches at Most Holy Trinity School in east San José. Steve said the quake rocked the school building, causing students and teachers to drop, cover, and hold. When it was safe to do so, they, too, evacuated the building. Fortunately, there were no injuries and no damage at either location.

Kathy and I had just picked up our granddaughter, Penny, at her preschool in Saratoga. We, along with Penny’s little sister, Scarlett, were in the car driving back to our home. We didn’t feel anything. We were alerted to the quake when Steve called us to make certain that his girls were safe. There were a few aftershocks throughout the afternoon, but all of lesser magnitude. We didn’t feel any of those, either.

People living in the South deal with hurricanes and tornadoes. Midwest residents cope with tornadoes and frigid temperatures. The East Coast gets hit with brutal Nor’easters from time to time. And California, well, we experience occasional earthquakes. The damages from these natural disasters depend, of course, on the severity of the event. As a native Californian, I am well aware of the potential danger of a major earthquake. The music group Shango reminded us of this in their 1969 hit song Day After Day. (Click to hear the song.)

So yes, I’m grateful, tremendously grateful, to have reached the age of 68 with only two nerve-rattling earthquakes under my belt. (I don’t consider today’s temblor to be one of those.) Will “the big one” hit us some day? Geologists predict that it will. I hope to be visiting Ireland if and when it does.   

For Your Consideration

Hymn For The Hurting
by Amanda Gorman

Everything hurts,
Our hearts shadowed and strange,
Minds made muddied and mute.
We carry tragedy, terrifying and true.
And yet none of it is new;
We knew it as home,
As horror,
As heritage.
Even our children
Cannot be children,
Cannot be.

Everything hurts.
It’s a hard time to be alive,
And even harder to stay that way.
We’re burdened to live out these days,
While at the same time, blessed to outlive them.
This alarm is how we know
We must be altered —
That we must differ or die,
That we must triumph or try.
Thus while hate cannot be terminated,
It can be transformed
Into a love that lets us live.

May we not just grieve, but give:
May we not just ache, but act;
May our signed right to bear arms
Never blind our sight from shared harm;
May we choose our children over chaos.
May another innocent never be lost.
Maybe everything hurts,
Our hearts shadowed & strange.
But only when everything hurts
May everything change.

"After further review..."

 

The older I get, the more I realize…

…that happiness has little to do with one’s financial status in life.

…that I’ve allowed the opinions of others to have too much power in my life.

…how foolish it is to expect things to remain the same. They don’t.

…that it was through the kindness and generosity of others that I came to recognize the God-given gifts with which I was blessed.

…that faith in God and faith in the Catholic Church, as an institution, are two very different realities.

…how little I actually know about life.

…what a minuscule difference I’ve actually made in the world.

…how blessed I was to be born to my father and mother.

…how fortunate I was to live my life in the San Francisco Bay Area.

…how grateful I am for the opportunity to earn an undergraduate degree at Santa Clara University and a graduate degree at the University of San Francisco.

…that Kathy is probably the only woman in the world who would have put up with me for all these years.

…how difficult it must have been for my three boys to attend the high school in which I taught.

…that coffee is not something I will learn to like.

…that there is a long-term cost to all those summer tans I worked so hard to get in my younger years.

…that older people don’t drive slowly because they are overly-cautious. We drive slowly because we’re not in a hurry to get anywhere.

…that technology is both a blessing and a curse.

…that horseback riding is over-rated.

…that few things in life compare to a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies.

…that the best thing to make for dinner is reservations.

…that autumn is the absolute best season of the year.

…how important it is to drink water — lots of water — every day.

…that no matter what I say or what I write, some people will disagree with me.

…that it is unfair to judge my elementary school classmates today by the memories I have of them when we were thirteen years old.

…that being kind to others makes me feel good.

…that there are many things in this world that I am simply incapable of doing.

…that whether I walk 10,000 steps a day or 10,000 steps a month, eventually I’m going to die, and that’s okay.

…that true friendships require nourishment — more nourishment than I’ve provided for many of my friends.

…that CBD cream makes my knees feel better.

…that when a parent dies, especially the second one, there is a void in life which simply cannot be filled.

…that grandchildren are amazing gifts from God that nourish my soul.

…that time alone at the beach is time well-spent.

…how small the world really is, and how likely it is to meet someone for the first time and realize that you have mutual friends.

…that prayer does not require kneeling, rosary beads, or specific formulas. Rather, prayer can be an ongoing, informal conversation with God throughout each day.

…that it is not only possible, but likely that we will learn something new every day, if we are open to this possibility.

I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here to give you an opportunity to consider some of your own responses to the prompt.

The Rivalry Continues

S.I. vs Bellarmine - September 23, 2022

A high school football game can generate some vivid memories.

On June 3, 1972, I graduated from high school and the next day, I celebrated my 18th birthday. Significant as those events were for me, they paled in comparison to the chapter of my life which began on August 25, 1972. That’s the day I moved out of my childhood home on 38th Avenue in San Francisco and took up residence in San José. My new home was a dormitory. One might rightly expect that it was a college dorm, but it wasn’t. I had been hired to work as a “prefect” in the student dormitory at Bellarmine College Preparatory, a Jesuit high school located just a mile from Santa Clara University. Approximately 150 high school students lived on campus at Bellarmine. College students were hired to supervise these students during non-school hours in exchanged for room and board. It was a memorable experience.

While most of the prefects were students at Santa Clara University, I chose to begin my college education at San José City College, located about three miles from the Bellarmine campus. 

Having grown up in the cold, foggy Sunset District in The City, I was grateful for the opportunity to enjoy warmer daytime and evening temperatures in the South Bay. I recall going to some of the Bellarmine football games at Buck Shaw Stadium, on the campus of Santa Clara University, in the fall of '72 and not needing a jacket. I also enjoyed riding my 10-speed bike in the evening hours wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It was a very different experience from my childhood years in The City.

These memories, and more, came to mind last night as I sat in the stands at San José City College to watch S.I. play Bellarmine once again. Buck Shaw Stadium no longer exists, having been replaced by a soccer stadium after Santa Clara dropped the football program in 1992. Bellarmine now plays their home games at San José City College. It was a beautiful evening. The temperature at game time (7:30 p.m.) was 81º. As I looked around the stadium, I thought about how much has changed since 1972. 

I chose to sit on the visitors’ side of the field. My dual-loyalty allows me to feel comfortable on either side. I spent four years as a student at St. Ignatius and five years as an employee at Bellarmine, where, in addition to my job as a prefect, I taught part-time for three years. Prior to the game, I had brief conversations with a number of former Bellarmine colleagues, students, and parents. Strangely, I recognized no one on the S.I. side of the stadium.

As I looked across the field, I was impressed to see that the home team stands were filled to capacity. About one-third of the seats were occupied by an energetic and vocal group of students. The Bellarmine band occupied a sizable section of seats near mid-field. The rest of the available seating was used by a combination of parents, alumni, and faculty. It was an impressive sight, especially when compared with the visitors’ side of the field, where only a small portion of the seating area was occupied, mostly by parents, siblings, and a few junior varsity players who stayed to watch the varsity game. This is quite different from my memory of S.I. road games in the early ‘70s, when “rooter busses” would transport a sizable number of S.I. students to games at Bellarmine, Mitty, and St. Francis.

Much has changed over the past fifty years, but the on-field competition between the two Jesuit schools continues. Last night, Bellarmine prevailed by a score of 34-14.

Finding Inspiration in Words

For most of my life, I’ve been a lover of quotes. In no particular order of importance, here are ten quotes I find inspiring: 

“If you only read the books
that everyone else is reading,
you can only think
what everyone else is thinking.” 
~ Haruki Murakami

“We may ignore,
but we can nowhere evade
the presence of God.
The world is crowded
with Him.
He walks everywhere incognito.” 
~ C.S. Lewis

“Seek respect, not attention.
It lasts longer.” 
~ Zaid Abdelnour 

“If you are afraid to fail,
you will never do the things
you are capable of doing.” 
~ John Wooden

“Life is what happens when
you’re making other plans.” 
~ John Lennon

“Not in doing what you like,
but in liking what you do
is the secret of happiness.” 
~ J.M. Barrie

“In the beginning, there is light
and two wide-eyed figures
standing near the foot of your bed
and the sound of their voices is love.” 
~ Matt De La Peña

“All we have to decide is
what to do with the
time that is given to us.” 
~ J.R.R. Tolkien

“Life isn’t about finding yourself.
Life is about creating yourself.” 
~ George Bernard Shaw

“It always seems impossible
until it’s done.” 
~ Nelson Mandela 

These are just a few of the thousands of quotes I’ve come across in my lifetime — words which have helped me to understand and navigate this journey of life. The words of famous people, intelligent people, wise people, and people we’ve never heard of can provide us with tremendous inspiration. I use quotes regularly in my writing, yet I rarely consider anything I write to be a “quotable quote” — until recently. 

Last week, in a text message to a friend, I wrote the following line. It was not meant to be a memorable quote. It was just a simple statement from my heart. It was only after receiving a response from my friend that I realized what beautiful words I’d written. A quotable quote? That’s for the reader to decide.

“The closest I’ve ever felt
to being with God
is time spent
with my mother.”
~ Kevin Carroll 

Holding Mom's Hand

“Nothing in this world compares to the
comfort and security of having someone
just hold your hand.”

~ Richelle Goodrich

I woke up this morning, as I do most mornings, slowly. My eyes struggled to open, but my body did not move. I was warm, comfortable, and quite content. It usually takes a few minutes before I make a serious effort to get up. This morning, however, while similar to most mornings in many ways, was a different experience. As I lazily emerged into consciousness to begin another day, I felt a hand cradled in my right hand. It took me a moment to recognize this and, when I did, my first thought was that it was Kathy’s hand. It wasn’t. I focused on my hand again. I could still feel the other hand. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to let go of that soft, warm hand. I had an overwhelming sense that I knew whose hand I was holding.

If someone else had written the previous paragraph, and I had read it, two possibilities would have crossed my mind. The first one, to be honest, I don’t even want to mention. The second is that the person was hallucinating, dreaming, or in some other way not thinking straight. But I did write that paragraph. I did experience waking up to the feeling of a hand in mine. And I did consciously experience this phenomenon for more than just a minute or two. 

I can hear it now. “He’s lost it.” Right? Some might attribute my experience to a quirk of grief. Others might call it wishful thinking. Still others might think it’s too weird to seriously consider and just blow it off. I honestly don’t know what to make of it, but I know what I felt.

In time, I had to acknowledge to myself that my right hand was empty, so I got up to begin my day, but it was, in some ways, a surreal day. The memory of that hand, along with the feelings of warmth, love, and security which accompanied it, were vivid throughout the day. 

I don’t know what to make of this experience. It happened. I’m grateful that it happened. It is an experience I would like to have again.    

Good Grief

 

My father’s death in 2008 was so sudden,… so unexpected. Sure, we all know that our parents will die some day, but Dad was only 82 and I’d had a wonderful, unusually long phone conversation with him about an hour before he fell down the stairs in our family home and sustained major head trauma. I was totally unprepared. I was totally devastated.

That first week, the days between his death and his funeral, I was numb. I wasn’t experiencing the five stages of grief described by the Swiss-American psychologist Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. There was no denying that Dad was gone. I wasn’t angry. Depression had not yet set in. I saw no use in bargaining, as what was done was done. And I certainly had not reached the point of acceptance. I was in an indescribable zone.

In the weeks and months following Dad’s funeral service, I found myself deep in depression. I had never experienced such darkness. I struggled through the unfamiliar territory, mostly keeping everything pent-up inside me. There was an aloneness with which I didn’t know how to cope. I wasn’t suicidal, and despite my Irish heritage, I didn’t drink my sorrows away. Instead, I started reading — about grief. In each book I read, I picked up a few pearls of wisdom to take with me on my journey of grief. I also took every opportunity to drive over the hill to Santa Cruz and sit in my lawn chair overlooking Monterey Bay. Those strategies, plus the passage of time, enabled me to heal.

My mother’s death was not sudden. We all saw it coming. She was 92 years old. She’d be 93 on September 15th. I had the opportunity to spend an extraordinary amount of time with Mom in the final month of her life. We talked, until we couldn’t. I held her hand. I sang to her. And, for the most part, I was simply with her in those final days. I will be forever grateful that my three siblings were equally committed to being with Mom during that time. When Mom passed, I was prepared. There was no feeling of devastation. Rather, there was an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Mom lived a good life, and, when the time came, she was ready to go. Her death was peaceful. I realized, as Mom was going through the process of dying, that she was teaching us all how to die, just as she had taught us all how to live. What a gift!

It’s not that I haven’t or won’t experience grief associated with the loss of my mother. I have, and I will. The difference between now and 2008 is that I am much more familiar with the process of grief. It’s not as simple as “time heals all wounds.” It’s much more complicated than that. I came across a quote that seems to hit the nail on the head when it comes to the unpredictability of grief. The quote, which was not attributed to anyone in particular, states:

“Grief is like glitter. You can throw a handful of glitter into the air, but when you try to clean it up, you’ll never get all of it. Even long after the event, you will still find glitter tucked into corners. It will always be there — somewhere.”

As cartoonist Charles Schulz’ popular character, Charlie Brown, seemed to understand so well, there is such a thing as “good grief.” We don’t have to allow grief to paralyze us. Most of us have played with a beach ball in a swimming pool, so we all know how challenging it can be to hold the beach ball underwater for a prolonged period of time. We get tired. We get distracted. And we can’t do much of anything else while trying to do so. Grief can do this to us, too. It is much healthier to allow it to come to the surface, recognize it for what it is, and move it off to the side so that we can be functional members of society again.   

Patience and Prayers

“I have no fear of death,
except I hate waiting for it.”

Doug Stanhope

My mother would be in full agreement with these words by American comedian Doug Stanhope. Mom is not afraid to die, but she has made it quite clear that the process of dying is taking much too long. It’s ironic that her mother, on her own deathbed in 1992, said the same thing. We may have control over our attitude about death, but we have little control over the dying process itself.

As I write this, I’m sitting next to my Mom’s bed at the Villa Siena Retirement Community. It’s 7:08 p.m. on Wednesday, August 17th. For the past several years, at this time in the evening, I would be preparing to FaceTime with Mom. At the beginning of the pandemic lockdown in March 2020, instead of calling on the telephone each evening, we would visit via FaceTime. It was a weak replacement for personal visits, but it served us well. Even as life began to return to some semblance of normalcy, we continued our 7:15 p.m. FaceTime chats. We don’t do this any more.

Mom’s doctor informed us this morning that Mom has entered into the “active dying” phase of hospice care, meaning that her body is beginning to shut down. It won’t be long before she leaves us. While it is sad to see, any sense of grief is overshadowed by a tremendous sense of gratitude. Mom is ready to die. She is not afraid of death. She welcomes it as an inevitable part of the cycle of life. Her positive attitude toward her impending death has enabled my siblings and me to embrace the same positive attitude. Mom is dying. I’m happy… for her.

Mom surprised us today by asking to get up. Using the wheelchair provided by hospice, we rolled her out into the Villa Siena courtyard where she enjoyed the warm afternoon sun and some music. Mom and I even had an opportunity to dance one last dance… sort of. When the Little Richard song “Good Golly Miss Molly” came on, I couldn’t help but take my mother’s hands and move a little. Very little. When the song ended, Mom smiled.

Now she’s back in bed enjoying a deep sleep. We don’t know how much time we have left with Mom. From seeing her laying in bed, one might think that she could pass tonight. It’s also possible that she could live for another few days. The timeline is in God’s hands, not ours, but we still have the opportunity to be with Mom, to share in her journey toward death, and to remember, with gratitude, the blessing she has been, continues to be, and will continue to be to us.   

Saying Our Goodbyes

 

On the Monday after Thanksgiving 1992, my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with leukemia. The doctor predicted that she would die before Christmas. She did. In those precious days between the diagnosis and her death, Grandma wanted to say her goodbyes to her children and grandchildren. The experience was both healing and heartbreaking, yet I will always be grateful for that opportunity to say goodbye.

On July 31, 2008, my Dad died quite unexpectedly. There were no opportunities for goodbyes. Coping with the grief of Dad’s passing was excruciating for me, and I’m sure that not having that closure on our relationship exacerbated the situation.

My siblings and I are now savoring the final days with my Mom. She’s been in hospice care for almost two weeks. She has moments of energy, but, for the most part, spends her days in bed waiting to die. While that may sound morbid, Mom is totally ready to go. In fact, at this point, she’s wondering what’s taking so long. 

I think these final days have been a blessing for Mom. I know they’ve been a blessing to me. Mom has had the opportunity to say her goodbyes to her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, her sister, and a number of other family members. She has also been graced with visits from a number of her friends who are residents or employees at the Villa Siena Retirement Community where Mom has lived for the past ten years. They have become family, too. I’m grateful for all those who have taken the time to stop in and visit with Mom these past couple of weeks.

I am also tremendously grateful for the opportunity to share this challenging journey with my siblings. Tom, Cathy, and Peggy have always cared for Mom, but in these final days, the time is more precious, and the experience of family has been… well,… sacred. When we are together with Mom in her room, the awareness of God’s presence is unmistakeable. The Scriptures tell us that “God is love.” Mom has been a constant source of love for all of us throughout our lifetime — a love which has been reciprocated freely, often, and with gratitude.

As Mom approaches the end of her earthly journey, we are grateful for the opportunity to say our goodbyes, to pray our goodbyes, and to be supported by so many family and friends who have expressed their condolences and offered prayers for Mom — and for us. For now, Mom is resting comfortably, and waiting to meet her God. 

“What we have once enjoyed deeply
we can never lose.
All that we love deeply
becomes a part of us.”

Helen Keller

 

These Are The Good Old Days

“The boundaries which divide
life from death are,
at best, shadowy and vague.
Who shall say
where one ends
and where the other begins?”

~ Edgar Allan Poe

What happens when a loved one dies? Where does he go? How does she get there? Is there really a “there” somewhere? The truth is, I suppose, that no one knows for certain. There have been many accounts of individuals who claim to have crossed over into the afterlife only to return and talk about it. I have no reason to question their experiences, but the concept is both unfamiliar to me and, to be honest, a bit incomprehensible. 

The reality of death, however, is quite real. I have experienced the passing of loved ones — family members, close friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. What is unclear to me is what happens to them when they die. My faith has taught me, from my earliest days, that there is life after death, and that the ultimate goal of our earthly lives is to earn our place in Heaven. Some claim that a place called Hell exists. I understand the reasoning behind such a belief, but my understanding, limited as it is, is that God is all-loving and all-forgiving, and that our place in Heaven cannot be earned. Rather, it is a gift from our Creator. Maybe I’m right, or maybe I’m wrong. Ah, yes,… and then there’s Purgatory, the celestial waiting room for those who must pay their dues before entering into their Heavenly home. An interesting concept, to be sure.

Contemporary music often sheds a ray of light on the challenging issues of our day. Someone pointed out to me several years ago that it’s interesting to note that Led Zeppelin sings of a Stairway to Heaven, while AC/DC refers to a Highway to Hell — an interesting commentary on the expected travel plans of humans today. If there is a stairway to Heaven, is there also an escalator to Heaven to comply with the “reasonable accommodation” requirement of the 1991 Americans with Disabilities Act? Just wondering.

Continuing with my reflection on the contribution of popular music to real-life issues, the 1971 Carly Simon hit single, Anticipation, urges us to recognize that “these are the good old days.” The song also describes what I am going through at this very moment. It’s 11:00 p.m. and I’m with my mother in her room at the Villa Siena Retirement Community. She is sleeping soundly right now, though her breathing has been a bit laborious tonight. Mom began her journey of hospice care this past Wednesday. No one can say for sure if this journey will be a long one, or if it will end in the near future. We just don’t know. And so, we wait — with hope, with love, with anticipation, and with a tremendous sense of gratitude for a life well-lived. As the legendary Bob Dylan wrote, Mom is Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.

In 1999, the Christian rock group MercyMe released their hit single I Can Only Imagine. This song, too, seems very apropos for this discussion. Since we do not know with any degree of certainty what will greet our loved ones when they die, we are invited to dip-in to the treasure chest of our faith and imagine what the experience might be like. When we do so, we can rightfully take solace in the lyrics of Bobby McFerrin’s 1988 classic, Don’t Worry, Be Happy.    

Oh,... right!

“When we are no longer able
to change a situation,
we are challenged to change ourselves.”

~ Viktor Frankl

It’s not easy. We are constantly inundated with news, information, and frightening warnings about poverty, climate change, Covid-19, future pandemic preparation and response, corruption in government, accessibility to healthcare, mental health, homelessness, cyber security, disinformation, the debt crisis, gun violence, and so much more. For many, the weight of these critical issues prevents them from living life to the fullest and maintaining a sense of hope for the future. It’s important that, despite the realities of these crises, we are invited, challenged, and urged to focus on gratitude. 

How do we do this in the shadow of such despair in our world? As I mentioned, it’s not easy — but it is possible.

It has often been said that we are more likely to find what we look for. Those looking for trouble are usually able to find it without much difficulty. Those seeking friendships are more inclined to engage in meaningful, healthy relationships. With a bit of patience and persistence, those seeking employment, success, or happiness are apt to experience these things. 

Since my journey of gratitude began in late November 2006, I have come to realize that the most essential ingredient to recognizing the good which exists in the world is gratitude. When we focus on gratitude, we begin to recognize what we do have, rather than what we don’t have. When we focus on gratitude, we are better able to see the good, rather than the bad, being done by people in the world. When we focus on gratitude, our mindset shift enables us to acknowledge that, despite the evil that exists in our world, people are basically good. 

The tsunami of negativity from the media can be overwhelming, discouraging, and downright depressing. It’s crucial that we recognize that the media, while posing as a disseminator of information, is actually little more than a form of entertainment subsidized by corporate sponsors. Through the years, those in the news media have come to understand that sponsors demand viewers, and that an alarming number of viewers are captivated by negativity. Perhaps you may have noticed the lone, predictable, “feel good” story at the conclusion of most news broadcasts. Bad news sells. Sensationalism sells. And news media is big business.

We must take responsibility for our own peace of mind. We must focus on the good in our lives — the good people, the good experiences, and the good opportunities. Acknowledging our gratitude for these people and things, and expressing our gratitude to others whenever possible, allows the clouds of doom and gloom over our heads to dissipate, enabling light, joy, and hope to envelop us. Only then can we truly begin to live life to the fullest.     

Oracle Park

 

Some are filled with history. Others have a unique charm. Some have that classic baseball appearance. A few are just plain quirky. There are even several that were used as the setting for memorable movies. Many are adorned with large statues commemorating some of the great athletes who competed there. On the walls of the upper deck hang reminders of championships won and the numbers of retired players who excelled during their time in the Big Leagues. The stadiums of the thirty Major League Baseball teams have drawn the attention of fans for generations. No small number of people have made a point of visiting all thirty stadiums — a rite of passage, of sorts, for true fans of the sport. Baseball stadiums seem to have some magical charm.

Many years ago, when I first composed a “Bucket List” for my life, I included Fenway Park in Boston and Wrigley Field in Chicago on my list of places I would like to visit before I die. Both are historic venues which have hosted America’s game for well over one hundred years. I’ve never been to either stadium, but I was always envious of Red Sox and Cubs fans because their stadiums had charm, history, and a bit of quirkiness. The San Francisco Giants played their home games at Candlestick Park, a cold, concrete monstrosity that lacked any sense of charm.  

In April 2000, after forty years of games at Candlestick Park, the San Francisco Giants moved into their new home at 24 Willie Mays Plaza in the China Basin area of The City. After a regrettable series of name changes, the stadium is now known as Oracle Park. The structure, in my humble opinion, is the most beautiful venue for sports in the entire country. Perched alongside what has come to be known as McCovey Cove, Oracle Park offers attendees spectacular views of the San Francisco Bay, including the two-part Bay Bridge, which connects The City to Oakland, home of the Oakland Athletics of the American League.

Attending a Giants’ game at Oracle Park is an absolute delight. I’ll admit that I don’t get to too many games, but thanks to my sister, Cathy, who generously shares her partial season tickets with her family and friends, I usually get to a couple of games each season. Cathy’s seats are located in the lower section of the upper deck, just above the first base line. The perspective on the game is incredible, and the east-southeast view out onto San Francisco Bay is absolutely breathtaking. Even when the events on the field are dismal, as they sometimes are, the view makes the trip to the ballpark well worth the effort.

I no longer have any sports stadiums on my Bucket List. I’ve been to Oracle Park. I’ve seen the signature Coca Cola bottle beyond the left field fence. I’ve sat on the replica San Francisco cable car beyond the center field fence. And I’ve seen home run balls splash into McCovey Cove beyond the right field wall. For me, visiting any other venue would come up short in comparison.   

Real Love

 

The image above was posted on Facebook late last night by Dr. Diane Dreher, one of my former professors from Santa Clara University, who is now a life coach focusing on positive psychology. The first thought that came to mind when I read the words on the image was of a Boston cream pie. Let me explain.

In the early 1960s, the Vicente Bakery, so named because of its location on Vicente Street between 42nd and 43rd Avenues, was my family’s go-to establishment for baked goods. I always enjoyed watching the baker guide our fresh loaf of warm cinnamon bread with cinnamon streusel topping through the slicing machine before wrapping it in a clear plastic bag. I’m sure the bakery sold donuts, as well, but for those, we would either go to Billy’s Donut Shop on Taraval or wait for the yellow Colonial Bakery truck to ramble up 38th Avenue with drawers filled with donuts and pastries. Ah, such pleasant memories… but about that Boston cream pie…

In mid-September around 1963, for what would have been my mother’s 34th birthday, I decided to employ a gift-giving strategy I had recently learned. Even today, it sounds like solid advice: purchase a gift you’d like to have for yourself. As I got older, of course, I realized the limitations of this approach to gift-giving, but as a nine-year-old third grader, it made sense to me at the time. So with probably no more than two dollars in the pocket of my jeans, I walked down Vicente Street from 38th Avenue to the bakery. I knew I had the perfect birthday gift for my mother. Yes,… a Boston cream pie.

If I’m not mistaken, the baker even scrolled “Happy Birthday, Mom!” on top of the pie. I should mention that this special dessert is actually more of a cake than a pie. Apparently, it got its name when cakes and pies were cooked in the same pans, and the terms were used interchangeably. It consists of (from the bottom up) a layer of yellow cake, a layer of custard, and another layer of yellow cake topped with chocolate frosting. It was my favorite dessert in all the world, so I thought it would be the perfect birthday gift for my Mom. Now, back to the image above.

Like the rabbit which brought the flower to the little boy, my intentions were good. In retrospect, however, I can’t help but laugh at the innocent self-centeredness of my gift selection. And like the little boy, my mother was grateful for my thoughtfulness. Perhaps my gift wasn’t perfect, but Mom knew it was real, and that’s all that mattered at the moment. In fact, that’s all that matters now, too. I’ve learned through my lifetime that the term “perfect love” is an oxymoron. Love isn’t perfect, and the concept of perfect love isn’t real. We would all do ourselves well to embrace and appreciate the imperfect love we experience in our lives and to recognize that it is so much more valuable than perfect love — because it’s real.

Oh, and yes, in 1963, one could purchase a Boston cream pie for under two dollars!  

A Lesson in Aging

"Getting old is like climbing a mountain.
you get a little out of breath,
but the view is much better!"

~ Ingrid Bergman

This story was posted on the Facebook page of one of my former students from Saint Augustine’s College in the Bahamas. Gregory Thompson is a meteorologist at the Bahamas Weather Service in Nassau and a deacon in his church.

An Airbus 380 was on its way across the Atlantic. It flew consistently at 800 km/h at 30,000 feet. Suddenly, a Eurofighter with a Tempo Mach 2 appeared.

The pilot of the fighter jet slowed down and flew alongside the Airbus. He greeted the pilot of the passenger plane by radio: "Airbus, boring flight isn’t it? Check this out!”

With that, he rolled his jet on its back, accelerated sharply, broke through the sound barrier, rose rapidly to a dizzying height, and then swooped down almost to sea level in a breathtaking dive. 

He looped back along side the Airbus and asked the pilot, "Well, how was that?"

The Airbus pilot answered: "Very impressive, but watch this!"

The jet pilot watched the Airbus, but nothing happened. It continued to fly straight, at the same speed. After fifteen minutes, the Airbus pilot radioed the Eurofighter pilot, "Well, how was that?”

Confused, the jet pilot asked, "What did you do?"

The Airbus pilot laughed and said, "I got up, stretched my legs, walked to the back of the aircraft to use the washroom, then got a cup of coffee and a chocolate fudge pastry.”

The moral of the story is this: When you’re young, speed and adrenaline seem to be great. But as you get older and wiser, you learn that comfort and peace are far more important.

Dedicated to all my friends who, like me, as seniors, now realize that it’s time to slow down and enjoy the rest of the trip.  

Thank you, Gregory, for sharing this story. Yes, what motivates us most certainly does change through the years.

Good Night, June!

To say that the month of June 2022 was a busy month would be an understatement. The first weekend began with breakfast with a cherished college friend, followed by a trip to San Francisco for two book signing events and a two school reunion events at St. Ignatius College Prep. The second weekend of June began with lunch and a doctor appointment with my mother on Friday and a family lunch with my kids and grandkids on Saturday at the Garret Station in Los Gatos for a belated celebration of my birthday. 

The third week of June began with another trip to The City for lunch with an elementary school classmate, a visit to BookShop West Portal to promote my new book, and a stop in Redwood City to visit an author friend who was having difficulty creating posts for his Facebook page. On the third Saturday, we had a wonderful celebration of my grand-daughter Penny’s second birthday. Oh, and Sunday was Father’s Day. 

The last full week of June included Wednesday brunch at the Boulevard Café in Los Gatos and dinner that evening at Mio Vicino in Santa Clara to celebrate Kathy’s birthday. I also enjoyed an afternoon of live music and root beer floats with my Mom at her retirement community in Mountain View. On Thursday, I got together for lunch and conversation with one of my neighbors at a local café before heading over to San José International Airport to greet some of Kathy’s cousins who were arriving for the events of the weekend.

Now,… about the weekend… On Friday the 24th, we celebrated a memorial Mass for Kathy’s mother, who passed away at the end of April. This was followed by a well-attended reception of family and friends. Several of Kathy’s siblings came to our home for dinner that evening. On Saturday night, Kathy’s family gathered at the Aloft Hotel in San José to celebrate Kathy’s 65th birthday. The party had been planned prior to Norma’s death, so a decision was made to have the memorial Mass that same weekend, since cousins from Chicago and family members from Seattle and Eureka would be in town. It was a delightful party.

Following a much-needed day of rest on Sunday, Kathy and I took two Chicago cousins to The City on Monday to visit Pier 39, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Ghirardelli Square. We ended our day with a relaxing dinner at Santana Row in San José.

And yesterday, Kathy and I celebrated our 37th wedding anniversary with a nice dinner in downtown Campbell. 

So yes, June was an enjoyable, but exhausting month. I’m grateful for the arrival of July. So far, I have only one commitment on my calendar for this new month, and that’s not until the 22nd. I know things will be added to my calendar as the month progresses, but, for now, I’m grateful to look ahead and see so much down time. I need it.  

It's Summer Time!

 

It’s official. Summer has arrived, and with it, an afternoon temperature of 100º in West San José today. I’m hoping this is not a foreshadowing of what’s to come in the next three months. An occasional day or two of near-100º temps is to be expected each year, so, at this point, I’m not alarmed. It does seem to me, however, that, in recent years, each summer seems to be a bit warmer than the previous one. Time will tell.

Despite the unusually warm weather today, I am grateful that summer has arrived. Not surprisingly, during my years in education, first as a student, then as a teacher, I didn’t just enjoy my summer breaks — I needed them. I would often take the first couple of weeks just to unwind from the stress associated with the end-of-year demands of my job. In my retirement, it’s quite a different experience. No longer do I have to worry about closing up a classroom for the summer, ordering text books and classroom supplies, or finalizing grades. I am no longer required to create curriculum maps for the upcoming academic year, attend professional development sessions, or renew any certifications which may be close to expiring. My summer is mine to do what I want. Well,… sort of.

While I plan to continue blogging, I’m going to take a break from writing anything more right now. I’m waiting for the inspiration fairy to bonk me on the head with an idea for another project, but that has not happened yet. This gives me the opportunity to use the time available to us (Kathy and me) to get out and explore the Bay Area… and beyond. June is always a busy month for us with numerous birthdays and anniversaries to celebrate. July and early-August should provide a fair amount of time for us to plan a few short trips. 

One thing, in particular, that I enjoy about the summer months is the opportunity to be outside and to interact with people. Walking through the neighborhood, I see that people are outside more — gardening, walking dogs, or working on their cars. In the condominium complex where we live, neighbors spend more time outside during the summer, after what seems to be a period of hibernation during the winter months. The smell of barbecued food enhances the late-afternoon ambiance of the complex, and neighbors get reacquainted around the pool. It’s a magical time.

Perhaps the most notable difference between the summers of my younger years and today is that I now seek shade, rather than lay in the sun trying to get the perfect summer tan. Those days are over. I enjoyed them while they lasted, but the dermatological consequences have taught me lessons I wish I’d learned much earlier in life.

As is always the case, I’m sure this summer will pass much too quickly. Kids will return to school, parents will re-focus on their jobs, and the cooler, more colorful days of autumn will gently settle in. This is anything but a disappointment to me, as autumn is my favorite season of the year. As is most always the case, there is so much for which to be grateful.   

City of Champions!

“Champions never complain.
They are too busy getting better.”

~ John Wooden

I will readily admit that I’m not an avid fan of professional sports. I was when I was younger, but changes in the industry through the years, many of which have been detrimental to the average sports fan, have rendered professional sports inaccessible, and therefore irrelevant to me. Despite this, however, I do find myself drawn to the end-of-season playoffs in football, basketball, and baseball — especially when a local team is involved.

Growing up in the 1960s in San Francisco, championships in professional sports were things fans in other cities experienced. The San Francisco Giants made it to the World Series in 1962, but were defeated by the always formidable New York Yankees. The Warriors and 49ers, while occasionally entertaining, also failed to win a championship in my childhood. That’s just how it was.

Things began to change in the mid-70s when the Golden State Warriors stunned the basketball world by sweeping the Washington Bullets in the 1975 NBA finals. Just a few years later, in 1982, the San Francisco 49ers held off a talented Cincinnati Bengals team to win their first Super Bowl. They would go on to win four more championships in 1985, 1989, 1990, and 1995. For the first time, the word “dynasty” was being associated with a San Francisco sports franchise.

In 2010, the San Francisco Giants made the most of their appearance in the World Series by defeating the Texas Rangers in five games. Two years later, the Giants did what no one thought could be done that year when they defeated the powerful Detroit Tigers. Not only did the Giants win the Series, they did so with four straight victories. Then, when San Francisco won the National League pennant again in 2014, they went on to defeat the Kansas City Royals with a Game 7 World Series win. In this epic contest, Giants’ pitcher Madison Bumgarner came out of the bullpen to pitch five scoreless innings in relief to seal a close 3-2 Giants victory and the title. Again, the term “dynasty” was being tossed about.

Now it’s the Warriors turn to hear the “D” word applied to them. In 2015, Golden State defeated the Cleveland Cavaliers for the NBA title. In 2016, after taking a 3-1 lead in the NBA Finals, the Warriors let the championship slip away as Cleveland came back to win the Finals in seven games. The same two teams met again in 2017 and 2018. The Warriors were victorious in both of these championship series. Golden State made it to the Finals, once again, in 2019, but lost in six games to the Toronto Raptors.

After two injury-plagued seasons, the Warriors pulled off an unlikely feat tonight in Boston when they defeated the Boston Celtics in Game 6 of the Finals to win the 2022 NBA Championship. Dynasty? Well, there’s a lot to be said for a team that plays in the NBA Finals six times in eight years and wins four NBA titles.

Despite the fact that I’m not an avid fan of professional sports, I am grateful for the successes I’ve witnessed by local teams in my lifetime. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to see athletes like Joe Montana, Jerry Rice, Roger Craig, Ronnie Lott, Buster Posey, Madison Bumgarner, Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Steph Curry, Klay Thompson, Rick Barry, and Draymond Green — all of whom so successfully represented the San Francisco Bay Area.  

Family Traditions and...

Throughout my childhood, my parents took my siblings and me to dinner at restaurants on a fairly regular basis. Part of the motivation, I’m sure, was to give my mother a break from cooking, but my parents also wanted to introduce us to the world of dining outside our home. It was important to them that we learn basic manners, how to behave in a restaurant, how to order from a menu, which fork was used for what, and how to pay for a meal. There were a few restaurants we frequented fairly often, including the New Tivoli in North Beach, the Riviera on Taraval Street, Westlake Joe’s in Daly City, and Sabella’s on Fisherman’s Wharf. I have wonderful memories of all these establishments.

Another place we would go to eat, though not as often, was the Claremont Hotel in the Berkeley hills. There was a restaurant there which served a buffet-style meal — salads, meats, fish, veggies, pasta, and, of course, mashed potatoes. There was a separate buffet-style dessert table against the wall. To be able to go back for a second helping of anything was quite a treat. The restaurant had a sliding-glass door to an outdoor patio which offered a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco. They even had a couple of those large binoculars which, for 25¢, would offer a closer view of The City. Venturing out onto that patio was a regular part of my post-meal adventures.

The Claremont Hotel became a place we would celebrate special events. When my maternal grandfather retired after a 44-year career at St. Elizabeth Hospital in The City, he treated us all to dinner with his first Social Security check. In later years, the Claremont was where we celebrated our 16th birthdays. One of these birthday celebrations stands out above all the others. Whether it was my brother Tom’s or my sister Cathy’s, I don’t recall. Either way, I would have been in sixth or seventh grade at the time.

What made this particular dinner so memorable was the unexpected treat of a performance by a group of Tahitian dancers. Apparently, the dance group was in the Bay Area for some events and stayed at the Claremont Hotel. Perhaps in exchange for a preferred room rate, they put on a performance in the restaurant the night we were there. The music, colors, drums, and energy were engaging. So, too, were the coconut-shell bras being worn by the women dancers.

At one point in their performance, the group took a break, so I ventured out onto the patio, as I often did. Much to my surprise, the Tahitian group was using an adjacent room as their dressing room — a room with windows looking out onto the patio. Yes, you guessed it. This young adolescent was treated to quite a sight as the dancers changed from their coconut shells to different attire for the next part of their performance.

I don’t recall having much interest in the 25¢ binoculars nor the breathtaking view of The City that evening. I found myself pleasantly distracted by our island visitors. 

When I reflect back on this experience, I can’t help but think of the youthful innocence of those kids in the movie The Sandlot. Yeah, I was old enough to know better, but such opportunities were rare in my childhood, and I was awestruck. 

I’m pretty sure I “forgot” to mention this incident to Father O’Shaughnessy in the confessional the following Saturday afternoon.   

More Than Just a Dollar

I spent my birthday in San Francisco last weekend attending a couple of social activities and two book signing events for my latest book, The Ambassador of 38th Avenue. So yesterday, Kathy and I met up with our three boys and their families for a belated birthday lunch at The Garret Station in Los Gatos. We had originally planned on having a barbecue at our home, but the hot weather convinced us that it would be best to move the celebration to an air conditioned venue. It was a good call.

Finding the perfect birthday gift for an older person can be a challenge. What do you get for someone who has everything he needs and is in want of nothing more? Well, the most obvious answer is to simply not get a gift. That’s what I was hoping for, and, for the most part, that’s how it was this year. I did, however, receive three gifts.

The first gift was a container of chocolate-coated almonds from Brendan. He knows my weaknesses, and chocolate-coated almonds are one of them. 

The second gift I received was a beautiful, hand-painted wind-chime from my granddaughter, Penny, who will turn two later this month. I hung it on the wall in my home office. I’m guessing that Penny had a little help with this from Mom and Dad.

The third gift was given to me by my granddaughter, Emily (age 5). We were sitting at the table in The Garret Station when she pulled a little coin purse from her pink backpack. She carefully unzipped the coin purse and pulled out a folded one dollar bill. Without saying a word, she handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a dollar,” Emily replied.

“Yes, but why are you giving it to me?”

“It’s your birthday gift, Papa!” she responded.

My heart melted.

What's Next?

“Often when you think you’re
at the end of something,
you’re at the beginning
of something else.”

~ Fred Rogers

 

What’s next? That’s a great question. When I made the decision to retire from teaching in June 2015, I knew what I wanted to do in my retirement. I wanted to write and publish a book. In October 2017, I published A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude. It is a selection of fifty blog posts from my “Attitude of Gratitude” blog. For each post, I added a quote at the beginning and a few reflection questions at the end, questions which invite readers to reflect on gratitude in their own lives. After two years of promoting the book by giving talks on the topic of gratitude at schools, churches, libraries, and a few community organizations, I got off-track when I responded to a need at a San José school.

In November 2019, I found myself back in the classroom as a long-term substitute teacher for the sixth and seventh grade English Language Arts classes at St. Victor School. I had not anticipated returning to the classroom, but I felt called to respond to the critical need in the school at that time. It was a wonderful experience — so much so that I was invited to stay on for the 2020-2021 academic year. I did. It was in that second year that I met Vivian Nguyen, a sixth grade student with amazing artistic ability. I sent her a copy of a poem I’d written a year or so before for my grandson, Liam. I asked if she might be interested in illustrating it. Vivian was excited at the opportunity and produced 49 incredible images during the summer of 2021. Cherries in the Summer was published in late September. NBC Bay Area did a nice segment on the book and Vivian’s amazing skill.

I then got to work on a book I’ve been wanting to write for a long time. It’s a memoir which shares forty important life lessons I’ve learned and the experiences through which I learned those lessons. The Ambassador of 38th Avenue was published in April.

The obvious question for me now is… what’s next? In the quote above, Fred Rogers reminds us that when we are at the end of something, we’re at the beginning of something else. I agree… but what? At this point in time, I honestly don’t know.

Strangely, I’m quite content with not knowing. Throughout my lifetime, the most significant life experiences I’ve undertaken have all been preceded by periods of not knowing what I would do next. In every instance, I was pleasantly surprised by the opportunity which was presented to me. I have a gut feeling the same will be true for this period of not knowing.

I am so tremendously grateful for the opportunities which have been offered to me throughout my lifetime. Many of them were life-changing. All of them have been blessings. I may not know what’s next right now, but I’m eager to take on a new challenge. 

Enough!

“People who love themselves
don’t hurt other people.”

~ Dan Pearce, Author

 

Middle school kids can be cruel, thoughtless, dishonest, belligerent, and downright mean. Of course, they can also be incredibly kind, thoughtful, honest, cooperative, and downright funny! As an educator, it’s easy to enjoy a group of students who are basically nice and considerate to their classmates. When such is not the case, however, teaching can be both challenging and disheartening.

In early June 1981, as the academic year was coming to an end, I let my seventh grade students at St. Christopher School in San José know that I was not only disappointed, but outraged by the way some of them treated their classmates. They were vicious and relentless in their bullying and exclusion of several of their more vulnerable classmates. No one had complained about this. Those who were bullied were probably accustomed to being treated that way by their classmates. I never received a complaint from a parent, but I was disgusted, and I let my students know this on the last day of school. Judging by the muttering I overheard as the students exited the classroom, it seemed that my message had not been not well-received.

Something magical happened during the summer of 1981. When those same students returned as eighth graders in September, they were different. Noticeably different. Their attitude, individually and collectively, was decidedly improved. They worked together collaboratively in the classroom and on the school yard. The cliques that had been so recognizable the previous year had dissolved. There seemed to be an amazing sense of collegiality among the kids. I hoped that this improvement would last throughout the academic year. It did. I don’t know that I have had a better experience of teaching than that 1981-82 academic year.

Fast forward forty years… to 2022. While middle school kids today can still be kind, thoughtful, honest, and cooperative, some also continue to be cruel, thoughtless, dishonest, and downright mean. But things have changed. Teachers today must be more careful about calling their students to accountability for their actions. Should they summon-up the courage to do so, teachers have to be prepared for backlash — from students who feel entitled to do and say whatever they damned well feel like doing and saying; from indignant parents who blindly believe that their children are models of excellence and incapable of being anything less than ideal citizens; and even administrators, who feel pressured by parents to discipline the teacher for what they perceive to be unprofessional behavior. Yes, calling students to accountability for their actions in an honest, straight-forward manner is considered by some parents today to be unprofessional behavior. Go figure.

I’m fairly confident that kids who are chastised by their teacher for inappropriate behavior today understand the validity of the teacher’s condemnation. Despite this, however, many of these same kids know that mommy or daddy will step-in to defend them, even though they know themselves that they were guilty of wrongdoing. The parents, then, verbally attack the teacher, and when the teacher stands firmly by what was said to the students, parents turn to the principal and/or higher authority figures demanding that action be taken against the teacher. Sadly, those in authority often submit to the parental pressure and treat the teacher as the problem. 

As is true in so many other areas of society today, we are moving in the wrong direction when it comes to calling children to accountability for their actions. Too many parents and school administrators lack the courage and integrity to support the professional teacher they hired to educate the whole child — which includes teaching the values we need our children to develop to be contributing members of society in the future. And we wonder why so many teachers are saying “Enough!” and exploring different career paths.

I am grateful for those educators who have the courage and integrity to tell it like it is and challenge their students to improve their attitude and behavior. The job of teachers today is to see in their students what the students don’t see in themselves — until they do.  

Uncle B

"Uncle: Like a Dad, only cooler."
~ Unknown

When I turned 30 in June 1984, I was single, unattached, and as content as one could possibly be with my life. I was certainly open to meeting someone with whom to share my life, but I was confident that I had not yet met her. In time, I did, and the rest is history. Yet in that summer of ’84, I had given some thought to the possibility of remaining single — and I was totally at peace with that possibility. I was preparing to begin a new career in August.

Now, in the summer of 2022, my son, Brendan, is 30. He is single, unattached, and seems to be quite content with his life. He’s open to the possibility meeting someone with whom to share his life, but he’s pretty sure that he has not yet met her. Whether he does or not remains to be seen, though I’m pretty sure there’s someone out there who will be his perfect soulmate. For now, Brendan seems content with his life. He has a good job with an outstanding organization which provides him with a decent wage, health benefits, and an excellent retirement program.

Brendan’s older brothers, Tom and Steve, are both married. Tom and his wife, Hillary, have two children, ages seven and five. Steve and his wife, Morgan, also have two children, ages two and seven months. All four of them are professional educators. The four grandkids, one boy and three girls, are beautiful — two are half-Filipino and two are half-Vietnamese. They love their parents, and, of course, their grandparents, too. But all four of the kids adore their “Uncle B.”

It was difficult for the little ones to say “Brendan” when they were younger, so the nickname “Uncle B” was used. It stuck. At first, it sounded more like “Unca B,” but as the kids developed their speech, the title was easier to pronounce.

Being an uncle is different from the role of parenting. While Brendan loves his nieces and nephew, and is concerned for their safety and well-being, he is not ultimately responsible for raising them. It’s a role similar to that of grandparent. We get to be the good guys, playing with the kids, providing treats, and loving them unconditionally, without the responsibility of being the primary disciplinarian. I would describe Brendan’s role as that of mentor — a wise and trusted counselor or teacher, a resource which will serve them well throughout their lifetime. While not having the primary responsibility for these kids, Brendan serves as an excellent role model for them. They seem to delight in the time they have with him when family gets together.

As a father and grandfather, there is no greater joy for me than to see my three sons happy to be together and raising a new generation of Carrolls with the support of extended family. Tom, Hillary, Steve, and Morgan are amazing parents, and Brendan is an awesome “Uncle B.”
 

Reality 2022

“Do not let the behavior of others
destroy your inner peace.”

~ Dalai Lama

 

We live in a society in which bad things happen. We all know this. Of course, good things happen, too, and though I’d like to believe that good things happen far more often than bad ones, some of the bad things that happen shake us to our very core.

Corporate greed contributes to a level of poverty in our nation which is both unacceptable and unnecessary. While salaries of CEOs and corporate profits continue to skyrocket, far too many Americans struggle to make ends meet due to inadequate pay for the work they do.

Alarming disdain for the laws of our land has created a reality in which any trip outside one’s home could result in one becoming a victim of violent crime or audacious driving.

If we look around us, we are sure to see some acts of kindness being performed, yet it’s the increasingly-common aggressive behavior of those who feel entitled to intimidate others that rattles our feathers.

The sharp rise in home burglaries and auto break-ins has been well-documented, yet little has been done to cope with this epidemic. The same can be said for the spike in attacks against members of the Asian-American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) community. The security we once felt regarding the inviolability of our lives and personal possessions has vanished. 

The lack of civility exhibited by so many in recent months, in stores, in airports and planes, and at professional sporting events, should be a concern to us all. The possibility of finding ourselves in the middle of a volatile confrontation is real — and terrifying.

Most disturbing of all might be the attack on the sanctity of the lives of children and other innocent victims, most notably those in our schools. Equally distressing is the lack of action taken by our government officials to effectively address this recurring crisis.

Sadly, there is nothing you nor I can do, as individuals, to remedy any of these situations. It is for this reason that the words of the Dalai Lama, quoted above, are so critical to our mental health. Our inner peace is ours to protect. This is a formidable task in today’s world. It requires a level of mindfulness that is not easy to maintain. We must develop the inner strength to enable ourselves to cope with the harsh realities of our world today. I am not suggesting that we accept these atrocities. I am not suggesting that we ignore the evil happening in our world today. I am suggesting that, despite these things, we realize the critical importance of our own mental health and not allow the external chaos to destroy the inner peace we seek and so desperately need.      

All You Need Is...

“All you need is love.
But a little candy now and then
doesn’t hurt.”

~ Charles M. Schulz

 

The quest to find the Fountain of Youth has been the topic of countless books and movies through the years. Especially in the United States, where it seems that youth is cherished and old age is perceived by many to be a disability, there has been significant interest in the secret to living a long and productive life. I think I may have found it.

My mother is 92-years-old. From all outward appearances, she seems to be relatively good health for someone her age. Mom goes out for walks several times each day. She loves to read good books and she participates in many of the social activities at her retirement community. Mom watches very little television, though she does enjoy Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune, and an occasional San Francisco Giants baseball game or Golden State Warriors basketball game. Mom also enjoys a donut or maple bar, vanilla milkshake, or glass of wine every now and then. There is one “medication,” however, which she takes daily.

We keep Mom supplied with a fresh box of See’s Scotchmallow candies at all times. Mom keeps them refrigerated, and for a very good reason. When the candy is cold, the caramel inside hardens, making it difficult to eat immediately after taking it out of the refrigerator. So each night, upon returning to her room from dinner, she takes one piece of candy out of the refrigerator and places it on the kitchen sink. Later in the evening, she savors every bite of her delicious dessert, which, by then, is soft and chewy.

The key to success of this diet, of course, is self-control. It is imperative that Mom take only one piece of candy out each night. I remind her on occasion that a second piece on the same night will never taste as good as the first. She agrees. This routine seems to be working quite well for her. Each time she visits her cardiologist, he informs her that she’s in great shape and tells her to come back in six months. The same is true when Mom visits her dentist. It seems that eating just one Scotchmallow per day just might be the secret to living a long, healthy, and productive life.

I would consider adding this medication to my own daily routine, but I don’t have the self-restraint my Mom exhibits each evening. I can imagine a one-pound box of See’s chocolates disappearing within two days in our home. It has happened before! 

It’s always a pleasure for me to stop by See’s to renew my mother’s “prescription” for Scotchmallow candies. Mom always appreciates the refill, and I am grateful for the generous samples the folks at See’s offer to their customers. It’s a win-win.     

Now What?

 

In yesterday’s blog post, I wrote about change — how it is inevitable, and how we must all learn to cope with the reality of change in our lives. Today, I will write about one such change in our lives: retirement. 

Before my official retirement from teaching in June 2015, several friends warned me that it is imperative that I have a plan for my retirement. I did. I wanted to write and publish a book. In October 2017, A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude was born. That was followed by three years of speaking engagements on the topic of gratitude. In addition to talks at libraries, schools, churches, retirement communities, and business groups, I was also invited to be the keynote speaker for the YMCA Youth Development Leadership Conference in Morgan Hill, the Gratitude in Health Care Retreat at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital at Stanford, and the 2020 Young Author’s Book Festival, which was an online presentation due to the pandemic.

In November 2019, I found myself back in the classroom as a part-time, long-term sub for the sixth and seventh grade English Language Arts classes at St. Victor School in San José. I expected that gig to end in June 2020, but I was invited to stay on for another year. I’m grateful I did, because it was in that second year that I met Vivian Nguyen, one of my sixth grade students. She and I collaborated on the publication of Cherries in the Summer, which hit the shelves in late September 2021. This NBC Bay Area Proud segment provides the backstory for the book. (Click to view, and I apologize for the advertising.)

In December 2021, I retyped and published a book which had been originally published in 1994. With Love, Bev tells the story of Beverly Crudo, a resident at the Villa Siena Retirement Community in Mountain View. In April 1987, Bev had been critically injured in a head-on collision in Palm Springs. The book tells the story of her recovery, and her adjustment to being a paraplegic. The original publisher was no longer in business, and Bev wanted additional copies of her book, so I retyped the book, designed a new cover, and we printed fifty copies.

In January 2022, I was still focused on writing as my primary retirement activity. This is when I began working on my memoir. The Ambassador of 38th Avenue identifies forty significant lessons I learned in my lifetime, as well as the experiences through which I learned those lessons. It was much easier to write than I had anticipated. I listed the life lessons, I selected a pertinent quote for each lesson, and I organized the lessons in chronological order. With that foundation well in place, the writing was almost effortless. My goal was to complete the book by June 1st. It was published in mid-April.

I’m planning to schedule a few “meet and greet” events at which people may ask me questions about the book, have me sign their copy of the book, or just talk about growing up in The City. I would also be grateful to be invited to do readings and book signings at local bookstores. Other than that, I have no specific plans. The Ambassador of 38th Avenue is the book I’ve always wanted to write — something to leave as a legacy for my three sons and their children. So this leaves me with a challenging question, one which echoes the concern of my friends who urged me to have a plan for my retirement: Now what?

From October 1998 to November 2014, I had the pleasure of visiting Nagasaki, Japan more than a dozen times as part of an international student exchange program. I learned many things about Japan and Japanese culture. In addition to learning a few simple Japanese phrases, I learned about the concept of ikigai — identifying one’s purpose in life. This is the challenge confronting me today. It’s a challenge I welcome. Yes, what now? 

There will be changes ahead,… and I am grateful for the opportunities and challenges with which I will be confronted.    

Yes, We Do!

“The snake which 
cannot cast its skin
has to die.”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Brazilian author Paulo Coelho wrote, “Our life is a constant journey, from birth to death. The landscape changes, the people change, our needs change, but the train keeps moving. Life is the train, not the station.” Not the most earth-shattering quote, for sure, but I think it’s a good idea to remind ourselves from time to time that change is inevitable. It’s going to happen, and we need to be perceptive enough to recognize it and courageous enough to accept it.

The image above reveals a young man who had just turned twenty years of age. Who I was in June 1974 is considerably different than the man I am today. I was confident. I was open to new adventures. I was in excellent physical condition. I had hopes and plans for my future, though I had no idea what my future would actually bring. My life at that time was an empty book waiting to be written. The 1974 me had no idea what the 2022 me would be like. 

Almost 48 years have passed since that photo was taken. During this time, I continued my education, gained valuable experience in a variety of work settings, met countless people who influenced my life in positive ways, endured a few individuals who made my life difficult, and learned a number of important life lessons, not the least of which is that I am a good person. During this time, I improved as a communicator, a negotiator, a writer, a public speaker, and a community organizer. During this time, I became a husband, a parent to three competent young men, and “papa” to four beautiful grandchildren. It’s been an amazing journey.

Experience has a way of influencing our world view. Not surprisingly, I have changed in many ways since 1974. I would like to believe that most of the changes have been improvements, but I’m aware that cannot be said for all the changes. 

To put those 48 years in perspective, if we were to look back 48 years from the time the photo above was taken in 1974, it would take us to 1926! My father was less than a year old at the time. Mom had not yet been born. The president of the United States was Calvin Coolidge. And if we look 48 years into the future from today, we find ourselves in the year 2070 — and trust me, 2070 will be here sooner than we can imagine. 

American author John C. Maxwell wrote, “Change is inevitable. Growth is optional.” Much has changed in my life since 1974. I am well aware that some of the changes in my life have not been for the better, but I’m confident that, for the most part, I am a better person today because of the experiences and people who have helped me to change, and grow, in so many ways. 

It was interesting attending my 50-Year Reunion from St. Ignatius College Preparatory a few weeks ago. Most of the guys who attended hadn’t seen me in half a century. I had the opportunity to engage in conversation with some of my former classmates, but not as many as I would have liked. The thought crossed my mind that people from our past know a version of us that doesn’t exist anymore. When I looked across the room and recognized one of the guys I hadn’t seen since we graduated, I recalled what they were like in 1972. Whether this was a good image or not, I had to remind myself not to assume that the kid I knew was anything like the man present at the reunion event.

Every now and then, I have to remind myself that the same is true for me.

Yes, we change. All of us! I guess the challenge is to embrace the words of Mahatma Gandhi, who said, “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”  

An Inspirational Author

“Every life is a mystery.
There is nobody whose life
is normal and boring.”

~ Frank McCourt

Born in Brooklyn, New York of Irish immigrant parents, Frank McCourt was a teacher and author. His first book, Angela’s Ashes (1996), earned him a Pulitzer Prize in 1997. The book was published when McCourt was 66 years old. He followed that story with another bestselling book, ’Tis: A Memoir (1999). I had heard of Angela’s Ashes, but I didn’t read it until after I had read the author’s third book, Teacher Man (2005), when I was 52 years old. While his writing style was a bit confusing — for example, he chose not to use punctuation marks when writing dialogue — his storytelling skills impressed me. When I realized that he was 66 at the time Angela’s Ashes was published, it gave me hope that I, too, might still be able to write and publish a book, something I had often dreamed about doing.

Though I was not in competition with Frank McCourt, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride when I published my first book, A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude (2017), at the age of 63. A noteworthy accomplishment? Perhaps, but I’m well aware that my book was not honored with a Pulitzer Prize, nor any other prize, for that matter. 

Yes, McCourt inspired me. While reading Teacher Man, I realized that authors can do pretty much whatever they want to do in their writing. No punctuation for dialogue? No problem,… except for the poor reader who is trying to figure out who is talking from one scene to the next. McCourt’s writing gave me the confidence I needed to take the risk of writing and publishing my own book. I will always be grateful to him for this.

My second book, Cherries in the Summer (2021), cannot compare to any of McCourt’s works. The text of the story is a simple poem I wrote for my grandson, Liam, in 2019. If I’m not mistaken, I spent only about forty minutes writing the poem. I had no idea that it would become a successful children’s book two years later. What made this book successful is the incredible artwork created by one of my students, Vivian Nguyen — a 12-year-old, sixth-grade student at St. Victor School in San José where I was serving as a long-term substitute teacher. Her illustrations brought the words of the poem to life. More than 300 copies of the book have been sold, mostly locally, in the first eight months since publication. (Okay, so it doesn’t qualify as a “bestseller”… yet!)

The Ambassador of 38th Avenue (2022) is the title of my latest book, published last month. It is a collection of important lessons I’ve learned in the first 68 years of my life. The book tells the stories of the experiences through which I learned those significant lessons. For me, it’s a “legacy book,” meaning that it is a special gift I’d like to leave for my three sons and all my grandchildren. Each of the grandkids will receive a copy of the book, with a personalized message handwritten inside the hardcover book, on their 18th birthday. I want them to know who I was, how I lived, what I learned, and what I hope for them.

I’ll celebrate my 68th birthday next month. I’m well aware that Frank McCourt’s Teacher Man, which shares colorful stories of his memorable experiences as an educator, was published when he was 75 years old. Hmmm… I think I might have one more book waiting to be written — and seven years to get it published!  

 

Can You See Me?

 

I’ve often heard it said that people wish they could be “a fly on the wall,” in reference to their desire to see or hear something to which they would not otherwise be privy. Perhaps we’ve all said or thought this at some point, but have you ever had the experience of being a fly on the wall — of being present in a setting in which you felt that others were unaware of your presence?

I have had this experience several times over the past few years. At first, I ignored it. Now that it has happened multiple times, I’m beginning to pay attention to it. What does it mean? Why do I feel this way?

It is a strange feeling of detachment, as though I am observing something in the present moment without actually being there. More specifically, I feel like I’m there, but it seems that no one else is aware of my presence.

Okay,… by now you might be thinking that I need professional help, and, who knows? Maybe I do! The feeling is actually quite surreal. People are moving about, engaging in conversations with others, while someone is offering something to drink to those in the room, but they don’t acknowledge that I’m there, too. I have never felt that this was done intentionally, so it begs the question: Am I really here?

At one recent event, I actually thought to myself, So this is what it will be like after I’m gone. It was certainly a unique perspective on life at that moment.

I’m writing about this tonight because I came across a quote about this very situation. The quote challenges me to ask myself, Am I to blame for this?

In an article on her web page, Debra Smouse wrote, “If you’re really honest with yourself, you may realize you probably feel invisible because you’ve kind of checked out of your own life.” Ouch! That hurt, because, in some ways, it rings true for me.

I’m almost 68 years old, which I acknowledge is not old. Many people my age continue to run, ski, hike up mountains, bike up mountains, travel the world, and engage in activities one might consider normal for a much younger person. I don’t do these things. I’m retired. I enjoyed a forty-year teaching career. I’ve traveled. I’ve played sports. I’ve accepted challenges. I’ve been married for almost 37 years. I have three sons and four grandkids. I’ve written three books. At this moment in time, there is nothing on my “must do” list. There are certainly things I still want to do, and hopefully I’ll have the opportunity to do some of those things, but none of them are critically important to me. Life is good, and I am quite content.

Have I “checked out” of my own life? I certainly don’t think so, but that’s how it might appear to those around me. I’m not as active as I once was. I don’t initiate activities like I did when I was younger. And when others initiate activities, I’m not as excited about jumping-in to help make them happen. I can still enjoy these activities when they happen, but I don’t need them, and I don’t want responsibility for organizing them anymore.

I am grateful to be where I am in my life right now. I have no desire to be younger. I have no desire to be anyone other than who I am. I have no desire to be the center of attention. I am thoroughly enjoying the peace and tranquility of watching the game of life from the bleachers. Yet, on occasion, I still wonder to myself, Can you see me?   

 

I Call Her "Mom"

“Perhaps it takes courage
to raise children…”

~ John Steinbeck

Perhaps? How is it possible that John Steinbeck, in his classic novel East of Eden, could only speculate on the possibility that it takes courage to raise children? When his book was published in 1952, the man considered to be one of America’s most beloved and honored writers had two sons, ages eight and six. How could he not know first-hand that parenting is an incredible challenge which requires a great deal of courage? I guess it’s possible that he was not involved in the lives of his boys, but I don’t know this for sure. It’s also possible, I suppose, that Steinbeck’s children were the most well-behaved, cooperative, and self-reliant boys ever to walk this earth. I don’t know this for sure, either.

Kathy and I have three sons, all adults now, who, not surprisingly, started out as children. I can tell you with absolute certainty that raising kids today, especially boys, takes not only courage, but also a generous supply of patience, dependability, compassion, honesty, commitment, playfulness, humility, and self-discipline — as well as a sharp sense of humor. Maybe if newborn children came with a detailed User Guide, the task of parenting might be a little less daunting. Unfortunately, such is not the case.

Yesterday, while perusing the plethora of wisdom on Facebook, I came across a question which caused me to pause. It read: Did your mom work outside of the home when you were growing up or was she a stay at home mom? What a loaded question!  

When I was a freshman in high school, I had to fill out some forms during freshman orientation. One was a page of card stock paper on which there were six index card sized forms, all connected with perforated lines. They were all asking for basically the same information about my family, but since this was in the BC era (before computers), each form had to be filled out separately. The index cards were then distributed to the Principal’s Office, the Development Office, the Dean of Student’s Office, the Treasurer’s office, the Mother’s Guild, and the Father’s Club. I dutifully filled the cards out as accurately as possible. A few days later, my Dad, who volunteered in the Development Office on his days off from the San Francisco Fire Department, called me out for not knowing my parents’ occupations. For Dad, I had written “Fireman.” For Mom, I wrote “Housewife.” I was confused. What was wrong with these answers?

It was that day that I learned that my Dad was a “Firefighter,” not a fireman. And my Dad informed me that Mom was a “Homemaker,” not a housewife. The difference? Dad told me that any married woman could be a housewife, but it took hard work, talent, and love to make a house a home. Lesson learned.

As I reflected back on my younger years, and noticed how my mother had parented me, I came to a greater appreciation of the difference. Mom was a cook, and a good one. She did all our laundry, though she’d tell us to put the clean clothes away in our rooms. She was the primary house cleaner, requiring that the four of us children in the family take responsibility for our own rooms. She was a taxi driver, shuttling us off to school on rainy days, or to games, practices, birthday parties, Scout meeting, or wherever else we needed to go. Mom was also our primary care physician. She had an uncanny way of knowing when we were legitimately sick and when we just didn’t feel like going to school on a particular day. On the days we didn’t convince her that we were truly ill, she gave us more homework to do than our teacher would ever have us do in the classroom. We quickly learned that it’s easier just to go to school. 

Mom was also our fashion consultant. On many occasions, she would insist that we put on a sweatshirt before going to South Sunset Playground after school simply because SHE was cold. And when our clothes wore out to the point that they were “just right” for us, they would mysteriously disappear when we put them in the laundry hamper.

Mom wore so many “hats” in my childhood that to refer to her as a “stay at home mom” would be an insult, even though, in reality, that’s exactly what she was. She certainly deserved to have a more prestigious title like CEO, Domestic Engineer, or Magician.

In his book, For One More Day, author Mitch Albom shares this pearl of wisdom: “When you look at your mother, you are looking at the purest love you will ever know.” This was certainly my experience growing up — and it continues to be true today.   

Amazing!

On many a Sunday morning in the mid-60s, after the 10:00 a.m. Mass at St. Gabriel Church, my Dad would give me a buck to pick up a dozen donuts at Billy’s Donut Shop on Taraval between 40th and 41st Avenues. Although it was a bit out of the way, as we lived on 38th Avenue between Vicente and Wawona, I’d happily set off to get the goodies. And yes, a buck was sufficient to purchase a dozen donuts!

This was not an every-Sunday thing, but Billy’s supplied donuts for our family on a fairly regular basis for many years. At some point, the name of the donut shop changed to The Donut Center. I loved the custard Danish pastries they sold. When I graduated from S.I. in 1972, I moved to the Santa Clara Valley for college. Until last Thursday, I had not been inside the donut shop since that time.

I’ve been told that, through the years, the business became an Asian bakery, perhaps changing ownership a time or two. A few months ago, however, I read an article about the current business in this location — Sweet Passions Bakery — and the unique fare offered there. Jenny, the owner of Sweet Passions, grew up in the Sunset District. The bakery could still be considered an Asian bakery, but in recognition of the fact that there are many Irish-American families living in the Sunset, Sweet Passions offers some traditional Irish baked goods as well.

It was strange to walk through the front door of Sweet Passions last Thursday. Memories of how everything looked when it was Billy’s were fresh in my mind. Not surprisingly, things are very different today. I was greeted warmly by Jenny and I mentioned to her that it had been more than fifty years since I’d been in that shop. We had a wonderful conversation about the history of the building and the neighborhood. Then I started looking at the items behind the glass counter.

It was lunch time, so I ordered a curry chicken pastie. There were other pasties to choose from, but the curry chicken caught my attention. It was amazing! I expected that I’d like it, but it was even better than I had anticipated. I also picked up a loaf of Irish soda bread to take home, and Jenny threw in a loaf of the Irish brown bread for me to try. Both were excellent. 

It’s probably a good thing that I still live in the Santa Clara Valley, because if I owned a home in the Sunset District, I’d be a regular customer at Sweet Passions and I can only imagine how that might affect my weight. I’m grateful, however, to know what an amazing bakery now occupies the old Billy’s Donuts space, and for the opportunity to stop by whenever I visit The City.  

"Would you like to play?"

 

Back in 1962, before there was a retaining wall on the eastern side of the field at South Sunset Playground, before there was artificial turf with painted lines, and before there were lights enabling games to be played after sundown, the natural grass that covered the playing field extended up the hill to the fence line. If my memory is accurate, the hillside was commonly referred to as “the bank.” Today, along with all the other improvements to the park, the hillside is covered with drought-tolerant landscaping — not an ideal place to sit and watch a game.

Sixty years ago, on a typically foggy Sunset District afternoon, my Dad and I walked from our home on 38th Avenue to South Sunset Playground. I was seven years old at the time. I followed my Dad up to the grass field and we climbed about halfway up the bank and sat down. Dad didn’t say much at first. There was a group of boys running around on the grass kicking a ball. An older man was barking instructions to them, occasionally stopping play and explaining something to the players. I’d never seen the game before, so I just watched.

After a while, Dad explained to me that the boys were playing a game called soccer. Apparently, the game was quite popular in Central and South America, as well as in Europe. Dad told me that the coach, the man instructing the kids on the field, was a former professional soccer player. His name was Ernie Feibusch. 

Coach Feibusch was born in Berlin, Germany in 1925, the same year my Dad was born in San Francisco. He moved with his family to The City when he was 12 years old. He played soccer at San Francisco State University and professionally for the Vikings Soccer Club of San Francisco. After retiring as a player in 1955, Feibusch began a lengthy teaching and coaching career at Lowell High School. He also founded the Vikings Youth Soccer Program, an organization that introduced thousands of young San Franciscans to the game of soccer. It was one of those Vikings teams that was practicing on the South Sunset field that foggy afternoon in 1962.

After we’d been watching the practice for about half an hour, Dad asked me, “Would you like to play?” I was so jazzed. We walked down to the field and Dad approached Coach Feibusch. The next thing I knew, I was running around with the other guys learning the game of soccer. Our practices were held at South Sunset or at Lowell High School. Our games were played at Beach Chalet and Crocker Amazon Park. I played for the Vikings for about five years. I was always proud to wear the red and white striped uniform jersey. 

Sadly, Coach Feibusch, who lived on Taraval Street between 38th and 38th Avenues, died from complications from Covid-19 in 2020. He is a member of the United States Soccer Hall of Fame, the San Francisco Prep Hall of Fame, and the Lowell Sports Foundation Hall of Fame. In his years at Lowell, his teams won 20 City Championships. I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to learn the game of soccer from such a knowledgeable and accomplished coach.

(A side note: Two Lowell coaches combined for a total of more than 1,400 victories. Coach Feibusch’s soccer teams won 670 games, while Coach John Donohue’s Lowell baseball teams accounted for another 735 wins!)     

Dental Gratitude

"I don't get off on romantic parts. 
But I often think if I'd had my
dental work done early on,
well, maybe."

Morgan Freeman

In 2004, I was informed that my dental hygienist would be leaving the office and moving to Florida. Rhonda had been my hygienist for thirteen years. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. While I was happy for Rhonda, and for the opportunities that awaited her in the Sunshine State, I knew I would miss her dearly. Because of her, I actually looked forward to my regular visits to the dentist. Well, as they say, all good things must come to an end.

They, whoever “they” are, also say that when one door closes, another opens. We are warned that sometimes we look so long and regretfully upon the door that has closed that we fail to notice the one which has opened for us. This is exactly what happened at Willow Glen Dentistry. Yes, Rhonda was gone, but little did I know that her replacement, Leah, would provide the same level of professionalism and hospitality as I’d come to expect from Rhonda.

Leah began her work with Dr. John Pisacane, DMD, in 2004. During that time, I’d estimate that she cleaned my teeth more than fifty times. During the eighteen years which have passed since then, Leah and I have gotten to be good friends, as well. We’ve shared stories of the highs and lows of raising our children, our struggles with the educational systems with which we had to cope as parents, and our hopes and dreams for our kids. What began as a hygienist-patient relationship developed into much more. We even became Facebook friends a few years back. 

Leah, her amazing husband, Jeff, and their three beautiful children will be moving to Nevada in the next few weeks. The myth of affordable housing in Silicon Valley is just that — a myth. In Nevada they were able to purchase a nice home on a large parcel of land. The new environment will serve them well as they move into this next phase of their lives.

Leah will be missed at Willow Glen Dentistry, but I’m grateful that she and I will be able to maintain contact through Facebook. I’ve never been to the Carson City area, and it’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit. Hopefully, in the not-too-distant future, Kathy and I will have the opportunity to venture up there for a visit.

I’m also confident that whoever replaces Leah at Willow Glen Dentistry will provide a comparable level of professionalism and hospitality for the next decade or two.     

Yeah, About That...

“Teaching is not a lost art,
but the regard for it
is a lost tradition.”

~ Jacques Barzun

Seriously? Don’t even go there. I hate to tell y’all, but a faculty room overflowing with food and beverages, hand-painted signs telling the teachers how much they’re appreciated, and a little bouquet of flowers for each teacher’s desk is not going to make them feel appreciated — not when the daily reality of the school’s environment disrespects the professionalism, creativity, and commitment these same educators bring to their job every day.

Administrators: You want to show your appreciation for your teachers? Let them do the job you hired them to do. Stop micromanaging. Stop demanding that they take time out of their day to perform meaningless tasks simply because it’s the current trend in schools. Stop asking them to give up their prep period to cover for an absent colleague and then not compensating them in some way for the extra work. Observe them doing their job and let them know when you see them doing things well, not just when you observe something you don’t like. Treat your teachers like the professionals that they are. Respect their time. Respect their giftedness. Respect their individuality. Ask them how they’re doing. Ask them how their families are doing. Ask them what they need. Ask them how you can help them be the best possible teacher they are capable of being.

Parents: You want to show appreciation for your kids’ teachers? Take responsibility for your child’s learning. Provide a supportive work environment in your home. Monitor your kids’ class work and homework. Monitor your kids’ screen time and use of social media. Ask your kids to tell you about their day at school. Ask them to share with you something they learned each day. Be supportive of your kids’ teachers, remembering that educating children is a collaborative effort between teachers and parents. Read to your kids every night. Raise your expectation level for the quality of the work they do at home, including penmanship. If you hear something from your child that concerns you, contact the teacher directly. Discuss your concern, not confrontationally, but in a way which reflects the collaborative effort of educating your child. Be sure your kids are getting a good night’s sleep and eating a balanced diet. These are contributing factors to student success. Don’t speak disparagingly of your child’s teacher in front of the child. Doing so only undermines the teacher’s credibility in the classroom.

Students: You want to show appreciation for your teachers? Put forth a solid effort in everything you do. Do your homework. All of it, not just what needs to be turned in the next day. Complete all assigned reading. Take pride in the work you do and don’t disrespect your teacher with anything less than your best effort. To the best of your ability, stay focused in class. Participate. Ask questions when you don’t understand a concept. Respect your classmates. Limit your screen time during the week. Approach your school work, both in class and at home, as your job, because that’s exactly what it is at this point in your life. Do your own work. Don’t cheat. Don’t plagiarize. Integrity is a key component to success in life. Acknowledge your teachers each day by greeting them when you arrive, thanking them when they return a paper to you, and expressing your gratitude to them at the end of each day. Your teacher cares more about you than you will ever realize.

Teacher Appreciation Week should be removed from the school calendar. Expressing appreciation for teachers needs to be a normal and regular part of every day of the academic year. If this is not a reality, then one week of “celebrating our teachers” has little meaning.    

Before It's Too Late

 

The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking….
Time is running out
on Poetry Month ’22.
No time to mill about.
I need to think of something quickly,
thoughtful and worthwhile.
It’s getting close to eight o’clock.
My thoughts I must compile.

Tomorrow is the first of May —
a special month, for sure.
The temperatures are warming up,
so this we must endure.
In California, spring and summer
don’t get too severe.
In fact, this is a perfect time
for barbecue and beer!

We’ll celebrate some birthdays,
and some graduations, too.
I’ll also have a book launch
if there’s nothing else to do.
My new book, The Ambassador…
is selling very well.
How successful will it be?
I simply can’t foretell.

The most important thing right now?
To focus on the good
that people do throughout the world
and in their neighborhood.
The world is never perfect,
there will always be despair,
but each of us, in many ways,
can show how much we care.

A simple act of kindness,
or a word to heal one’s soul.
These are things we all can do,
so this should be our goal.
As April ends, and May begins,
let’s make our attitude
a gift of positivity
and simple gratitude.  

The Look of Love

“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved
we can never lose, for all that we love
deeply becomes part of us.”

~ Helen Keller

What, exactly, does love look like? Is it hearts, flowers, and a box of Godiva chocolates? Is it snuggling, kissing, or various forms of sexual intimacy? Is it a romantic dinner and movie? Is it diamonds, jewelry, and a shopping spree at the local mall? Or does love have something to do with drinking piña coladas and taking walks in the rain? No doubt, love can reveal itself in many forms. I was fortunate enough to witness love in action yesterday afternoon.

We had originally planned for Kathy’s mother, who is in hospice care, to move in with us on Tuesday. Unfortunately, when Tuesday came around, the doctor warned Kathy that Norma’s condition had worsened significantly and that moving her would not be in her best interest. For this reason, she remains in her room at the Villa Fontana Retirement Community in San José.

When Kathy arrived at Villa Fontana yesterday morning, it was clear that Norma’s condition had deteriorated even more. Little by little, the family gathered to be with Norma — and with each other. Father Angelbert Chikere, the parochial vicar at Saint Lawrence Parish in Santa Clara, graciously visited Villa Fontana to anoint Norma. Throughout the day, Kathy and her siblings prayed, shared stories, and ministered to their dying mother. They also cared for each other.

Kathy is one of eight children of Larry and Norma Hamm. Her older brother, John, arrived in the early afternoon from Eureka, California. Jim drove over from Campbell, Tom from Sunnyvale, and Bob from Burlingame. Two of Kathy’s sisters, Theresa and Chrissy, arrived from their homes in the Cambrian Park area of San José. The only sibling not present was Clare, who lives just outside of Seattle. Clare spent a week with her mother last week, but needed to return to Seattle. She may not have been physically present yesterday, but as I sat in the corner of Norma’s room observing the interaction among the family members, there was a tangible sense that Clare was very much with them in spirit.

I was once told that the greatest gift a married couple can provide for their children is a loving relationship. Likewise, I believe the greatest gift kids can give their parents is love for each other. What I saw in Norma’s room at Villa Fontana yesterday should make Norma very happy. She and Larry raised eight children, now adults, who not only love each other, but are comfortable expressing their love for each other. It was such a beautiful thing to see.

What, exactly, does love look like? I’m still not totally sure, but I know I got a glimpse of it with my own eyes yesterday.     

Knockin' On Heaven's Door

“The long and winding road
That leads to your door
Will never disappear
I've seen that road before
It always leads me here
Lead me to you door”

~ John Lennon / Paul McCartney

For many, life is a long and winding road. For a person of faith, that road leads to the ultimate door — the gates of Heaven. Our faith tells us that when we arrive there, we will experience a direct encounter with God, and reunion with loved ones who have traveled this road ahead of us. Kathy’s mother, Norma Hamm, is such a person of faith. Her 86-year journey down the road of life has certainly had its fair share of turns. Around some corners she was treated to amazing, memorable experiences, while other corners revealed a darkness through which, by the grace of God, she found her way.

Norma is almost home. She is steadily making her way to that final door. Before she gets there, however, she has one last turn in the road. On Tuesday, Kathy’s mother will move in with us on Panda Lane. 

Norma Jean Clark was born and raised in the south side of Chicago. In the early ‘50s, she met Larry Hamm while working for the phone company. They married and eventually moved to Prairie Village, Kansas. After several of their children were born, they moved west, following Larry’s job to Sunnyvale, California. Norma and Larry raised eight kids and were active participants at Saint Lawrence the Martyr Parish in Santa Clara.

Larry passed away in November 2001. Norma, with the support of family and friends, continued to live an active life for twenty more years. She played bridge with friends, swam on a regular basis at the YMCA, and enjoyed seeing her grandchildren grow into adulthood. As the years passed, and Norma experienced some medical issues, she knew it was time to make a change. She moved into the Villa Fontana Retirement Community in San José, where she quickly made friends and got involved in many of the social activities offered there. 

Unfortunately, in 2020, Norma took a fall and broke the femur bone in her left leg. Her time in the hospital, followed by several months in a rehabilitation center, coincided with the arrival of the Covid-19 pandemic. The combination of factors took a toll on Norma. When she returned to Villa Fontana, her new room was in the memory care unit.

In recent weeks, it’s been clear that Norma is approaching the final stage of her life journey. The staff at Villa Fontana has done all they can do to help her. Now in hospice care, Norma will spend her final days with family. While to some, this may seem like a hardship, to Kathy and her siblings, it is yet another reason to be grateful. All family members will have unlimited access to visiting their mother in her final days, and Norma will be blessed with the presence of the children she raised so well. 

Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door.

~ Bob Dylan    

State of... Confusion

 

As many readers already know, during my years teaching at Saint Lawrence Academy in Santa Clara, California, I had the privilege of coordinating an exchange program with a Catholic school in Nagasaki, Japan. Junshin Girls’ Junior & Senior High School would send a group of about twenty students to Saint Lawrence each year in March. I accompanied many groups of Saint Lawrence students on their two-week adventure to Nagasaki in the fall. 

In preparation for our visits to Japan, I would facilitate six orientation meetings with the Saint Lawrence students prior to our departure. Students would be introduced to some of the cultural differences they would encounter during the trip. I also introduced them to about forty simple Japanese phrases they could use in their interactions with their host families or on campus with the Junshin students. The phrases were quite basic:

Ohayo gozaimasu  —  Good morning (formal)
Ohayo  —  Good morning (casual)
Konnichiwa  —  Hello
Konbanwa  —  Good evening
Oyasuminasai  —  Good night (at bedtime)
Sumimasen  —  Excuse me
Gomennasai  —  I’m sorry
Hajimemashite  —  Nice to meet you
Genki desu ka  —  How are you?
Hai  —  Yes
Arigatou  —  Thank you
Mata ashita  —  See you tomorrow

The Japanese words are fairly phonetic. “Ohayo” is pronounced like the state, Ohio. The words are easy to say, but practice is essential to be able to use the phrases effectively.

Most of the students were fairly comfortable with using these phrases, and I warned them not to freak out when someone responded to them in Japanese. There was no expectation that they be conversational in the language, so they could simply smile and say, “Wakarimasen,” meaning “I don’t understand.”

One student in particular couldn’t wait to practice the Japanese he had learned. On the 11-hour flight from San Francisco to Tokyo and on the shorter two-hour flight from Tokyo to Nagasaki, he practiced the phrases. When we arrived on campus for the first day of our visit, this student jumped out of his host family’s car, confidently walked up to a small group of Junshin students, and, with a huge smile on his face, blurted out, “Iowa!”

Needless to say, the Junshin students just looked at him with a look of… “Whaaaaat?” 

He was puzzled by their odd response until one of his Saint Lawrence friends said, “Dude, wrong state! It’s Ohio, not Iowa!” The poor kid was humiliated. He had practiced so much for that very moment, only to blurt out the wrong word. 

Fortunately, he got over it quickly and was able to laugh about it a while later. I will always be grateful for the opportunity to travel to Nagasaki with various groups of students, and for the entertaining stories I have to share about those adventures.  

AMDG... with Gratitude

 

It’s official. I’m old. Yesterday, along with almost one hundred of my classmates from the Class of 1972, I received my Golden Diploma from St. Ignatius College Preparatory. It’s been fifty years since we graduated from S.I. and began our journey to seek our fame and fortune in the world. It’s interesting that in conversations with many of my classmates at the two reunion events this past weekend, I heard no one speak about fame or fortune. It seems that all of us shared stories of our service to humanity over the past fifty years and how we hope we’ve made a positive difference in the lives of those with whom we came in contact. This was a very different experience from first class reunion.

The first official reunion of the S.I. Class of ’72 celebrated ten years since our graduation. It was held in 1982. I’ve often referred to this gathering as the “business card reunion.” As we all approached the age of 30, it seems that many attendees wanted to impress others with their early professional accomplishments. Since I was a teacher, I didn’t have a business card, but I went home that night with about thirty business cards from classmates who were making a name for themselves in various professions. Many of the conversations that evening involved stories of early career successes. Now, after fifty years, I guess we can all agree that most of that is trivial, in light of the overall experience of sixty-eight years lived.

I didn’t encounter anyone at this year’s reunion who seemed to be in competition with others. It was all about camaraderie, shared memories, and interest in each other’s stories of family and life in general. Any business cards exchanged were to provide contact information, not to impress the recipient. Most of the social groupings which separated us during our high school years had dissipated. Perhaps we all realize how blessed we are to have been able to attend and participate in the Golden Reunion events. Thirty of our classmates didn’t live long enough to be with us this weekend. They were very much in our thoughts and prayers during the liturgy yesterday morning.

Catholic education, Jesuit education in particular, makes a difference. Our four years at S.I. prepared us to commit ourselves to a life of service, regardless of our chosen profession. It doesn’t matter if you were a tradesman, an attorney, a firefighter, a dentist, an educator, or someone who committed their life to business, medicine, science, technology, or the arts, the opportunity was always there to commit our lives and our efforts to the greater glory of God. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam — AMDG. Clearly, many members of the S.I. Class of 1972 have done just that. They have lived lives which reflect the basic values of Ignatian education.

To those who taught us and coached us during our four years at S.I…. Thank you!

To those who financially enabled us to attend S.I…. Thank you!

To those who contributed to the construction of the “new” S.I. campus on 37th Avenue, which we enjoyed for our sophomore, junior, and senior years of high school,… Thank you!

And for the opportunity to experience four years of high school with almost 280 other young men who have gone on to make a positive difference in our world,… Thank you!    

It's Comin' Up!

On Saturday, June 3, 1972, the Commencement Exercises for the Saint Ignatius College Preparatory Class of 1972 were held at Saint Ignatius Church on the campus of the University of San Francisco. 271 young men received a diploma that day declaring that we had successfully completed the requirements for graduation from the renowned Jesuit institution — some more successfully than others. On the same day, at that same ceremony, 24 gentlemen were awarded their Golden Diploma, three of them posthumously. A Golden Diploma is presented to alumni in recognition of the 50th anniversary of their graduation.

On Saturday, May 28, 2022, the Commencement Exercises for the Saint Ignatius College Preparatory Class of 2022 will be held. More than 350 young men and women will receive a diploma that day, a number which reflects the significant increase in enrollment since the school began admitting women in 1989. There will, however, be no Golden Diplomas awarded on that day. Logistically speaking, it is simply not a possibility.

Plans have been made for a weekend of events in early April to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Class of ’72. I’ve seen some of the email correspondence regarding these events. Of the 271 guys who graduated in June 1972, approximately 75-100 are expected to participate. I read that the Alumni Office at the school has no contact information for about 100 of my former classmates, and that 30 members of our class are deceased. This leaves only about 40 guys unaccounted for. 

While I am very much looking forward to the reunion events, it is a bit disconcerting for me to recall that on June 3, 1972, as I watched the 21 members of the Class of 1922 gingerly walk up to the sanctuary to receive their Golden Diploma, I was thinking about how incredibly old the men were and how amazing it was that they were still alive! Well,… Needless to say, I have a very different perspective on this matter now.

One might be tempted to ask, “How could this have happened? How could fifty years have passed so quickly?” Of course, there are no answers to these questions. It did, and they have. But now I’m amazed at how incredibly young the Golden Diploma recipients will be this year! 

I really don’t know what to expect when I arrive for the reunion events. I am confident there will be a number of classmates I will recognize, and, no doubt, there will be those who will look totally unfamiliar to me. I’m guessing there will also be a few who look significantly older than the rest of us, and I know of at least one classmate who still looks much as he did the day we graduated fifty years ago. There might even be a few guys who have been working out for the past year so that they’ll be physically fit and look good at the reunion, and then… there’s the rest of us. What you see is what you get! 

Seriously, though, I am grateful for the opportunity to attend the Golden Diploma reunion events in April. I may lack many of the material status items one might use to determine one’s success in life today, but I’m okay with that, too. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. The past fifty years have been amazingly, imperfectly, delightfully, and surprisingly gratifying.     

What's Your Story?

 

Everyone has a story to tell. Each one of us has lived experiences which only we can share, because no one else has experienced life in the same way we did. 

I’ve heard so many people say, “I should write a book.” They’re right. They should! Whether their story would focus on life or love, courage or caution, happiness or happenstance, grief or gratitude, their story needs to be shared and they are the only one who can share it. 

What was it like to be a San Francisco firefighter for thirty years? What were some of your most memorable calls? What was it like to escape Vietnam in 1975 as one of the boat people, and how did you overcome the challenges of adapting to life in the United States? How did you know that you were called to the priesthood, and what have been the joys and sorrows of your decision to commit yourself to a lifetime of ordained ministry? What went through your head when your doctor told you that your soon-to-be-born child had Down syndrome? How has raising that beautiful child changed your outlook on life itself? 

What was it like when your husband of twenty-five years informed you that he would be moving out because he wanted to be free to date other women? What adjustments did you make in your life to survive such a shock?

What went through your head when your doctor informed you of the diagnosis of multiple myeloma? What was it like sitting with your 88-year-old Dad, a lifelong Giants fan, in the living room of his home on the evening of November 1, 2010 when the San Francisco Giants won the World Series for the first time? What was it like to be sitting in the northeast corner of Candlestick Park when Dwight Clark made “the catch” which sent the 49ers to their first Super Bowl?

What was going through your head on the days President Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., or Bobby Kennedy were assassinated? What were you doing when you first heard about the attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001? What was your experience of the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989?

What was it like being unexpectedly laid off from your job at the age of 48 after devoting twenty-five years to the company? What did you learn from the experience of raising three kids who knew more about technology by the age of ten than you ever will? How did you get through that period of your life when you seriously doubted the existence of God?

No one can share these stories other than the person who experienced these things first-hand. Your story has credibility because it is uniquely yours to tell. Your story just might be the crutch someone else needs to get through a similar crisis in their own life. It is imperative that we overcome any negative thoughts about writing, such as I have nothing of value to say, or I’m just not a good writer, or Who would be interested in anything I write. I’m not famous. The story does not have to be perfectly written to have value. Proofreaders and editors can help an aspiring writer to polish up their story for publication. 

When you write the truth of your own lived experience, you can write with confidence, knowing that what you write is authentic. You’re not writing fiction. You don’t need to create characters who are believable to the reader. You simply write the truth — and then publish it.

In the Introduction of my soon-to-be-published memoir, I quote John Steinbeck who wrote this in his short story, Tularecito: “After the bare requisites to living and reproducing, man wants most to leave some record of himself, a proof, perhaps, that he really existed.” This, if for no other reason, might provide the motivation you need to start writing your story.    

 

Things I Cannot Change

“God, grant me the
Serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;

Courage
to change the things I can; and

Wisdom
to know the difference.”

~ Reinhold Niebuhr

Hanging on the wall in my home office, directly above my desk, is a framed copy of The Serenity Prayer, often attributed to American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. The prayer has been a source of calming inspiration to me on many occasions. I reflected upon these words again today after filling the gas tank on my 2005 Honda Accord at the local gas station. 

I knew gas prices were skyrocketing. The local and national news channels have been talking about the significant daily increases for quite awhile now. Prior to today, the highest price I’d ever paid for a gallon of gas was $4.75. That was in June 2008. Today, however, that record was shattered when I paid $5.39 per gallon at the Rotten Robbie station at Saratoga Avenue & Williams Road in West San José. 

Was I shocked? Not at all. I was prepared for it. I’m also prepared for the probability that my next fill-up, which hopefully won’t be for a month or more, will cost significantly more. Pundits are predicting that gas prices could well rise to the level of $8 to $10 per gallon. This is going to be problematic for many people. For me, it will be a bit of an inconvenience. I say this not because I’m independently wealthy. That’s not the case at all. The fact that I am retired, however, means that my need to drive my car is quite limited. 

I am well aware that the current gas crisis, if that’s what we’re calling it, is going to be excruciatingly painful for many Bay Area residents who work in San Francisco or Silicon Valley, but who purchased more affordable homes in places like Stockton, Modesto, Lodi, or Los Baños and commute to work each day. Those commuters, many of whom, like me, have not yet invested in an electric car, are going to feel the brunt of this predicament.

So why is this crisis simply an inconvenience for me? There is absolutely nothing I can do about the price of gas. It’s not within my control. Therefore, I have no viable option other than to accept the reality of the situation. I do, however, have control over much of my other spending. For example, I was planning to enjoy a weeklong writing vacation in Pacific Grove next week. With all expenses for the week considered, I anticipated the cost would be about $1,000. (Yes, I had a great price on a cottage near the beach.) Given the sharp rise in gas prices, that money would be better spent on necessities, so I canceled the trip. With that extra money, I should be able to fill my tank, or Kathy’s, up to ten times. This is what Niebuhr meant by the phrase, “Courage to change the things I can.”

I’m not happy about the increase in the price of gas. I don’t fully understand the combination of factors contributing to the rise in prices, but it is what it is. There is still so much for which to be grateful.  

Wise Words

Like so many others I know, I enjoy taking a look at Facebook before getting started with my day. In doing so today, I came across ten inspiring posts I thought I’d share in today’s blog post.

1. Sitting behind my husband, I said, “I love you.”
He replied, “Is that you or the wine talking?”
I said, “It’s me… talking to the wine.”

2. “When we lose someone we love, we must learn not to live without them, but to live with the love they left behind.”  ~ Unknown

3. “Stress can destroy much more than just our physical health. Too often, it eats away at our hope, belief, and faith.” 
~ Charles Glassman 

4. “No matter how educated, talented, rich, or cool you believe you are, how you treat people ultimately tells all. Integrity is everything.” 
~ Unknown

5. I hate when I think I’m buying organic vegetables and, when I get home, discover they’re just regular donuts.

6. “Sometimes we forget that waking up each morning is our first blessing of the day.” 
~ Unknown

7. “Some of the most generous people have no money. Some of the wisest people have no education. Some of the kindest people were hurt the most.”
~ Steve Wentworth

8. “If you want to be trusted, be honest.”
~ Unknown

9. “Don’t be preoccupied with your child’s academic ability, but instead, teach them to sit with those sitting alone. Teach them to be kind. Teach them to offer their help. Teach them to encourage others. Teach them to be a friend to the lonely. Teach them to share. Teach them to look for the good. Teach them to think about others. This is how they will change the world.”
~ Unknown

10. “Now delivering Girl Scout Cookies."
~ ilovecookies.org    

Pure Love

 

Catherine McAuliffe, my maternal grandmother, was born in County Cork, Ireland on this day in 1906. She passed away in December 1992 at the age of 86. When I think of her, what I remember most is that she loved me. In fact, she loved all of us — thirteen grandchildren, in all.

Staying overnight at Grandma’s house during my high school years was a real treat. Working at Silver Tree Day Camp in most of those summers, it was convenient for me to stay at Grandma’s house on Thursday nights, as the day camp schedule ran into the evening on Thursdays, and Grandma’s home was a short distance from the camp site in Glen Canyon. Grandma always had some type of treat for me to eat when I arrived around 8:30 p.m., then prepared a nice breakfast for me, often including Irish soda bread and always with my favorite breakfast beverage at that time — apricot nectar. 

Grandma never got mad at us. She didn’t even get mad at me on the Easter Sunday morning in the mid-60’s when I accidentally kicked a football through the front window of her home on Marsily Street in San Francisco. There was something about her that demanded our respect, and earned our unconditional love. We knew her rules, and, for the most part, followed them.

Fourteen years after her death, we celebrated her 100th birthday with a special family dinner at Don Giovanni, an excellent Italian restaurant in downtown Mountain View. A group of at least twenty of us gathered in the banquet room in the back of the venue. When Kathy and I arrived, the owner asked me if the gathering was for a special occasion. I told him we were celebrating my grandmother’s 100th birthday. I think he was quite pleased that we had selected his restaurant for the celebration.

We had drinks before dinner, followed by salad. Just as the main course was being served, the owner came into the room with a large bottle of Italian wine.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” he inquired enthusiastically. 

“Oh, she’s dead,” someone replied.

The look on the owner’s face was priceless. That was definitely not what he was expecting to hear. We informed him that we celebrated her birthday with a family dinner every year, but this year was special. I don’t recall if he left the bottle of wine with us or if he took it away with him when he walked out of the room. To say that he was caught off guard would be an understatement.

While it’s been awhile since we’ve gathered for an all-family dinner, an event which became increasingly challenging as the next generation of Carrolls, Kellys, and McAuliffes came along, we continue to remember Grandma McAuliffe with love and gratitude. She was a role model for all of us, and by her words and actions, she taught us the meaning of “pure love.”     

How Well Do You Know Yourself?

One of the many things I learned in a Renaissance Literature course I took at Santa Clara University in the late 1970’s was the Latin phrase Nosce te ipsum, which means “know thyself.” This Latin phrase, one of the many proverbs collected by the Dutch philosopher Erasmus in the early 1500’s, can be traced back to the Greek phrase γνῶθι σεαυτόν, which was inscribed at the shrine of Apollo at Delphi. Erasmus, who also happened to be a Catholic priest and theologian, is thought to be one of the greatest scholars of the Renaissance. Why, one might ask, has this phrase withstood the test of time and why does it continue to provide us with both a challenge and an opportunity?

Knowledge of self, a concept one develops over time, allows us to make choices and to engage in activities which are consistent with our skill set and which nurture our soul. Despite the fact that I grew up in a household with a piano, I never felt the desire to learn to play it. I liked music, but the thought of sitting on the piano bench and playing songs myself never crossed my mind. Instead, I was drawn to outdoor activities such as soccer, basketball, baseball, tennis, and golf. I had varying degrees of success in each of these, but participation in these sports nurtured my soul. 

When I started high school, I had a golden opportunity to make new friends. The enrollment at the school at that time was approximately 1,200. Through my four-year stint, I took advantage of my new social/academic setting to make many friends with classmates, as well as those a few years older and a few years younger. Having a good understanding of who I was enabled me to select friends I would enjoy spending time with and who would make me a better person.

Not surprisingly, knowledge of self is a critical component in the decisions to pursue a specific major in college or a long-term career. It’s simply not enough to look at the potential salary a specific job opportunity has to offer. The far more significant question is whether your interest level and skill set will enable you to nourish your soul through a certain career choice.

Could there be any area of life in which self-knowledge is more imperative than in the selection of a lifestyle or a life partner? No one knows us better than we know ourselves. We have the best understanding of what’s important to us. We know what we like and dislike. We know what we need and what we can do without. We know what brings us true happiness and what contributes to infuriating frustration. The selection of a life partner, or of a particular lifestyle, is best made when considered through the lens of our self-knowledge.

Those of us who attended a Jesuit high school, and were therefore required to take a minimum of two years of Latin, are familiar with this simple poem:

Latin’s a dead language.
It’s plain enough to see.
It killed off all the Romans,
and now it’s killing me.

Yes, we can laugh, but knowledge of a few significant Latin phrases, and a willingness to allow these phrases to shine a light of wisdom upon our lives, is something for which I will always be grateful. 

After further review,...

“Holding on to anger is like drinking poison
and expecting the other person to die."

~ Buddha

My experience of sixth through eighth grades at Saint Gabriel School was not easy. I was convinced that I was the only person, out of the 150 students in my grade level, who was disliked, rejected, and bullied. Through the years, I held on to my resentment toward those who made my life miserable during that challenging time, as well as those who stood by passively and allowed it all to happen. It took a while, a long while, but I eventually realized that I was wrong in holding on to that anger.

I was not the only student who felt disliked, rejected, and bullied. In fact, this is a common experience of many, if not most, middle school students. In speaking with several of my former classmates in recent years, most of them acknowledged that they, too, had been socially ostracized by their peers at some point in our middle school years.  I wish I’d known this sooner. Sixth through eighth grade is a period of tremendous developmental angst. Of course I wasn’t the only one to feel victimized during those years!

As I got older, I failed to consider that my classmates, too, were getting older. I continued to think of them, and judge them, based on my experience of them as eighth graders in 1968. For this reason, I did not attend any of our class reunions. I wanted nothing to do with them.

Fortunately, through the emergence of social media, I reestablished contact with a small number of my classmates, male and female. They were all, without exception, good, responsible, successful, and kind women and men. These former classmates are now some of my best friends.

At their urging, I attended our 50-year class reunion in 2018. I was apprehensive, as I was sure I would come face to face with some of my tormenters. I met one classmate outside the doors of the reunion venue. She was someone who was never mean to me, so I greeted her warmly by name as she stepped out of a car. She didn’t remember me. At the check-in table, I realized I was standing next to the one person most responsible for my negative middle school experience. He said hello, as if nothing had ever happened between us. Did he remember? Had he been waiting for me to arrive? I warily, yet cordially returned his greeting. Then I turned and entered the dining room. That was it. No drama. No apology. No retaliation. Just an uneasy, on my part, exchange of hellos. Then we moved on.

As the evening progressed, I recognized many of my former classmates. There were also a few I didn’t recognize. I went out of my way to greet some of those I knew. A number of my classmates went out of their way to greet me, too. No one mentioned any of the negative experiences that had weighed me down for the past fifty years. Everyone had grown up.

One conversation stands out above all the others from that night. Dave Dixon lived one block away from me on 38th Avenue. In our early elementary years, I would often play with Dave and another classmate, Rich Blake, who lived a few houses away from Dave. After sharing that he had devoted his life to working as a counselor for at-risk kids, he confided in me that he had been diagnosed with stage-4 throat cancer. Having shared with Dave that I had published a book on gratitude, he mentioned the possibility of us collaborating on a book about his work with the kids. He said that he had a story to share, but didn’t possess the writing skills to tell it. Unfortunately, that never happened. Dave passed away a short time later. I regret that we had not reconnected many years before. I think we would have been good friends.  

When people ask me about my biggest regret in life, I would have to admit that what I regret most is carrying my resentment toward my middle school classmates for as long as I did. I had just turned fourteen when I graduated from eighth grade. I changed considerably through the years, and I’d like to believe that change was mostly for the good. Why had I not realized sooner that my classmates had most likely changed for the good, as well? 

 

[Excerpt from The Ambassador of 38th Avenue
— to be published October 2022]

On Influencers

 

Sam Chan is my friend. We first met when I was teaching his son, Anthony. A few years later, I had the pleasure of teaching his daughter, Christina, as well. In addition to being excellent students, both were actively involved in the school’s international exchange program. The Chan family hosted several visiting students from our sister school in Nagasaki, Japan.

On several occasions, Sam has reached out to me. His timing was impeccable. He seems to have a higher level of intuition than most people I know. Though we don’t see each other often, I consider him to be more than just a friend and former parent. Sam is a mentor.

The dictionary definition of the word mentor can be a bit misleading. I have no problem accepting the first part of the definition: “n. - a wise and trusted counselor or teacher.” The second part of the definition, however, is not always accurate: “n. - an influential senior sponsor or supporter.”

I was the teacher in this relationship, right? Sam is the parent of two of my former students. I am also a few years older than Sam, so how is it that I could consider Sam to be my mentor? It’s really quite simple. Sam is smarter, more perceptive, and more empathetic than I am. I have been fortunate enough to be the recipient of his kindness, his knowledge, his wisdom, and his uncanny perceptiveness.

Several years ago, prior to my retirement, when I was struggling with my future in teaching, Sam sent me a message suggesting that we get together. We did. I didn’t know what was on his mind, but I trusted him enough to know that it would be in my best interest to accept his invitation. It was time well-spent. It was during that meeting that Sam recommended that I read The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. To be honest, the name of the book didn’t interest me at all. In fact, if anything, it intimidated me. I didn’t know the meaning of the word alchemist. 

Thanks to Sam’s recommendation, I did read the book. It wasn’t what I expected, which isn’t saying much because I didn’t know what to expect. It was, however, insightful and motivating. Eight lines in particular from The Alchemist caused me to think.

“And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.”

“When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too.”

“…we are each responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel.”

“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”

“It’s the simple things in life that are the most extraordinary.”

“He had to choose between something he had become accustomed to or something he wanted to have.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.”

One more Paulo Coelho quote for which I am grateful came to my attention while researching the author’s life. This quote was instrumental in my decision to retire from teaching at age 61 and focus on writing. It comes from his book The Zahir, a novel I have not yet read. This quote caused me to take action.

“One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted to do. Do it now.”

Done. Thank you, Sam. 

Remembering Freddy's

I’ve heard it said that there are three important factors to consider when purchasing real estate: (1) Location, (2) Location, and (3) Location. Of course, it’s possible to purchase a place to live without giving too much attention to the precise address or zip code. I’m not sure if Freddy, if that was his name at all, gave much consideration to the opportunity his modest home on Vicente Street in San Francisco would provide, but he sure made the most of it.

To drive past 2916 Vicente Street today, one would never know that it used to be home to a popular snack shack in the 1960’s. It really wasn’t much more than that. The garage door had been removed and replaced with a large window and single door. Inside the garage, a counter had been constructed allowing space for about a dozen customers to stand and place their orders. I’m fairly certain that most of Freddy’s customers were local kids.

Freddy’s was conveniently located directly across the street from South Sunset Playground and just down the hill from St. Gabriel School. Ulloa Elementary School was adjacent to the playground on the west side. What a gold mine for a well-run snack bar.

It’s been a long time since Freddy’s closed, so my memory of the menu there may be incomplete. What I remember most is that for a mere 25¢, I could purchase a bag of French fries. The brown lunch bags were half-full and the fries were hot and well-salted.

I also remember that for a dime, kids could purchase a half-pint carton of frozen Sun Valley Dairy orange drink or frozen chocolate milk. Freddy would cut the sides of the carton and remove the top half. This enabled kids to hold on to their frozen treat by the bottom portion of the carton. 

If any other items were on the menu at Freddy’s, I don’t remember them. Still, a visit to the snack bar, either after school or during the summer months, was a real treat for local kids. And with South Sunset Playground right across the street, business at Freddy’s was good. 

I don’t know if the current residents at 2916 Vicente Street are aware of the history of their home, but those of us who grew up in the neighborhood at that time are certainly aware of it. When I think about Freddy, and the affordable prices he charged for the items he served, I can’t help but wonder if it was a profitable business for him… or if he simply wanted to provide something special for the kids in the neighborhood. Whatever his motivation, I will always be grateful for his hospitality.