Attitude of Gratitude

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. 

On Choosing Minimalism

“If you want a golden rule that
will fit everything, this is it:
Have nothing in your house
that you do not know to be useful
or believe to be beautiful.”

William Morris

We live in a society in which people often judge others, and themselves, by their accumulation of wealth and possessions. Affluent people tend to live in upscale homes in desirable neighborhoods. These homes often include amenities which are not found in most homes — three-car garages, swimming pools, jacuzzis, tennis courts, home theaters, game rooms, and enough bedroom space to accommodate a family of a dozen or more. It is common for the residents of these types of homes to drive high-end automobiles with easily-recognizable logos. And the neighborhoods where such homes can be found are usually places where it’s safe to walk around at night without fear of becoming a victim of crime. What a blessing for those who live there! I am truly happy for anyone who can afford such luxury.

Of course, the percentage of people I know who live in such dwellings is minimal. Sure, I have a few wealthy friends, but none of them flaunt what they have. They all seem to recognize that their economic status is a gift, hard-earned though it may have been, and they seem truly grateful for all they possess.

I grew up in a blue-collar family. In my early years, my Dad worked three jobs to enable him and my mother to put my siblings and me through Catholic schools. We didn’t always get everything we wanted, but my parents managed to provide everything we needed and some of what we wanted. 

When I made the decision to devote my life to teaching in Catholic schools, I was well-aware that it meant choosing a lifestyle which would not allow me to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Despite this, however, I have always been able to provide, for myself and for my family, everything we’ve ever needed. Some people in my situation might be tempted to compare their lives with others — most always, with those who have more material possessions. That seems to be a very common human response. We look around at what other have and we feel deprived. I don’t think I have ever experienced this feeling myself.

Just as I developed an interest in and focus on the importance of gratitude in one’s life prior to gratitude becoming a trendy thing in society, I had committed myself to living a life of minimalism long before minimalism became a trendy lifestyle. Perhaps, if my economic status had been different, I might not have embraced minimalism as a lifestyle choice, but that’s how things turned out — and for this, I am grateful.

Since purchasing my first car, a used 1972 Volkswagen SuperBeetle, in 1976, I have owned six cars. Only one was purchased new from a dealership. In November 1984, I bought a 1985 Honda Accord. It served me well until I was rear-ended in April 1991 and the car was determined to be a total loss. Since that time, I’ve had four other vehicles, all either purchased second-hand or gifted to us. They all served us well.

Our home, a modest three-bedroom, two-bath condominium, has provided adequate shelter for us for more than thirty-five years. The living room is filled with, for the most part, second-hand furniture we inherited from family members. Our dining room table used to belong to my parents’ neighbors in San Francisco. The furniture in our main bedroom was purchased in 1981, three years before I met Kathy. And even here in my home office, I have almost entirely second-hand furniture — a desk from Bellarmine College Prep, two bookshelves that were in my brother’s room in Los Altos prior to his move to Rome, and a recliner my mother gave us when she moved into her senior living community in Mountain View. All of this serves me well, and I’m grateful for everything I have.

While I’ve embraced a minimalist lifestyle throughout my entire life, many people I know are now doing the same. It seems that once we hit a certain age, we find that we are significantly less impressed with material possessions and actively seek ways to simplify our lives. I think this is a good thing. I most certainly don’t feel deprived.  

[Image courtesy of Sister Terry Davis, SND]