Attitude of Gratitude

Corrections

I have some amazing friends — smart friends, who also happen to be incredibly tactful. I appreciate their discretion. Some are relatives. Some are colleagues or former colleagues. Some are former classmates. Still others are former students. And some don’t fit into any of these categories. I appreciate them all the same.

In the 14+ years I’ve been writing this Attitude of Gratitude blog, I have made my fair share of errors in spelling, punctuation, and grammar. Occasionally these mistakes were the result of me posting something prematurely, before having thoroughly proofread the piece. At other times, however, even what I thought to be a meticulous review of the text did not bring an error to my attention. Such is the plight of trying to proofread one’s own work. 

In my early days of blogging, my brother Tom would occasionally point out something which needed to be addressed. It’s nice having a Jesuit in the family! As time has gone on, others have brought errors to my attention, as well. One might consider pointing out a writer’s mistakes to be rude or disrespectful. I believe just the opposite. While I would like to believe that every piece I write is error-free, perfection in writing is not easy to achieve. So when friends point out my mistakes, I appreciate it immensely, especially since everyone who has done so has used email, a phone call, or Facebook messenger to convey their observation. 

I might feel different if I posted a piece on Facebook and, in the comments section below the article, someone wrote something like: “You screwed-up again. You used the wrong ‘whether’ in paragraph four, numb-skull.” Or if someone were to post a comment such as: “Did you go to S.H. or what??? Didn’t you learn anything from Father Becker at S.I.?”

Fortunately, my friends have far more refined social skills, so they discretely contact me in private and point out what needs to be changed — and I appreciate that!

I’ve tried to impress upon my students that proofreading and editing are the “hard work” of writing. The difference between good writers and not-so-good writers is their willingness to take the time and make the effort to do this work. A well-written piece of writing is a pleasure to read.

 

End of the Road

Three weeks ago, I challenged my students to sprint to the finish line. Using the analogy of the academic year as a long-distance race, I reminded them that the successful runners don’t slow down as they approach the end of the race. They actually increase their tempo to an all-out sprint. I also encouraged the kids to heed the advice of Olympian Steve Prefontaine, who taught us that “to give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”

Well, the finish line is in sight. As much as I would like to model for my students a solid, steady sprint to the finish line, I simply don’t have it left in me. The momentum was interrupted by a non-academic “Outdoors Day” event today. There is no question in the minds of the students, nor the teachers, that the academic year is officially over, even though we have three more school days on the calendar.

Having taught high school for so many years, I have little experience with school years ending several days before the last day of school. Final examinations had a way of keeping the high school kids focused to the very end. Middle school students don’t take final exams. So yes, with three days remaining in the 2020-2021 academic year, it is over.

I must admit that I’m grateful for this reality. My primary concern when I stepped-in as a long-term sub at St. Victor School last year was whether or not I had the stamina to teach every day, to create engaging lesson plans, and to read and correct countless essays and short stories written by my students. At this time last year, when the 2019-2020 academic year came to an end, I was still feeling surprisingly energetic — enough so that I accepted an offer to return to teach for another year. This year is a very different experience.

This year, I feel like the old stump in Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. I have nothing left to give. There’s enough fuel in the tank to get through the week, but I am grateful to be approaching the finish line before sputtering to a complete stop. It may take some time to refuel, and that’s okay, but there will not be another race. From here on out, I’m walking.

That’s my plan — walking… every day… for as long as the Good Lord allows me to remain on this earth. Of course, I’ll do some reading, writing, socializing, and napping, too, but my number one priority beginning Monday, June 14th is walking. I’ve neglected my poor body long enough. I’m grateful for this opportunity. God is good. Life is good. 

 

Simply Grateful

 

Some days are special. Other days are ordinary. And, occasionally, ordinary days can be quite extraordinary. Today has been one of those days.

The highlight of my morning Zoom classes with my students at St. Victor School was hearing the kids singing “Happy Birthday” while holding up homemade birthday cards. The singing was atrocious, but the love I felt from them was genuine and very much appreciated.

After my classes, I drove to Mountain View to have lunch with my mother. I’ve always thought that we do birthdays backwards in our society — we celebrate the one born, even though it was the mother who did all the work on that day. (There’s a reason they call it “labor.”) We enjoyed our meal at the Toll House Restaurant, which is one of my Mom’s favorite places to eat. It was a wonderful way to celebrate our day together.

On my way home, I received a phone call from my friend Tom, a high school classmate, golfing buddy, and longtime friend who was also the best man in Kathy’s and my wedding in 1985. We had not connected since last August, so we had a little catching up to do.

When I returned home, I learned that the plan for a quiet dinner at home with Kathy had changed slightly. Tom and Hillary (with Liam and Emily), Steve and Morgan (with Penny), and Brendan all joined us for a special birthday dinner. Tom and Hillaray brought the fixings for dinner, which included filet mignon, which Tom barbecued to perfection, lobster tails, which Kathy cooked to perfection, and an assortment of veggies. After dinner, we enjoyed Kathy’s homemade cupcakes. Graciously, Liam and Emily helped me blow out the two candles on my dessert.

I also received a number of phone calls, emails, text messages, and Facebook messages wishing me well on my 67th birthday. All were greatly appreciated.

I’m pretty sure that today was my best birthday ever. From the first words I heard this morning, which were a heartfelt “Happy Birthday” from Kathy, to sitting down and writing this blog post tonight, I could not have asked for a better day. I am reminded, yet again, that I have so much for which to be grateful in my life.

 

It Could Have Been Different

It was Thursday, June 3, 1971. Final exams at St. Ignatius College Prep had just concluded. It was officially summer break before my senior year, and I was looking forward to an experience I would never forget. On June 17th, my S.I. classmate, Dan Pasini, and I would travel to Montego Bay, Jamaica with one of our teachers, Fr. Russ Roide, S.J., to spend eight weeks teaching and learning liturgical music. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, but I almost missed out on it.

After the last final exam, and a hearty lunch from Herb’s Delicatessen on Taraval Street, a group of us got together on campus for a pickup softball game on the small field between the gymnasium and the parking lot. Participants were mostly students, but a few faculty members joined us, as well. The game was as non-competitive as a game can be with eighteen or so guys playing a sport.

At some point in the game, while playing shortstop, I misjudged a hard-hit ground ball. Rather than settling in the web of my glove, the ball struck the inside of my left ankle. I was probably more embarrassed than hurt, but I recall the pain as being substantial. The game went on.

After the game, I was offered a ride home by my friend and classmate John Paul Jeffrey. He drove a two-door 1970 Ford Thunderbird. It was parked on 37th Avenue across from the entrance to the gym. Three others, including John Paul, were already in the car when I arrived. The vacant seat was the one behind the driver, so J.P. opened his door and leaned forward, allowing me so slide into the back seat. I was doing everything I could to protect my left ankle, which was still throbbing from the impact of my error. As I carefully brought my left leg up and into the car, John Paul, thinking I was settled in my seat, pulled the door closed, crushing that same ankle between the door and the frame of the car. I vividly recall the level of pain as being excruciating, but being a 17-year-old with his buddies, I had to bite the bullet.

The next ten days were spent preparing for the trip to Jamaica. It would be my first visit to a foreign country where we would be staying at the rectory of Blessed Sacrament Cathedral in Montego Bay as guests of Bishop Edgarton Clarke. I also had another devious task during this time — I couldn’t let my mother know of the injury to my ankle. I didn’t want to take any chances on jeopardizing my summer plans.

On Monday afternoon, June 14th, just three days prior to our planned departure, Mom noticed that I was favoring my left ankle. When she asked me what had happened, I mentioned the error, but not the incident with the car door. I assured her it was nothing. She asked to see it. I again assured her it was okay, but she persisted. Reluctantly, I pulled up the left leg of my pants and pulled down my sock to expose the severely swollen and discolored ankle. Our next stop was the emergency room at St. Mary’s Hospital. I was admitted that evening and placed in isolation due to a staph infection and blood clot.

I did end up joining Dan and Russ in Jamaica, but not until July 6th, after spending ten days in the hospital and an additional ten days recuperating at home. Over time, the injury healed, though the ankle remains discolored to this day — fifty years later. 

The summer of 1971 was memorable, a time in my life for which I will always be grateful. It could have been very different.    

 

Next-Gen Educators

I believe the children are our future.
Teach them well and let them lead the way.
Show them all the beauty they possess inside.
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier.
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be.

~ Whitney Houston

I first stepped into a classroom in the role of teacher in mid-October 1971. I was a senior in high school at the time. I received a phone call from a woman who coordinated the catechetical ministry program, then known as “CCD,” at Our Lady of Mercy Parish in Daly City. One of the Jesuits at St. Ignatius College Prep had recommended that she ask me if I would consider teaching a class of “incorrigible sixth grade boys.” Two teachers had already quit since the program had started in September. I accepted the offer and enjoyed the experience immensely.

Now, almost fifty years later, my last day in a classroom in the role of teacher will be on Friday, June 11, 2021. As with any career, there have been good years and not so good years, but I am grateful to be ending my career on a positive note.

Yes, I did retire from teaching in June 2015. Little did I know, at that time, that I would find myself back in the classroom four years later. I wasn’t looking for a teaching job in 2019, but a situation arose at St. Victor School which I was able to fill. I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to end my career on a better note than when I left St. Lawrence Academy in 2015.

I am also leaving the teaching profession with confidence that a new generation of teachers is already in place to fill the void. My successor at St. Victor School is a recent graduate of the Credential/Master’s Program at Santa Clara University. This afternoon, I enjoyed attending (on Zoom) the graduation ceremony for Morrill Middle School in San José where my son, Tom, serves as principal. Most Holy Trinity School in San José, where my son, Steve, teaches middle school math and science, will hold their graduation ceremony on Friday. And last weekend, The Harker School, where my son, Brendan, coaches junior varsity basketball, held their commencement exercises. I am humbled that all three of my boys have chosen careers which enable them to have a positive impact on the lives of young people.

Yes, children are our future, and yes, we must certainly teach them well. When we do, they are more than capable of leading the way in their own lives and for future generations. It is imperative that we, as educators, see in our students what they don't see in themselves... until they do, and to help them develop a sense of pride in who they are and what they accomplish. 

One of the absolute joys of teaching is to hear the children’s laughter, for it most certainly can remind us of how we used to be.  

 

An Unrealistic Expectation

I woke up yesterday and began my morning routine of shaving, showering, getting dressed for the day, and eating breakfast. I’m not exactly sure why, but instead of wearing one of my usual t-shirts or polos, I put on a Hawaiian shirt. It just felt right. It was a little while later, around 11:30, when I realized that I was experiencing a peace of mind unlike any I’ve experienced in recent years. I sat in one of the chairs in our living room and shared this realization with Kathy. I couldn’t really explain it, but I also couldn’t deny it. It was real, and I enjoyed it immensely.

For the most part, the rest of our day was delightful, but by the time I went to bed last night, I was both physically and mentally exhausted. How did that happen? Where did that sense of contentment, that peace of mind, go?

As I reflect back on that brief moment yesterday, I do so with a sense of gratitude. It was such an amazing, peaceful feeling. I couldn’t help but notice it and acknowledge it. And then, poof! — it was gone. How did that happen?

I’ll be wearing a Hawaiian shirt again today. Maybe, just maybe, there is something about the colors in the shirt that put my mind at ease. Whatever it was, I want to reclaim that feeling. I want to feel that overwhelming sense of peace and be more attentive to it. I want to savor it, prolong it, and try to find some way to maintain it for more than just an hour or two. 

No one is going to experience true peace of mind all the time. That’s an unrealistic expectation. It is, however, worth our attention and effort to identify what factors in one’s life have the ability to create such a feeling, and to consciously do what we can to achieve it.

 

Pure Bliss

Having spent the first eighteen years of my life living in the Sunset District in San Francisco, I know the importance of getting away for a vacation during the summer months. The persistent cold and fog, while refreshing at times, had a way of wearing me down. Two weeks — that’s all it took — in Boulder Creek, Lake County, or at the Russian River during the summer provided enough of a respite from the dreariness of summer days in The City to get me through the year. When I turned 18 and graduated from high school, I had the opportunity to move to the South Bay. For the most part, I’ve been here ever since.

Growing up in The City, summer attire consisted of jeans, sweatshirts, and shoes. I have no recollection of ever going barefoot outside our home in my childhood. I often tried to sneak out of the house without a sweatshirt, but as the afternoon progressed, I was usually grateful that my mother forced me to wear it. And sunscreen? Who needed sunscreen? If we saw the sun at all, it made its appearance after three o’clock in the afternoon. (Of course, we know better now!)

Living in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley has been a totally different experience. In my college years, shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops were the normal attire from April through October. Today, I’ve traded the tank tops for t-shirts. Life, as much as possible, is lived outdoors during these months. Barbecues, rather than stoves, are used to prepare dinners. Sitting in the shade on a summer afternoon doesn’t cause one to run inside to grab a sweatshirt or jacket. Even after sunset, outerwear isn’t usually needed until ten or eleven o’clock, if at all.

Unlike the 1970s, when the warmer weather arrived in mid-April or early May, the noticeable change in temperature now begins in late May or early June. So I was grateful to see the 10-day weather forecast for the South Bay today. The long-awaited warmth, so characteristic of this valley during the summer months, is on the horizon. I’ll open the windows of our home and leave them open, most of them, until October. I’ll drive with the windows down in my car. I’ll do my reading outside, rather than in my home office. And as often as possible, meals will be enjoyed outdoors.

Predictably, we’ll have a few weeks of oppressive heat at some point, but those times are normally short-lived. For the most part, the western portion of the Santa Clara Valley enjoys daytime temps in the upper-70s to mid-80s. As a result, I no longer feel the need to escape. I'm content with staying home during the summer months. Why would I want to be anywhere else?

     

On Being Prepared

“Therefore, stay awake, for you know
neither the day nor the hour.”

Matthew 25:13

 

It was a strange post to read on Facebook early this morning: “Just pray for San José.” The cryptic message was posted by my former student Mike Moraida, now a firefighter in the City of San José. Not knowing the reason for his post, I sent him a quick Facebook message to ask. I received an immediate reply: “Active shooter at the VTA yard downtown. 2 large fires. Drained all San José resources.”

I had a few minutes before I was scheduled to meet with my students on Zoom, so I pulled up NBC Bay Area online and began to hear details of the unfolding stories. Yes, there had been a shooting at the maintenance facility for the Valley Transportation Authority light rail trains. Yes, there was an industrial fire spewing thick black smoke into the morning air. But, at that time, there was no mention of the second fire. Details about that incident, a seemingly routine two-alarm fire in a residence off McLaughlin Road, were unavailable at that time.

By mid-morning, specifics of the three events began to emerge. The house fire was directly related to the mass shooting at the VTA facility. The shooter apparently set his home on fire before driving approximately twelve minutes to the VTA yard where he opened fire on his coworkers. In the burning house, firefighters found evidence of arson, as well as a significant amount of ammunition. At last count, eight employees were dead at the VTA facility, along with the shooter, who apparently took his own life.

As much as we should be shocked and horrified by these incidents, such carnage has become all too familiar — so much so that multiple killings in the United States are rarely the top news story of the day any more. What is commonplace is hardly newsworthy.

Enough about that. Today’s tragedy, disquieting or not, offers us yet another opportunity to ask ourselves a crucial question: Are we ready? I don’t mean are we ready to deal with an active shooter. All the active shooter drills in the world will never adequately prepare us for such an event. And I don’t mean are we adequately insured should there be a fire in our home. I am specifically referring to the awkward question about our level of preparedness for our own death.

Yeah, I know… no one wants to talk about this. The reality, however, is that our death is inevitable. It’s just a matter of time. And that’s the problem — we don’t know how much time we have left.

Kathy and I have taken care of some of these details. We have a will, a revokable trust, and a durable power of attorney for health care decisions. When I had the opportunity to travel to Japan for the first time in 1998, I took a few more steps to “get my things in order.” I created a binder, which I update annually, which provides the details of how all of our bills are paid. Kathy knows where to find information about my pension, Social Security, bank accounts, and life insurance policies. I’ve even gone so far as to write my own obituary! I want it to be short and simple, so I thought it best to just write it myself. Of course, details of my demise remain to be added.

Yet even with all these things in order, I can’t help but wonder,… am I ready? Is anyone ready?  

 

Acknowledging Limitations

 

Maybe it’s a guy thing. Admitting that we cannot do something is a humbling, at times humiliating experience.

In my childhood, I had the idea that my Dad could do everything. If I couldn’t open a can of apple sauce, Dad could do it. If I was unable to open the lid of a jar of red raspberry jam to put on my peanut butter sandwich, Dad could do that, too. He was strong. And if I couldn’t figure out how to do a math problem, I could always ask Dad and he would show me how to do it. Not only was Dad strong, but he was smart, too. At least, until I turned seventeen.

It was in the latter part of my high school years that I gained the confidence that I could do many of these things for myself. I realized that Dad wasn’t much stronger than I was, if he was at all. And smart? Heck, at seventeen, I knew pretty much all there was to know about life, right? Yes, there is a fine line between confidence and ignorance.

In my professional life, I always wanted to prove that I could handle any situation. During my senior year in high school, I accepted the challenge of teaching a CCD class to thirteen “incorrigible” sixth grade boys. I did it, and I did it well. A year later, I was on the staff at Bellarmine College Prep in San José supervising students who lived in the dormitory. I was only eighteen myself, yet there I was. At age twenty, I was teaching full time in a Catholic high school and serving as one of four quasi-administrators responsible for keeping tabs on one quarter of the student population. I did that, too. 

Throughout the early years of my career, I wanted to be perceived as a competent teacher who could handle any situation. When the school needed a soccer coach, I agreed to do the job. When they were in desperate need of an athletic director, I did that, too. I was even asked to teach a semester class in psychology and another semester class in philosophy, despite the fact that I’d taken only one psychology class at a community college and one philosophy class at Santa Clara University. I managed to survive both experiences. 

Every now and then, however, I have had to admit that I was unable to do something. In one case, my lack of ability to adapt to a new administrative team caused me to leave the school where I’d worked for thirty years. It was, perhaps, one of the best decisions of my life. While it may appear that I gave up, the word “surrender” can be understood in two ways: to give up or to give over. I chose to give over — and move on. It was clear that my role in that particular situation was unappreciated and unwanted.

Recently, however, I had a very different experience, one which was no less humbling. It had to do with my ability to meet the specific, unique needs of one of my students. The student is a nice kid, but I had to acknowledge that I simply did not possess the experience, nor the expertise, to help him. I have known for a long time that we cannot be everything to everyone, but that has not diminished my desire to be just that. Yes, I can be stubborn, too.

During my first full-time year of teaching, I met a priest, Fr. Preston Moss, who turned out to be both a friend and a mentor. He told me one day, “Ya can’t give wat ya ain’t got.” Prophetic words, to be sure. These words of wisdom apply to me today just as they did when Preston shared them with me in 1979. 

In her book I Don’t Know: In Praise of Admitting Ignorance, Leah Hager Cohen wrote: “The ability to know one’s limitations, to recognize the bounds of one’s own comprehension — this is a kind of knowing that approaches wisdom.”

For this wisdom, humbling though it may be, I am grateful.

 

Penny Meets Great-Grandma

 

Our third grandchild, Penelope (Penny), will go down in history as a “pandemic baby.” She was born on Father’s Day 2020, as the world struggled to come to terms with the reality of Covid-19. With all the Covid restrictions in place in our county, most notably those which directly affected the retirement community where my Mom lives, it wasn’t until today that Mom had the opportunity to meet her newest great-grandchild in person. Steve, Morgan, and Penny stopped by Villa Siena today for a long-overdue visit, and it was priceless.

Penny was at her best as she met the matriarch of our family. She actively explored my Mom’s room, checking out every nook and cranny, and she was totally comfortable sitting on her great-grandmother’s lap. Penny’s pleasant disposition and disarming smile was the highlight of my mother’s day — even though I had visited Mom earlier in the day! And Penny, no doubt, noticed the sparkle and love in Great-Grandma’s eyes, as well. 

The Covid restrictions were not the only barrier to Penny meeting Mom earlier than today. In addition to the classes he teaches, and all the lesson planning and grading of papers that accompany the teaching profession, Steve was also in the final semester of his Master’s program at the University of San Francisco. He graduated last week. So today’s visit was special for many reasons. I’m sure Penny will enjoy many more visits to Villa Siena in the coming months and years.

As I mentioned, my mother now has three grandchildren — and two on the way! Yes, Steve and Morgan are preparing for the birth of their second child some time in late November or early December. And my nephew Pat, and his wife Ceri, are expecting their first in late October in Ireland. This is such an exciting time. Penny will be a big sister, Liam and Emily will have two more cousins, and Kathy and I will have four grandkids! 

So much for which to be grateful.