The Dedalus Log

I probably knew George Riley, better than any other friend’s parent. I worked side-by-side with him for many years when I was employed at ADT Burglar Alarm Co. Our paths would cross during the summer months when I filled in for office technicians on vacation. He would leave his full time job at the Gas Company on Flower Street at 3:30 P.M., cross the street to enter the Western Union Building, and work part of the swing shift until eight o’clock. He called ADT his “part-time job”, although from my perspective he was working a twelve-hour day (16 when he worked overtime). Before my encounter with George at ADT, he was simply Mr. Riley, the white haired, round faced, and humorless father of the Riley clan. This was a family of five boys and 6 girls, who grew up in a 3-bedroom, one bathroom house on Kellyfield Ave, in Westchester, California, and attended Visitation Elementary, and St. Bernard High School during the 1950’s and 60’s. Kellyfield is gone now. It was purchased by right of eminent domain and demolished as part of the expansion plans of the Los Angeles International Airport in 1968. LAX’s Parking Lot C now covers the vast area that once abounded with street after street of residential homes, bursting with families and children. Because he seemed to be working all the time, I would only catch brief glimpses of him at home and around the house, while I was in high school and my freshman year in college. Our paths might cross briefly on a weekend, if I were picking Jim up for a game, but our interactions consisted only of “Hello, Mr. Riley”, and “Goodbye, Mr. Riley”. That changed when Jim helped me get a job at American District Telegraph (ADT) Company during the summer of 1967, and I came to know him as a co-worker and peer on the swing shift.

“Hello, Mr. Riley”, I said when he entered the operations office of ADT, filled with blinking wall panel lights and clattering ticker-tape machines on long, green-surfaced worktables.
The silver-haired, mid-sized man, in a short-sleeved white shirt, paused and considered me before speaking. A leprechaun-like smile broke over his round face and he said, “Tony, call me George”.
My face froze in shock, and my throat clenched in confused panic. “I, I, I can’t call you that, Mr. Riley” I stuttered.
“Sure you can,” he said, walking up and patting me reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t think of my as Jimmy’s dad. I’m just George, another
serviceman working in the office”.
“Okay, Mr. Riley… I mean, George.  Whatever you say,” I sighed. I could not imagine how this would work.

Over the summer I became more and more confident working alongside of George. Just as my alarm and night-watch monitoring duties and responsibilities slowly started making sense, my relationship with him did too. He was one of 6 alarm technicians who managed silent burglar alarms all night, along with one radio dispatcher, and a supervisor. Their ages varied from 25 to 45, and many held other jobs. Jim, two or three other guys, and I were part of a personnel experiment to see if college students could fit in to supplement the summer vacation period. For a kid with only market box-boy experience at minimum wage, working with men (many of whom were WWII and Korean War veterans) in a serious endeavor, and receiving a respectable hourly rate, was a heady experience. It was strange at first, seeing the father of your best friend in an all- male, adult, work environment. Until that summer, Mr. Riley had always been a dour, serious, and grouchy dad to me. That person disappeared at ADT. Somehow, in the confines of a well lit, bustling office, between the hours of 4 to 8 P.M., he was transformed into a jovial, cherub-faced, and capable co-worker. He told jokes, played practical jokes, and shared stories. He was a different guy at work, and I came to know him as a rounder, fuller character.

I only knew Mrs. Katherine Hanley Ryan through her son, Greg. My interactions with her, or her husband, were rare in high school. They would usually consist of saying “Hi Mrs. Ryan” as I entered her home, and then being hustled out by Greg, telling me that we didn’t have time to waste talking. I remembered her as a tall, slim, short-skirted lady, with red hair and a low, husky voice. Jim and I thought she was “hot” – which always caused Greg to roll his eyes and tell us to “get serious”.  While in college, Jim and I would occasionally insist on chatting with Mrs. Ryan, anxious to inform her of what we were doing at school and in our lives, and indirectly providing information about Greg and his activities. She was a vivacious, spontaneous, and interesting woman, who reminded me of Rosalind Russell in the movie Auntie Mame. Ironically, I learned more about her during her funeral than I ever discovered in her life. It seems that while managing a household with five children and a husband (which I knew), she also worked as an executive secretary at the Ashley Famous Agency (AFA), and as the personal secretary of Hugh O'Brien (which was a surprise to us). She interacted and worked with movie and television actors, producers, and directors, and campaigned for Bobby Kennedy in the 1960’s, while working for Peter Lawford. Who knew she was so well connected?

Both George and Katherine survived their spouses by many years. As widowed parents, they saw their children, and their children’s families and friends, grow into middle-age and beginning planning for their own retirements. Their passing is a reflective moment for me.  Beginning as an 18 year-old boy, through college, marriage, a family, and a career, I saw George and Katherine lead happy and satisfying lives. I assume they had their share of struggles, disappointments, and hardships, but they never stopped being parents, and offering their lives as examples (both positive and negative) of what life has in store for their children. They did this in the last years of their lives, and in their deaths as well.

“Goodbye Mrs. Ryan, goodbye Mr. Riley – I feel I barely knew you”.

What would you think if I sang out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song,
And I’ll try not to sing out of key.
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.
(A Little Help from My Friends: Lennon & McCarthy, 1967)

“I think your fifth grade class is over there,” Ellen, the 1^st grade teacher said, pointing at two short lines in the middle of the formation. “Let’s check to make sure”.
We walked the short distance to two lines of four girls and five boys. “Good morning children, is this the 5^th grade line?”
“Yeeesss” three girls said in unison.
“Excellent, this is Mr. Delgado, he will be your substitute teacher for today”.
“Good morning, Mr. Delgado,” two of the girls managed to say together, as the boys from the parallel line looked over with great interest.
“Good morning students,” I said, smiling. “How do you get to class? Does your teacher come to get you or do you walk in yourselves?”
“Our teacher comes out to meet us each morning” the first girl in line said. “Then we walk to the entrance door of the classroom. We line up there until she greets us and then we walk in”.
“The first bell rings at 8 o’clock,” Ellen added. “We give them a five minute grace period for tardiness, then teachers escort their classes to their rooms”.
“Great” I said. “I’ll go ahead and open up the room. I want to look at the material and textbooks I’ll be using today. Thanks for your help Ellen”.
“Your welcome, Tony. Good luck today and thanks for the bagels. That was very kind”.
“Your welcome,” I replied.  “Your teachers do a great job. In my former school I noticed how subs sometimes brought doughnuts or pastry for the faculty. The regular teachers appreciated it, although I think the subs were actually lobbying for more clients”.
“Well who knows” Ellen said, tongue-in-cheek, “if you do a good job for us today, we may call you back for more assignments”.
“Great” I said, laughingly, as I walked towards the 5^th grade classroom, “we’ll fill my days with subbing assignments. Just what a retired principal wants to do”.

In an unexplained impulse last month, I suddenly told Kathy I wanted to help her at school if she ever needed emergency assistance. The announcement surprised her as much as it shocked me. I explained that I wasn’t looking for REAL work, nor did I want to substitute teach or volunteer my time on a regular basis. But I came to the realization that as a retired teacher and principal, I was in a position to help if she was in a sudden and unexpected jam. It was a generous idea and I was very proud of myself for having THOUGHT it. I promptly forgot about it until last week, when Kathy brought me back to reality by actually asking me to substitute for Jennifer, her fifth grade teacher. They were both attending a morning testing meeting on Tuesday, and she could not find a substitute teacher to cover Jennifer’s class. I paused just long enough to realize that I couldn’t equivocate on my offer, and quickly replied, “Sure, I’d be happy to sub for you.” Now I was committed to an action that was incredibly intimidating. I’d knowingly put myself in a position as a replacement teacher. I hadn’t subbed in years, and never liked doing it.

Teaching is hard, but subbing is harder; the former takes determination and skill, the latter requires audacity and improvisation. My only successful teaching experiences were as a full time, regular instructor in junior and senior high schools. I hated to substitute for other teachers. Lesson plans were rarely detailed and comprehensive, I could never find necessary equipment and materials in another teacher’s classroom, and students interpreted the absence of their teacher as an excuse for uncooperative and defiant behavior. I completely stopped subbing as an administrator. On the rare occasions when I discovered a teacher-less class as a principal, I would “sit with” the students for a brief time until an official substitute teacher was called or found. But I never actually followed an emergency lesson plan, and I never taught students below the 6^th grade level. So why had I volunteered to sub, when I didn’t like subbing? What had prompted my chivalrous intention in the first place? It wasn’t clear even to me until I inadvertently explained it to James, John, and Ed, three brothers who were long time family friends.

On the Saturday before I subbed for Kathy and Jennifer, the four of us met for drinks before seeing Spamalot, the musical adaptation of the movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, at the Ahmanson Theatre. While chatting at a bar and grill before the performance, John asked how I was adapting to retirement. I told him that I was slowly becoming comfortable with the “free time” I now had; time to indulge in activities that were only possible in my youth.  As a high school and college student, my life consisted of six general activities: learning, reading, writing, household chores, athletics, and HELPING. I recalled that helping was seen as a NOBLE ACTION of family love, friendship, and generosity; and since money was always lacking, time and labor were the only resources we had available to offer one another. I remembered helping friends study, work, and learn new skills. In those days I especially enjoyed helping girls. It was the chivalrous thing to do, and could lead to other, more amorous rewards. This innocent, helpful attitude slowly changed with time, age, and marriage. My willingness to help others shrunk in reverse proportion to my age, number of dependents, and income. About the only people I considered helping were family members with great needs, or people for whom I felt a great obligation. But even with family, I passed up many opportunities to help, claiming more personal obligations. Retirement now reminded me of that semi-autonomous state of irresponsibility I experienced in high school and college. As a youth, all I had to do was go to school and complete my chores. I was always free to HELP, and I felt a great sense of satisfaction and happiness in doing so. I sought that feeling again. So, I explained to the brothers, about two months ago I privately decided to be available to HELP PEOPLE, preferably people I KNEW. The idea of helping strangers filled me with dread because I feared becoming responsible FOR THEM. I thought helping friends was easier- especially if one concentrated on the helping, and not the work. Kathy was the first person I told of this intention, and she was the first person to ask. So, I announced, I was subbing for her 5^th grade teacher. I’m not sure if my explanation made sense to the brothers, but it helped me understand my own actions. I saw subbing as an adventure and an opportunity to help. I had the teaching experience, and the subject matter knowledge; I simply needed to call forth the required audacity and be ready to improvise.

I suspected that I was not simply being thrown into an emergency-subbing situation when Kathy asked me if I’d like to see the classroom and meet Jennifer and her students the day before my assignment. I was relieved at the offer and pleased with the results. Seeing the physical layout and organization of Jennifer’s classroom assured me that I was walking into a structured and well-managed situation. Each desk was spaced and clearly labeled with the names of each student. Classroom rules, question and comment hand-signs, student chores, daily lesson agenda, student activities, and homework assignments were all printed or posted around the room. It was a physical environment that radiated feelings of safety, structure, and active learning. The 5^th grade students were clearly amazed when their principal introduced me as her husband (and also a principal) and the substitute teacher for the following day. I could almost hear a collective gulp as that bit of information settled into their consciousness (“Our principal’s husband is our substitute teacher!”). As Kathy interacted with the students, Jennifer gave me a quick orientation of her room, pointing out the learning hints and strategies posted on walls, and indicating the duty roster of student chores and responsibilities. She assured me that her students were familiar with the learning activities and procedures required for the lessons she planned. She also promised to email me her lesson plans that afternoon so I could review the activities and instruction. She was very young, sweet, and thoughtful in her sureness; and I realized that she too might be gulping at the prospect of having her principal’s husband subbing for her (“What will he think of my kids, my lessons, and ME?”).

Actually I knew Jennifer, and had known her for a long time. She was one of two PLACE (Partners in Los Angeles Catholic Education) Corp teachers whom my wife recruited from the Loyola Marymount University Catholic teaching and graduate program. Our daughter Prisa was accepted into the Jesuit funded service program the year after its inception. As educators, Kathy and I were impressed with the aims and the quality of training provided in this program, which matched well-educated and highly motivated Catholic college graduates with archdiocesan elementary and high schools who served ethnically diverse and predominately low-income students. Prisa thrived in the Catholic communal environment that supported the two-year apprenticeship, and she graduated with a master’s degree, teaching credential, and full-time teaching experience. At the end of Prisa’s first year, Kathy suggested the program to two former students of OLV who were just graduating from college and interested in teaching. Kathy had taught Jennifer and Esthela when they were 8^th grade students, and they stayed in touch throughout their high school and college years. The PLACE Corp seemed the perfect vehicle to test their resolve. After a few years, Kathy offered them both teaching positions at their former school (Esthela in 2^nd grade and Jennifer in 5^th). They accepted and thrived in the strong community orientated school and parish that is OLV.

The morning of my assignment was over in a flash, and my 4-hour stint as a sub was finished before I had a chance to feel overwhelmed and regret my actions. My timing was perfect all day: buying the fresh bagels and cream cheese at Western Bagel, gaining entrance into the faculty lounge, and setting up the food before anyone arrived (over time I’ve learned that with a predominately female faculty, set-up and presentation of food is essential). I had just enough time to identify my line-up area, unlock the classroom doors, and review the manuals and textbooks before instructional time began. Honestly, I was only one activity ahead of the students all day, but because of the comprehensive quality of the lesson plans, and the self-management of the students, that was enough. The children were the real story. The most interesting part of the experience occurred at about 10:20 A.M., during the Reading Period. The lesson called for students to read a story aloud, utilizing the “popcorn reading” method and employing “Reading strategies to check comprehension”. This was the last interactive activity of the day, and I suspected I was finally beginning to relax, and so were the kids. Since the morning, they had acted very formally and mechanically with me. They were careful to listen, answered my questions, and followed my direction. However, during the reading assignment, I noticed that the type of questions the children were asking began to change. Up until that moment, they only raised their hands to ask permission or to respond to my questions: “Can I go to the bathroom? Can I get a drink of water? Can I get a pencil from my backpack?” They did not begin to ask speculative questions, or personal questions until we began reading.

The assignment was to read Wilma Unlimited, a story of Wilma Rudolph, the African-American runner who won 3 gold track and field medals in the 1960 Olympic games. Usually this type of lesson is a snap for a sub, because it simply entails letting the students read aloud. But the challenge of a reading exercise is to encourage students to practice a variety of thinking and comprehension skills, while maintaining interest in the story. Recess had given me just enough time to review the Teacher Manual and learn which skills were to be emphasized in the story. I studied the vocabulary list and the target concept - cause and effect. This is a simple term for an adult to recognize, but hard to explain to 10 year old children. Before I could develop a clear strategy, recess ended and it was time to pick up the kids who were lining up in the playground and escort them to class. Popcorn reading is a funny term, because the method has nothing to do with food. It is a “read-aloud” process in which students read a paragraph and then announce “popcorn”, before calling out the name of the next student reader. While it seems a disjointed method to listen to a narrative, it can develop a progressive reading rhythm while allowing natural breaks to think, ask questions, and speculate. I was awkward at first, because I hadn’t read the story ahead of time and wasn’t sure how to best illustrate cause and effect, and check for comprehension at the same time. As students began reading, I tried following along while glancing at the Teacher Manual for prompts and suggestions. One can’t read one thing and listen to another at the same time. I tried, but finally gave up. The primary rule of Improvisation (remember subbing was Audacity and Improvisation?) is: LISTEN, LISTEN, and LISTEN. One can’t interact with another person if they don’t listen to what they are saying.

Moving cause and effect to the back of my mind, I finally listened to the flow of the narrative and began highlighting obvious points of interest and speculation. That is when the tenor of student questions changed.
“So,” I interrupted, as soon as Marcella had called on Brandon to read. “We’ve mentioned that Wilma was tiny and weak at birth, and was always sick as a child. What would these facts cause people to think about Wilma, and what she might become?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing at the short, black haired boy who had suddenly raised his hand.
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle asked, sincerely.
“What?” I asked, unsurely. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle repeated. “I wish I could remember”.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, smiling at the seeming randomness of the question. “I think it’s because a child’s brain is still forming, and brain connections are only beginning to recognize sights, sounds, and ideas. Babies can’t remember what they don’t understand. I wish we could remember what it was like to be one or two years old too, but we have to depend on the memory of our parents and other adults. So, who can tell me what Wilma’s parents might have thought about how she would grow up?”

The students grew more eager to read and participate, and their reading level was surprising high. The story and interactions moved so fast, I didn’t have time to celebrate having answered this apparently nonsensical question (The connection hit me later that day). However, it wasn’t long before I was blind-sided by another unexpected question, after we read how Wilma and her mother had to sit in the back of the bus whenever they traveled to the hospital for treatment of her polio.
“Now this is very important,” I said, when Raven finished reading. “We live in a time when people in America can sit anywhere they wish in a bus, an airplane, or in a public vehicle. In fact, most children prefer sitting in the back of the bus, where they can see everyone and everything. But there was a time in our history when public facilities were divided. People could only use separate restrooms, restaurants, pools, or drinking fountains. Can someone tell us what was the basis of this separation?”
Marcella’s arm shot up so quickly I knew she had the full answer. “Yes, Marcella,” I said.
“What subject did you teach?” she asked.
“I taught history in school,” I said, puzzled by her association of segregation with me.
“Ohh” she exhaled, “that explains why you get so excited talking about this story”.
“Yes” I laughed in answer. “I supposed I do love reading and talking about people in American history. As you’ll see, Wilma Rudolph was really an interesting person who overcame incredible difficulties and hardships to achieve success.”
At that point of the lesson, I would have loved continuing to read, question and explore the accomplishments of Wilma Rudolph in America of the 50’s and 60’s, but it was almost 11 o’clock and time for a Social Studies quiz.

The morning ended for me at 11:30 when I released the students to their physical education class with Mandy, the P.E. instructor. I felt a great sense of relief at having finished this first test of my helping resolution. I was glad it was over, not because the experience was unpleasant – it wasn’t. In fact, it was incredibly satisfying. The kids (especially the 5^th graders) were alert, polite, eager, and engaging (They were also cute). I just needed to finally DO IT – finally sub and realize that I CAN do it, and enjoy it. A half-day assignment was the perfect initiation. The experience was short and sweet. It allowed me to see, hear, and participate in school activities, without the weariness and fatigue of a 6-hour day. I wouldn’t mind doing in again – as long as I knew I was helping someone out.

Spring is here,
The sky is blue,
Birds all sing
As if they knew
Today’s the day we’ll say, “I do”
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.

Because we’re,
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Gee, I really love you
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel of love.

Bells will ring,
The sun will shine,
Oh, I’ll be his
And he’ll be mine
We’ll love until the end of time
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.
*****Chorus repeats****
(Chapel of Love: Dixie Cups, 1964)

The meaning of a “destination wedding” is easily understood; most people could explain it quickly. So I was surprised to find that neither the Merriam-Webster or Oxford dictionaries listed it. I found definitions of WEDDING, but no mention of destination wedding as a distinct entry. Perhaps “traditional” dictionaries consider destination weddings as social trends or popular cultural events instead of a primary noun. I did, however, discover two alternative online sources. Encarta called it a “plural noun”, defined as “a wedding in a distant place: a wedding for which the couple travel to a far-off location to have their marriage ceremony”. Wikipedia was more elaborate: “a destination wedding is any wedding in which the engaged couple, alone or with guests, travels to attend the ceremony. This could be a beach ceremony in the Caribbean or on the California coast, a lavish event in Las Vegas, or a simple ceremony at the home of a geographically distant friend or relative”. You can always count on Wikipedia to define the obvious, especially when it comes to practices of popular culture. But at least Wikipedia amplified the term. Destination weddings have existed for as long couples have married in places far away from the invited family and guests (My father called them “expensive and inconvenient” before the term “destination” came into vogue).

Before I married into Kathy’s family of 8 girls and two boys, I never traveled long distances to a wedding simply because I was invited. In my family, if we weren’t conveniently living in the same vicinity, we didn’t attend. Since my mother’s family all lived in Mexico City (or its outskirts), there were few expectations and no hard feelings about our lack of attendance. The only exception was when my sister Stela traveled to our cousin Rosita’s wedding, because she was a bridesmaid in 1969. When I attended the nuptial masses and receptions of my Mexican cousins Carlos and Nena in 1970 and 1973, I was living with my aunt for the summer in Mexico City. Kathy’s family offered a whole new perspective on destination marriages (and other family occasions) and the filial imperative to be present and supportive. Whenever there was a wedding, you could always count on a sizeable contingent of aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive. There is an almost tangible drive to never let a sibling or relative down by allowing them to feel alone, isolated, and unsupported in an emotionally anxious or stressful time – sad or joyous. Because it is such an immense family, with 8 original aunts, 2 uncles, and 38 cousins, a visual impact is pretty easy to produce. Of the five family weddings of Kathy’s nephews and nieces outside of Los Angeles, I have attended three, Toñito two, and Kathy and Prisa all five. Jeff, Debbie’s son, married Lynn in Chicago, Margi, Katy and Kevin, Mary Ellen’s children, married Will, Dave, and Anastasia in San Juan Capistrano and twice in Washington D.C. (see Weddings and Funerals for Kevin’s),  and, finally, Brenna, Beth’s daughter, married James in Loomis, a town outside of Sacramento, California. When my sister Gracie’s son Timothy married Hilary in a town outside of Portland, I was already sufficiently influenced by Kathy’s modeling to put aside my initial concerns of work and expense and traveled there with Prisa in 2002. I found that destination weddings, especially in Kathy’s large and varied family are great opportunities to get together and confidently experience a new and unusual place. Besides feeling satisfied that the family member we came to support felt loved and protected, I always had a great time in a new locale. I met new people and learned something about myself. This last trip was no exception.

A total of 23 relatives were present at Brenna’s ceremony. They came by air and land. Of Beth’s 6 surviving sisters, all five of the LA contingent (Kathy, Patti, Meg, Tootie, and Tere) were in attendance, except for Mary Ellen in Washington D.C. Work and travel obligations prevented her brothers Mike and Greg from coming, but four brother-in-laws (me, Dick, John, and Mike) acted as their proxies. Eight cousins made the trip (Toñito, Prisa, Danny, Brigid, Marisa, Maria, Maggie and Anora), along with a newly wed husband (Joe) and fiancé (Jonaya). If you count Beth and her 3 children (Garrett, Caitrin, and Brenna) there were enough people to constitute a traveling revival meeting (see A Moveable Feast).

The flight into Sacramento Airport with Kathy, Meg, Tootie, and Maria, gave me the opportunity to listen to the latest family updates and prepare myself for the events to come. Once I decided to attend this celebration for Beth and Brenna, I didn’t give the wedding much thought. I knew Brenna converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) and that she and James would be married in a Mormon ceremony. This accounted for my original misconception that we would be traveling to the Temple in Salt Lake City for the ceremony. Kathy and her sisters clarified that Beth and James were being married in a religious ceremony in the closest Mormon Temple, which was in Oakland. Only official members of the church were permitted to attend. They further explained that we would be joining the bride, groom, and the wedding party for a “ring ceremony” and reception at a banquet venue in Loomis, a town north of Sacramento. I interpreted all this information to mean that we were attending a slight variation of the traditional religious and civil ceremonies that constituted a marriage. Brenna and James would have a private religious ceremony followed by a public civil ceremony and festive reception. It didn’t seem unusual. I spent the rest of the trip reading, adjusting to our hotel accommodations, and psyching myself to assume the role of freelance photographer. I’d be the “official family” photographer, trying to catch candid and traditional moments from dressing up to dancing.

The benefit of carrying a conspicuous camera (a Canon Rebel T1i, my retirement gift) in your hands and around your neck is the access it gives and the perspective it provides. I was able to get an early view of the bride, her mother, and her maids as they dressed, interacted, and prepared. As I noticed at Prisa’s wedding, the Maid of Honor (Caitrin) and the bridesmaids (Marisa, Vanessa, Christine, and Rachel) were there to deflect the stresses and anxieties that the mother and bride felt when preparing for a major, once-in-a-lifetime event, and to keep the atmosphere jovial and festive. They did a great job. They were young, photogenic, and funny. I took tons of pictures and felt sufficiently confident in posing them in traditional shots (buttoning wedding dress, putting on makeup, shoes and garter, and the bride surrounded by her bevy of attendants holding bouquets). I added some spontaneous shots in the hallway, elevator, doorways, and in cars as the party left for the ceremonial site.

The venue was beautiful. The ring ceremony and reception took place in a redesigned nursery that included a shady, verdant orchard and a catering facility. There was an open-air, terraced, patio providing a lush, floral stage for the bride and groom and their party, with plenty of standing and sitting room for the guests. Along side of this patio was a completely glassed in banquet hall that gave the appearance of a landscaped, interior rain forest. The sequence of events began in the traditional manner with the wedding party processing in and taking a position apart from the bride and groom. Brenna and James then walked past them, taking an elevated and isolated spot with a presiding bishop of the Church. The bishop welcomed the family and guests of the nuptial pair, and then shared their written responses to questions he had given them about each other and how they met (a variation on the Newlywed Game). At the end of this reflective exercise, their mothers, Beth and Michelle, joined them in lighting the “Unity Candle”, symbolizing the union of two families into a new one. Then the bishop watched as the couple exchanged rings. With that transaction completed, he introduced Brenna and James, as husband and wife, and the wedding party processed out. That was the transition signal for the family and guest to move to the glassed-in hall and begin the reception, while the wedding party escaped to take pictures. Except for the absence of alcoholic beverages, out of respect for the religious practices of the bride and groom, the reception was typical. A string quartet played in the background, hors d’oeuvre were circulated, and guests mingled, met, and talked. Eventually the wedding party returned, toasts were made, the wedding cake was cut, and a D.J. took over the music and dancing duties for the rest of the evening. Later, Kathy and I, accompanied by Meg, Tootie, Patti and Dick, retired to Islands Restaurant for drinks and post-wedding analysis.

We concluded that it was a fine wedding and the couple was off with a treasured memory. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and everyone looked fabulous. It was only in recapping the ring ceremony itself that we realized that vows were never publically expressed or exchanged, and the bishop never blessed the union. We never heard “I, Brenna, take you James…. in sickness and in health… until death us do part.” Meg suggested that vows were probably stated in the Temple when the marriage was “sealed”, but she didn’t know how that was done. Rather that speculating further, Dick quickly researched “Mormon Weddings” on his iPhone and gave us a summary of a Wikipedia definition:

“A Mormon wedding is called a ‘Celestial Marriage’, and it is considered an eternal affair. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) recognizes only two kinds of marriages: a civil marriage and a celestial marriage. Civil marriages are legally contracted unions under local law and are dissolved upon the death of the participants (‘until death us do part’). However, celestial marriages, also known as ‘sealings’, bind the participants as husband and wife for all eternity, if both are righteous. Only an official Mormon priest or bishop within a Sealing Room, in a dedicated temple, can perform celestial marriages. Only members of the LDS church who have a temple recommendation may attend an LDS wedding. The wedding is referred to as a sealing because the husband and wife are sealed beyond death into the next life. Many Mormon couples also hold a wedding reception or Open House after the sealing ceremony in another venue that is open to all family and friends. Some couples choose to recreate a more traditional wedding ceremony, or will simply perform certain traditional acts, such as the throwing of the bouquet, first dance, etc.”

This information explained the brevity of the ring ceremony, and the absence of public vows and blessings. We assumed those parts of the wedding were performed in the religious ceremony during the sealing. Instead of heading directly back to our hotel rooms, Meg suggested visiting Beth, the Mother of the Bride, to see how she was doing. There we toasted and congratulated her on her daughter’s wedding and reception.  Smiling wanly, she was relieved that it was over. I have found that weddings at their best are complicated and emotional productions. When travel, long distance communication, and new religious practices are factored in, they can become stressful. Beth and Brenna had performed admirably, and we were glad to have shared and recorded the experience.

Although marriages occur throughout the year, summer is the most popular of the four wedding seasons. Summer is the time for love. Summer vacations were the halcyon days of freedom from school and jobs, and a time to enjoy life and each other. It was the season that offered the best opportunities for romance, childhood crushes, teenage infatuations, and adult wooing. Kathy and I married in the summer of 1975. Summer officially ends with the Autumnal Equinox on September 22 (my birthday!). With that new positioning of the earth in relationship to the sun, this Summer of Nuptial Love comes to an end. I will never forget this particular season, and its three weddings, because it was highlighted by the marriage of my daughter Prisa. All three had their distinct style and flair, and all served the purpose of etching an indelible memory of a young couple beginning a journey through life. I’m sure there will be other busy nuptial seasons in the years ahead (especially in a family with 38 cousins), but 2009 will always be special to me.

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman

Tiptoes to my room every night,

Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper

Go to sleep. Everything is all right.

I close my eyes, then I drift away

Into the magic night. I softly say

A silent prayer, like dreamers do.

Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.

In dreams I walk with you.

In dreams I talk to you.

In dreams you’re mine.

All of the time we’re together

In dreams, in dreams.

But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone.

I can’t help it; I can’t help it, if I cry.

I remember that you said goodbye.

It’s too bad that all these things,

Can only happen in my dreams;

Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.

(In Dreams, Roy Orbison: 1963)

The clearest dream I recall is with a silhouetted house on a hill. It was an old wooden house with a triangular framed porch façade. A cement pathway divided two patches of park-like, coarse grass that extended like a thick green carpet with a grey stripe running down the middle. There was a chubby-faced 5 year old boy, wearing an over-sized, faded checkered shirt and blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs. He held his sister’s hand. She was a little girl, one or two years younger than her brother, with a large, white bow in her light, brown hair. He pointed to the house with his free hand.

“That’s our house” he announced to another boy, the girl’s twin, standing next to him.

“Then why does it look different?” the sandy-haired boy challenged, shaking his head in doubt. The smaller boy was correct; the house was wrong - but the older brother couldn’t accept the anomaly. They followed what he believed would have been their father’s instructions. They had recognized  all the landmarks and familiar sights. So why did their house look and feel different?

“I don’t know” he confessed, “but everything else is right. Let’s go in”.

“Wait a minute, Tony” the girl interrupted, squeezing his hand tightly in alarm. “What if it’s somebody else’s house?”

“It’s not” Tony replied firmly. “I’m sure this is where we’ll find Mom and Dad. I’m sure this is home”.

They had traveled a long way. Starting from the towering Sears Building in Boyle Heights, they had followed the railroad tracks to Griffith Park, and then crossed the hills through Elysian Park. They fought back their rising panic by pointing and calling out names of the places and sights they had visited with their parents on previous occasions. The older brother couldn’t remember what had happened to their parents in the department store. One minute they were looking at ice boxes and the next they were gone. He told his twin siblings that this was a new game he wanted to play; but they were becoming suspicious and apprehensive. Thankfully, they were being assisted in their journey by some kind of miraculous spell. This magical power was not only sedating his fears and giving him the words to destract and reassure his younger siblings, but it was also speeding their progress. Although apparently walking, they seemed to appear at each locale, as if transported from spot to spot, and place to place, by a mystical force. But the enchantment had evaporated in front of this house, and the magic had stopped. He could feel the heavy stillness of this moment. Darkness began to spread over the sky; covering the sun as they slowly approached the beckoning house.

“Mommy, daddy!” the girl shouted, plaintively; starting to cry when no sounds emerged from the sullen house.

“Shhh” the older boy scolded, “Tita, be quiet!” He squelched back the same urge to call out for help, sensing that it would only provoke his own tears. “They can’t hear you. They probably went to sleep waiting for us to come home”.

“I’ll go see” the sandy-haired brother shouted as he bolted forward, running up the porch stairs and disappearing behind the slamming screen door.

“Tito!” they called out together, too late to grab or restrain him. The skinny boy was swallowed by the ominous, but strangely familiar house that wasn’t quite their home. The adrenaline rush from Tito’s rash actions unfroze their legs and the pair finally started moving forward again, hand in hand.

“Tito, Tito” he whispered, peeking his head into the mahogany tinted room as Tita held back the screen door. They glided into the living room as if on skates, and then coasted through a series of rooms. Suddenly Tito reappeared at their side.

“Tony, follow me” he said, motioning with his arm, “I found Gracie!” He led them quickly into a draped and darkened room, with old wallpaper of faded pink and yellow flowers. There was a tall, lacy bassinet in the middle of the floor. Looking into the cradle, they saw a small, blonde, curly-haired baby girl sleeping peacefully. Her gentle breathing only heightened the gloomy wrongness of the setting.

“Where’s mommy and daddy?” keened Tita, letting go of her brother’s hand and bringing them both up to her eyes to hold back the cascading tears.

“I don’t know” moaned Tony, finally giving up and letting his despair flow out through his tears. Slowly, Tito stepped between the weeping pair and took their hands, sealing the sibling circle around the bassinet. He closed his eyes, whispered five words,  and firmly squeezed the hands of his brother and sister.

 
Struggling to release the strangled wail that caught in my throat, I awoke from my first nightmare. Gasping for breath and touching my cheeks for evidence of the tears I had wept in my sleep, it took me a long time to calm down. I didn’t relax until I'd made a bed check to see that Tito, Tita, my mom and dad, and Gracie were all accounted for. Slipping back into my bed, I stayed awake until daybreak, afraid to go back to sleep.

This week I started a Dream Book. I never took the idea of a dream journal seriously. I recall Frosty, a school psychologist and Kathy’s friend from college, keeping one and telling me about its benefits many years ago; and my own therapist strongly recommended one during my three years of counseling. Although I respected their opinions, and understood the importance of dreaming, I never followed their advice. I thought dreams were naturally occurring phenomena and, if they were truly important, I would always remember them in the morning and throughout the day. Yet, when I took the time to reflect on them and analyze their content and images, it struck me that the dreams I tended to remember were in fact nightmares, and they were recurrent during certain periods of my life.

Nightmares like my old dream of being lost or abandoned in Sears as a child were the ones that haunted me for years. The themes of those disturbing dreams might change with age and my emotional stages of development, but they were definitely nightmares. I could track my dream life as the theatrical offerings of a long running season, showing abandonment dreams in childhood, war and conflict dreams in adolescence, and closing with witch and serpent dreams at puberty through young adulthood. The details of all other dreams (falling dreams, going to school undressed dreams, and anthropomorphic dreams, in which I changed into someone else while still, somehow, remaining myself) slowly dissipated upon waking, and dissolved by morning. These were the ordinary dreams that I shed daily, as effortlessly and thoughtlessly as skin.

Lately, I’d been dreaming – a lot. With my daughter’s upcoming marriage, looming retirement, and preparing to leave my office, school and career, I was experiencing a multitude of dreams. It seemed as if every evening or early morning, I would awaken for a moment, fully conscious of the dream I was having, and then go back to sleep; whereupon the remnants of that dream would transform themselves into another dream. However, by the time I actually arose from bed to write my Morning Pages, all clear details of those dreams had dissipated. I was beginning to feel a real loss from this evaporation. There was a whole world of fantastic and impossible images, scenes, faeries, elves, and monsters dancing in my mind in these early morning dreams and I was letting them fade away and disappear – like Brigadoon. This had never bothered me before, but suddenly it did.

Perhaps it was the book I was reading – Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande, that finally pushed me into action. The author emphasized the need to harness one’s unconscious so that it would flow into the pictures and metaphors that writers use in their work. It struck me that I shouldn’t rely on the images and descriptions modeled by other authors and writers.  I had my own reservoir of scenes in dreams that were never recorded. I visited these wonderful places every night, but I never remembered the details. Until that moment, using a Dream Book only seemed an invitation to interrupt my sleep; something I especially hated doing during the work week. But I would soon no longer need that excuse. On June 30^th I would no longer have a job, career, or profession. With retirement, I could easily afford to spend 10 minutes jotting down dreams without worrying about falling immediately back to sleep. An equation came into my head:

To Retire (Jubilarse in Spanish, or “jubilation”) = Dreaming + Recording (or Writing).

What a wonderful formula for retirement! It almost sounded like a Dream Quest. Now came the hard part; how could I apply this theoretical equation and engineer something new? What would be the device to make this happen?

The answer came at work on Monday. I was packing and cleaning out my office when I discovered a brand new “Project Planner” notebook in my desk. This was the only type of notebook I used to record all my business interactions, phone calls, and professional encounters. I preferred this particular brand, as opposed to a stenographer’s notebook, because it provided a wide margin on the left-side of the page for summaries, generalizations, and reflective comments or drawings. It was the all-purpose, daily “work journal” that I’d kept faithfully for 17 years. I had just boxed an unbroken chain of notebooks dating back to my first assignment as principal of Fire Mountain Middle School in 1991, to my last in 2009. As I held this last, unused notebook in my hand, I wondered “What will become of this practice now?” I hated the idea of tossing away a brand new notebook, so I stuck it in my bag and took it home. When I fished it out that evening, the answer hit me. A Dream Book! I could transform my Project Planner into a dream book. It would be the rebirth, the renaissance of an old friend; my notebook would evolve from projects to dreams.

On Tuesday night, I set my new Dream Book on my nightstand, along with a pencil, next to the alarm clock. This would be a test. I would see if I could find a way to tap into my unconscious. I fell asleep reading Barack Obama’s autobiography, Dreams from My Father.  I awoke at 1 o’clock after a disturbing series of dreams and remembered to reach for my journal and write down as much as possible. It was difficult keeping my eyes open, and it required an effort to recall specific details and actions. They were disappearing like smoke rings being grasped by a child’s hand. I wrote what I could and then read myself back to sleep. That morning, while writing my Morning Pages, I described the first dream I recorded in my Dream Book.

 It began nicely enough and then turned bizarre. I was standing next to President Barack Obama on the production set of a T.V. game show. The show involved overcoming three trials or challenges. These games were spread out and displayed at different locations on the set. We were being televised from an antique theatre with thick, velvety drapes and curtains, which were old and worn. I looked toward the crowd that was clapping and cheering for us, but I saw no one through the harsh lighting coming from the overhead scaffolding. A spotlight shone on a tall and hideously mascara-ed circus ringmaster who was tossing large, brightly colored disks onto the worn and warped stage floor. The round objects hit the wooden floor with a wet, sucking sound. The other two upcoming challenges were now hidden from view, pushed off to the side of the stage. Then the towering ringmaster, who looked like a garish Richard Dawson with a melon slice, Cheshire cat smile pasted on his face, started the game. The lighting switched, and the stage shifted from bright and colorful, to a dark and ominous set. The fluorescent disks slowly turned pale and mushy, like rotting flesh. They sprouted sharp, jagged teeth which began to grow and expand along the edges. Suddenly the flat, rounded disks bent inward and became independently snapping jaws, with shark-like teeth. They became menacing versions of the clacking teeth that were sold as toys in my youth – only these weren’t toys. They were voracious devourers of everything, swarming over the stage and filling the auditorium, like a wave of big jawed rats. They were everywhere, climbing the curtains, ropes, poles, and stage work. They snapped and clacked as they hopped along the floor, climbed up walls, and hung on the ceiling. The venue was covered with them. They bit and devoured everything they encountered: walls, bars, wood, steel scaffolding, and pipes. Suddenly the auditorium filled with dark, murky water. Instead of halting these grotesque clamping teeth, the water only fueled them, causing them to expand and increase in size and number. They developed deformed fish bodies with massively, over-sized, needle-sharp teeth. The auditorium also changed and was transformed into a beach and lake front. The large and slimy, piranha-like creatures were leaving the water and swarming the beach. They blanketed the bronzed and white skinned sunbathers and loungers in endless waves, biting and chewing off their flesh.

The two contestants, Obama and I, were watching these revolting scenes as if through a thick, bullet-proof glass. We saw what was happening, but were unable to do anything except stand and watch. I was secretly relieved at being isolated and safe, but confused that such an innocent game could turn into a horror movie reminiscent of Stephen King’s Langoliers.  Then the entire scene changed again. I was walking alone, along a long, dark corridor that was cave-like and claustrophobic. I was walking down the hallway of MASH Middle School, inspecting the fire and water damage from an act of school vandalism and arson. Smoke still hung in the air, and it clung to the cavernous walls and ceilings. I walked up to my office door and looked inside. I could hear the drip, drip, drip of water which sounded like the slow, chattering of teeth. Looking down I saw a slithering, silvery scaled fish on the ground. It was grinning at me, as it flopped about in its final death throes. That was the point I awoke from my dream.

Go deep, go deep,

Go deep inside and down.

Go visual and see

What images abound,

And pictures can be found.

Seeing in pictures,

Thinking in scenes, and

Living in images.

What would life be like

If it were made up

Of comic book scenes?

My life as a comic book;

A series of visual frames

Moving through time.

I will be a character

In my own graphic novel,

Living a storyboard life.

Living in pictures calls for

Speaking in song.

My life will be

A Broadway musical!

Breaking into song

At the sight of mountains,

I’d sing “Santa Lucia”

To the boys in the back seat

And make up the words

As we drove along.

Scenes and song is

Flor y canto.

Well, almost; but not exactly.

But it captures the spirit

Of retirement – jubilee!

Flor is flower and beauty;

Seeing in pictures and scenes.

Canto is song, music, poetry,

Words, voice, and hearing.

What strange words to materialize

While sitting in the Beverly Garland

During the very last meeting

Of this  professional career.

Surrounded by people

I soon won’t be.

There’s one principal I know,

And there are 45 more.

Glassy eyed zombies

In suits and ties,

Lost watching a PowerPoint desert

Of endless sand and dunes

Of graphs and script

They don’t hear the song

Or see the images

Of Flor y Canto.

I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone.

I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone.

At night I could hear the blood in my veins;

Black and whispering as the rain.

On the streets of Philadelphia.

Ain’t no angel gonna greet me;

It’s just you and I my friend.

My clothes don’t fit me no more.

I walked a thousand miles

Just to slip this skin.

The night has fallen, and I’m lying awake.

I can feel myself fading away.

So receive me brother with your faithless kiss,

Or will we leave each other alone like this

On the streets of Philadelphia.

(Streets of Philadelphia, Bruce Springsteen: 1993)

I shot a glance across the sofa at Toñito totally engrossed, watching the Star Trek: the Next Generation episode titled “All Good Things…”, and reconsidered passing the telephone buck to him.

“All right” I said, grudgingly, “I’ll get it.” I walked angrily into the study and picked up the receiver on the desk, next to the computer. “Hello?” I said, trying not to sound irritated at this interruption of the final episode of the series.

“Hello” said an unfamiliar male voice. “May I speak with Tony, the hospice volunteer, please?”

“This is Tony, speaking” I replied. “How can I help you?” I was mystified by the call. My only hospice contact was Jan, the program coordinator. No one else in the program ever called me, and few people knew of my involvement.

“Hi Tony” the stranger said. “You may not remember me. My name is Robert and I’m a friend of Sam and Ruth. I met you once when I visited Sam in the hospice. Ruth asked me to call you”.

“Okay” I said, still puzzled about the nature of this call, and how he had managed to reach me.

“We called Jan at Kaiser and she gave us your number. She said it would be alright to reach you at home. I hope I’m not calling you at a bad time, but Ruth insisted. She wanted to thank you for your kindness in visiting Sam these last five months. She saw you there yesterday, and she wanted you to know that Sam died this afternoon”.

“Oh” I said, stunned into silence. Robert matched my numbed response with a longer pause. I finally broke the stalemate by saying “I’m sorry to hear that”.

“Ruth told us how much your visits meant to her and Sam. She wanted you to know as soon as possible”.

“Thank you, it was nothing” I replied dumbly, realizing too late how stupid it sounded. “It was kind of you to call” I added quickly, rattling my head side-to-side to become more lucid and alert. “How is Ruth doing?”

“As well as can be expected; she was with him at the end, and he went peacefully”.

“I never suspected it was so close” I muttered, remembering how peacefully Sam was resting in bed during my visit. He had reached out to take hold of my hand as I adjusted his blanket, and I held him that way until Ruth entered the room to relieve me. I’d been embarrassed at first by her discovery of this physical contact, but she only smiled at me and told me she could take it from here. There had been no hint that he would die so quickly. There was nothing more to say, so I didn’t try. I simply waited for Robert to speak again.

“Well, Tony, I just want to add how much I admire the work you’re doing. Thank you”.

“You’re welcome” I said, stumbling to recall his name. “Thank you for calling”. I remained seated in the desk chair for uncounted moments after I replaced the receiver, not sure what I was feeling after this news. I finally stood up and returned to my place on the sofa. A commercial was on the screen and Toñito was looking at a magazine. “So Toñito” I said, desperately wishing I knew what to do or feel, “what did I miss?”
 

It all started on another evening in front of the television set. We were watching the 66^th Academy Awards Ceremony on March 21, 1994. Participation in the Oscars was a family ritual in those days when Toñito was a sophmore and an aspiring high school actor, and Prisa was a mercurial 8^th grader who, while disdaining Toñito’s involvement in drama, was nevertheless a passionate movie and television fan. Kathy and I tried catching as many of the nominated films as possible, and we enjoyed handicapping their chances of winning. 1993-94 was a mixed bag for movies, with popular contenders alongside heralded independents. That year we all had different favorites. I’d been deeply moved by the movie, Philadelphia, and listening to Bruce Springsteen performing the nominated song during the ceremonies confirmed my choice. I held my breath as the list of nominees for Best Actor was read. They were Liam Neeson for Schindler’s List, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, Laurence Fishburne in What’s Love Got to Do with It, Daniel Day Lewis for In the Name of the Father, and Anthony Hopkins in The Remains of the Day. I whooped and cheered when Tom Hanks’ name was announced as the winner. He bounded up the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion to receive his award. What he said next stunned me. I’d expected the traditional litany of thanks to cast and crew, sprinkled with some humorous anecdotes. I was not prepared to hear a testimonial to teachers and friends, a requiem on AIDS and its devastation, and an appeal for tolerance and compassion (Tom Hanks’ Acceptance Speech at the 66^st Academy Awards Ceremony).  Hanks thanked two people who inspired him in high school, his drama teacher and a friend, who were both gay. He also looked to a time when we could openly acknowledge people for what they do, and not their sexuality. His speech acted as an off-shore drilling rig in my mind, diving through the past years of my life and then boring into the hard crust of my memory. His words finally struck a hidden reservoir of shame. The movie, the song, and Tom Hanks’ speech unleashed a series of images in my head. I thought of the faces of gay colleagues, teachers and counselors who had died of AIDS, and I thought of Wayne, a dear high school and college friend, with whom I’d lost contact after my marriage in 1975.
 

Until the 1990’s the teaching profession maintained a polite code regarding homosexuality. It wasn’t as simplistic as the military’s “Don’t ask; don’t tell” policy. Teachers held to a more “civilized” and genteel standard that found expression in the Seinfeld remark, “I’m not gay; not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Educators maintained the polite illusion that our profession was solidly heterosexual, but sprinkled with a few “confirmed bachelors” and “single working women”. The onset of a mysterious sexually transmitted disease (at least at first) in the late 80’s ripped the cover off that fanciful myth. Friends and colleagues, who I worked with, suffered and celebrated with, were dying. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS) was the insidious scourge of the decade because it killed secretly and silently. Friends and colleagues would become weak, ill and then disappear from offices, schools, and life. Eventually I would ask a mutual friend, “I haven’t seen Vern in a long time! Where is he working now?” I would receive an awkward reply after a long pause, “Oh, didn’t you know, he died.., of pneumonia, I believe.” It seemed that impaired immune systems were most susceptible to pneumonia. Hearing Tom Hanks’ words, made me think of AIDS patients as “los desaparecidos”, the “vanished ones” who developed AIDS and disappeared from jobs, schools, and offices. I had allowed too many of my friends to pass away without DOING ANYTHING. I never recognized them as gay, I never visited them, and I never attended their funerals. Thinking of so many vanished teachers and counselors brought slow tears of sadness and regret. Then I thought of Wayne.
 

Wayne was my crossroads friend in high school and college. Before meeting Wayne, friendships were seasonal. The “best friends” I had in 8^th grade were different from my best friends in each successive grade. That changed with Wayne. He became a soul-mate who refined friendship into an honest and expanding relationship. Wayne and I first met in our sophomore year as political outcasts on the school’s running track taking laps for Barry Goldwater. We were the only students foolish enough to raise our hands in support of the conservative Republican nominee for president in 1963. Our youthful libertarianism and self-inflated intellects united us, and we maintained a casual acquaintance until our senior year. That year Wayne asked me to join him as editor of the school newspaper, The Viking. The time we spent writing, editing, and publishing the school newspaper in the Viking Office was the beginning of a six-year collaboration.

That year, our fellowship grew to include two additional classmates, Jim, Greg, and eventually John, Jim’s younger sibling (See Sons of Pioneertown). It was a brotherhood forged at a crucial time. All four of us were leaving high school and we were scared and uncertain. Wayne, however, seemed more self-assured, with a clearer sense of direction. Wayne was the pathfinder of the group, with a plan for college and life. He would go to Loyola University, live away from home, and join a fraternity. We, on the other hand, struggled to get by. I lived at home and went to UCLA; Jim and Greg attended Santa Monica College. Wayne was also the troubadour who ignited our wanderlust for freedom and adventure by convincing us that as young, independent college men, all we needed was a map, a Volkswagen bus, and sleeping bags. During our college years we traveled through central California, exploring Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Big Sur and Monterey. Independence was a necessity for Wayne. After one year in the dorms, he and a frat brother moved into an apartment near school, but he eventually settled in a bachelor pad in Hermosa Beach in his junior year. He had girl friends in high school and dated often, but he became mysterious about his emotional involvements in college. He finally admitted to living with a girl for a short time, but I never met her. Ultimately, John (who had returned from two tours in Vietnam) took over the single flat, and Wayne, Jim, and Greg all moved into a nearby apartment on Monterey Boulevard.
 

A migration of sorts occurred after Wayne and I graduated from college in 1970. John and Greg moved to Long Beach, Jim to Cerritos, and Wayne to Venice. We occasionally got together for card games and trips, but I felt that a major realignment in grouping and affections was taking place. Wayne never joined us for Saturday morning games of football, basketball, and baseball, and it became harder and harder to schedule and include him in other activities. We could not account for his growing indifference to “hanging out”. We decided that he must have gotten involved with drugs, and the three of us organized an intervention to confront him. Throughout dinner that night he listened patiently to our observations, and smiled benignly at our conclusions. When we finished our testimony he told us not to worry, because he was not addicted to anything. In fact, he announced, he was free of the sexual repressions that had plagued him. He told us that he was gay. I pretended to take this revelation in stride, but I was secretly shocked and dismayed. I didn’t know what “being gay” meant, and I didn’t feel capable of discussing it with Wayne, or my friends. I did mention it to my father; but he turned my question around and asked what could I do about it? I wanted to believe that Wayne was on another temporary trailblazing course. Just as he was the first to leave home and live alone, travel around the state, and co-habit with a girl, I saw homosexuality as another “first”. Being gay carried an avant-garde mystique; it was hip, cool, “in”- and Wayne was always trying to be all three. Ultimately, I did nothing. In the months that followed our needless intervention, the separation from Wayne grew wider. I enlisted in the Air Force, Greg moved to Riverside to finish college, and Jim and John left school to work full time for a burglar alarm company. We lost track of Wayne until Greg rediscovered him in the spring of 1975 operating an antique shop on Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, California.

Our reaction to finding Wayne was like recovering the Prodigal Son, we rejoiced and celebrated. He looked strong, healthy and tanned. He had been living in San Francisco but decided it was time for him and his partner to come home. He seemed especially eager to learn what we had been doing. Greg was teaching at a Catholic elementary school, and John was a paramedic for the Los Angeles Fire Department. Jim had stayed at the burglar alarm company and was now a supervisor and I had finished my graduate work at UCLA and was getting married in August. Wayne took the initiative in arranging a reunion dinner at his home behind the store. There we met his partner Kevin, a slim, sandy-haired young man who seemed smart, practical, and very handy at plumbing and construction. I believed that I had come to terms with Wayne’s homosexuality and was accepting of Kevin. The moment of truth came when Kathy and I were addressing wedding invitations and she asked me, “Should I write ‘Wayne and guest’; or just Wayne on the envelope?”

“Are you kidding” I exclaimed indignantly. “Why should we invite Kevin to our wedding? He’s Wayne’s friend not mine.”

Kathy looked at me oddly and remarked, “You don’t think it’s strange that all your high school friends are in the wedding party, but you’re not inviting Wayne’s partner?”

“No” I lied. In those early days, I was still immune to my wife’s reasoning and intuition. Her question annoyed me exactly because I did not want to consider that I was wrong.

“Alright” Kathy said in resignation, “he’s your friend, so it’s your decision; but it’s wrong”.

Wayne did not attend my wedding, and soon after his antique shop had a new name and owner. I never saw him again.
 

On Oscar night I cried when Tom Hanks spoke. I cried for the thousands and thousands of men and women who had died in this plague, and for the sufferings they sustained in loneliness and isolation. I especially thought of Wayne and the teachers and counselors I knew who had simply disappeared during this time. At that moment I knew I had to DO SOMETHING. If it was too late to reach out and help those who were gone, I needed to do something for the living. I needed to help people, not mourn the vanished and the dead. That was my first step to the Hospice Program.

I parked around the corner from Saticoy Convalescence, a nursing and rehabilitation center. Locking the car, I was feeling strong and optimistic. I had spent 3 months completing the hospice training with Jan and a group of eleven volunteers. The sessions had not been particularly difficult, and they were a great distraction from my work as a principal. I silently reviewed the lessons and Jan’s advice: "be friendly and open, but most of all be honest". I attached my Hospice clip-on badge, with its photo ID, and walked through the door. “Hi” I said confidently, to the short, dark complexioned nurse at the desk. “I’m a hospice volunteer to see Sam Goldberg. Can you help me find him?”

“Oh hello” she responded, looking at my badge and then my face. “Happy to meet you; Sam is one of our nicest patients. He just had lunch. I’ll take you to his room.”

We walked into the semi-lit room to find a little man sitting in a chair by the window.

“Sam” the nurse said, walking to the bed and straightening the covers. “You have a guest”.

“Hello, Sam” I said, extending my hand as I walked toward him. “My name is Tony, and I’m a volunteer in the Kaiser Hospice program. I was asked to come by and see if it was all right for me to visit you?”

Sam jumped out of the chair and shook my hand energetically. He was a small man, frail and skinny, with wispy grey hair combed neatly to the side. The bathrobe he wore seemed to swallow him up in it folds, but he stood ramrod straight as he spoke.

“I’m pleased to meet ya” he said, in a mild New York accent, with a touch of cockney. “My name is Samuel Goldberg. Would you like to hear my story?”

“Why yes” I replied, surprised at the sudden invitation. I’d expected more polite preliminaries before asking questions, but Sam was getting right to business. “I’d be happy to hear your story”.

Sam pointed to a chair and I sat down, looking in wonder at this little man who loomed above me. He stood at rigid attention, as if preparing to salute before giving a report to his commanding officer. Keeping his head straight and eyes forward, Sam cleared his throat and began speaking:

“I was born in Liverpool in 1921. My parents emigrated there from Poland. My father worked as a tailor and my mother was a seamstress. I was an average student, but as soon as I was old enough I left home and went to sea. My parents wanted me to stay in school and become a teacher or a rabbi, but I wanted to get out and see the world. I wanted to explore the cities I’d read about in books. It wasn’t easy being Jewish in the British Merchant Marine in those days, but I was a tough sailor and not afraid to use my fists. I never told my father about those fights. He believed that Great Britain was a great country and all its citizens sweet and accepting. They were certainly better than the Poles and Russian he knew as a child, but they weren’t perfect. He never had a high opinion of the Merchant Marine. He called us sea gypsies until the war started, and then we became heroes. It was at the start of the war that I met Ruth and fell in love”.
 

I sat transfixed. Jan had told us how many hospice patients felt compelled to “tell their story”, but I hadn’t expected such a sudden and deliberate recitation. With glazed eyes looking over my head, Sam went on as if I weren’t there. I learned how Ruth, the shy and lovely rabbis daughter was attracted to the humorous and cocky seaman, who told exciting stories of the North Atlantic. They married and he insisted that she move in with relatives in the country whenever he was at sea. They survived the war only to discover that most of their relatives in Poland died in the concentration camps. Ruth’s father was able to assist their move to America after the war, and he helped Sam find a position with a commercial shipper in New York. Sam said he was sick of the Old World, with its deep-seated prejudices and hate, and wanted a new life. America seemed to offer true opportunities. They continued heading West, finally making their way to California. He worked in San Francisco and Los Angeles, until retiring seven years before. They never had children, but maintained many friends, acquaintances, and a few relatives who had immigrated to Beverly Hills. He still loved the sea, and they took yearly cruises to old and new ports-of-call. After a trip to Cancun, he was diagnosed with a terminal case of prostate cancer. He said he was happy with his life and not afraid to die. His only regret was leaving Ruth alone. They had been married 54 years.

“I’m feeling a little tired now” he concluded. “I think I’ll get into bed”.

“Uhhh, would you like me to leave?” I asked.

“No, no”, he replied, “don’t go yet. Stay and visit”.
 

That was how I met Sam. Over a period of 5 months, from December to April, I visited him twice a week, for 10 to 30 minutes at a time. I would sit, talk, or read. I kept him company until Ruth or another friend came to take my place. A few days after his death, I received a phone call from Ruth. She apologized for not informing me of the funeral, but said that Sam had wanted a private service. However, she insisted that I accept her invitation for dinner. She politely dismissed all my excuses, saying it was important for her that I come. I finally relented. On the evening of the dinner, I took my son and daughter for companionship and security. I was very nervous because I had never attended a Jewish “Shiva”, a meal and gathering during the seven-day mourning period after burial. Robert was there with his wife, along with another couple. Ruth was delighted that my children had come, and she spent much of the time quizzing them about school and their outside interests. I had expected to witness some ritual or ceremony, but the evening consisted of talk, memories of Sam, laughter, and lots of food. The guests were especially curious of the Hospice Volunteer Program, and peppered me with questions about it. Later, as we prepared to leave, Ruth made a point of taking me aside for a private conversation. She explained that the Jewish funerary tradition consisted of nine stages; beginning with Mitzvot of Bikur Cholim, the “mitzvah” (act of kindness) of visiting the sick, and ending with Shiva and Yahrzeit, the “mitzvot” (acts) of comforting the mourners and remembering the dead. She said I had been a special and unexpected gift in their lives. I was the stranger who had chosen to visit Sam out of kindness, and became the comforting friend who honored his memory after death. She kissed me and thanked me.
 

When the night has come

And the land is dark

And the moon is the only light we’ll see

No I won’t be afraid; no I won’t be afraid.

Just as long as you stand, stand by me.
(Stand by Me: Ben E. King)

“Hi Mrs. Spenser, how is Peter doing?”

“He is much better, thank you” she replied. “He is feeling so well that he’s become quite a nuisance around the house. He is constantly getting in my way, looking for things to do, and trying to keep busy. The doctors have cleared him to return to work, but he is still unsure. He wants to discuss his options with you. He’s mentioned a Leave of some kind, but he needs to talk to you”.

“What did the doctor say, Mrs. Spenser?” I asked, trying to understand what she was telling me. “Is he cleared to come back to work, or not?"

“That’s the problem” she explained. “The doctor says there is no medical reason preventing him from working, but Peter doesn’t think he’s ready. If you ask me, Mr. Delgado, I think his condition is psychosomatic. Peter is something of a hypochondriac, and his palpitations really scared him. Maybe you can talk him into going back to work”.

“When can he come in to speak with me?” I asked, sensing that Peter’s wife had just passed her suspicions and worries onto me.

“Tomorrow, if possible” she replied quickly.

“Sure, tomorrow is fine” I said. “If he can come by at 1 o’clock, after lunch, we can talk”.

“Okay, then it’s set” she said, sounding relieved. “We’ll be there. Thank you, Mr. Delgado, I’m sure you will be able to help”.

I wasn’t so confident. The whole situation sounded bizarre. Peter’s sudden disappearance from school and his subsequent telephone calls to teachers and staff members about his symptoms had sent shock waves of worry and apprehension throughout the school. Teachers had gone to visit him, and students had sent him handmade Get Well cards. Now his wife was admitting that there was nothing physically wrong with him; but he was still not planning on returning to work. This was strange; but then again, Peter was unusual. Although he was a competent teacher, he was also something of a Prima Dona, with exaggerated mannerisms and an overblown estimation of his own importance and abilities. He had come to Shangri-la Middle School hoping to launch a new career as an English teacher, after working as church pastor and dabbling in amateur musical theatre productions. On many occasions, while in the Main Office, or at faculty meetings, he would stand up on a chair and perform a Broadway musical song, giving us a rousing rendition of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”, or “To Dream the Impossible Dream”. While never being as exceptional a teacher as he believed himself, he was an amusing eccentric. I definitely needed some advice on how to proceed, and a plan of action before speaking with him the following day. I called my two assistant principals and asked them to join me in my office for a quick meeting on this matter.
 

Sue and Kandy were my most experienced and valued administrators (see The Telephone Game). Kandy was the Head Counselor of the school and Sue was the second-in-command, the Acting Principal whenever I was absent or unavailable. I had come to depend on them for superior analysis of every difficult question or issue I faced. They presented refreshingly different points of view on almost every topic; and when they agreed on something, I became wary and suspicious (were they manipulating me in some way?). I depended on the fact that they could dissect a problem from every perspective and make my options clear, if not inevitable. I jokingly said that they represented the left-side and the right-side of my brain. When discussing Peter Spenser, they helped me anticipate the questions I needed to ask and the facts I needed to learn. Since Kandy was my personnel specialist, ESL Department administrator, and Head Counselor, we also decided that she should join me in the meeting. The conference went something like this:

“Hi Peter” I said, opening the door adjacent to the Main Office counter from my office. “Come on in. Ms. Woodmount and I are really happy to see you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling much better, thanks” he replied, stepping in to vigorously shake my hand. “It’s great being back. Everyone was so nice and welcoming when they saw me. I didn’t realize how much I missed them”.

Peter was a short, stout, middle-aged man, who always emanated energy and enthusiasm. He had a wide smiling face and sparkling brown eyes. He parted his light auburn hair on the left side, forming a thick, curling wave that washed over his head.

“Everyone has been really worried and concerned about you” Kandy chimed in, sweetly, hoping to put him quickly at ease. “The kids in your classes really miss you, and they’re hoping you come back soon”.

“So tell us Peter”, I said, getting down to business, “when do you think you can return to work? We have an adequate substitute teacher with your students, but your absence is starting to take its toll on their learning and achievement”.

“Well that’s the problem, Tony. You see I don’t think I’m ready to return. This has been a really tough school year. The kids who were programmed into my classes this year are unmotivated and disinterested. There are some especially troublesome students who should be in the Special Education program. They make it impossible for me to teach, and for other students to learn. It’s frustrating. You know how much I demand of myself and my students. I strive for excellence in my classes at all times. This semester has been a huge challenge, and I haven’t gotten much help or support”.

I could see Kandy squirming in her chair, struggling not to reply. She wanted to vigorously rebut this criticism of the ESL and Special Education departments and her programming of students, but we had agreed beforehand not to engage or debate him. We needed to know what Peter’s situation was and what he wanted to do.

“So” I interrupted, “is the doctor prohibiting you from working, or has he identified any work accommodations we can make for you at school?”

“No” he replied, impatiently. “The doctor hasn’t been at all cooperative. I don’t think he understands how difficult my job is and how teaching can affect one’s health”.

“So” I restated, patiently, “your doctor told you that you were fit to return to work?”

“Yes, but I disagree” he stated, plainly agitated. “I’m thinking of seeking a second opinion”.

“Peter” Kandy said soothingly, “your health is our main concern. We certainly don’t want you coming back to work if you’re not ready. But tell me, how many sick days do you have left, and can you afford living on only one income?”

“Well, that’s another problem” he admitted, grudgingly, changing positions in his chair. “I’m out of sick days, and we can’t live on my wife’s salary”.

“Okay, Peter” I said patiently, struggling to hide my irritation. I wanted to sound as caring and solicitous as Kandy. “Let me see if I understand you. You have no more sick days, and your doctor says you are fit to return to work, but you want a second opinion because you don’t feel you’re ready. So what do you want us to do?”

“Well, I want to know what my options are at this point”.

“Let me see if I can itemize them for you” I said, looking at Kandy for support while rolling my eyes. “Perhaps Ms. Woodmount can monitor what I say and add to or correct anything I miss”. I also hoped Kandy would monitor my mood, and make sure I didn’t lose my temper. “With no sick days left, you have two options. You can request a medical leave with a doctor’s authorization, or a permissive leave of absence for personal reasons. These leaves guarantee your right to return to your current teaching location at this school for one year; however, they are not paid leaves. The school must then find a sub to teach your classes, hopefully on a long-term basis, and not day-to-day. Those are your options”.

“What about Workmen’s Compensation? Wouldn’t that allow me not to work while still drawing a salary?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Peter”, I said, trying to take his question seriously. “I believe Workmen’s Comp only applies to industrial accidents or work-related injuries, it doesn’t cover teaching”.

“I’m not talking about the act of teaching” he said impatiently, “I’m talking about the mental stress and anguish caused by teaching. Certainly that’s as bad as an industrial injury and a good lawyer would have no trouble getting it covered by Workmen’s Comp”. With that emphatic declaration, he crossed his arms across his chest and stared at me defiantly, challenging me to contradict him.

“Peter” I said slowly, feeling the blood rising in my head, “in all my years of teaching and administering schools, I have never heard a more ridiculous idea”. I struggled to remain calm, speaking in a steady, reasonable voice. “Teaching is hard. Teachers at every grade level, in every part of this city, are struggling to teach kids from every culture and every social and economic stratum”. Despite my efforts, I could hear the volume of my voice rising. “Teaching is not a job for everyone; it is a vocation that requires special talents, abilities, and incredible resiliency. If the stress and frustration of the job becomes too much to bear, teachers can seek help or change professions. The Employee Assistance program of the District provides quality mental health services. I’ve availed them myself. If that doesn’t help, then my advice is to seek another career. But to claim teacher-stress as a work-related injury is insulting to every professional who does the job”. There was an awkward silence after my outburst. Peter’s broad face was beet red. Thankfully, Kandy spoke.

“Peter”, she said soothingly, “before you consider Workmen’s Comp, why don’t you tell me again about the difficulties you were experiencing with your classes. Tell me what you need, and I’m sure we can find solutions and remedies”. I welcomed the reprieve her intervention gave me. I sat back in my chair, fuming. I had been at the point of dismissing Peter; telling him to leave my office and start looking for a shyster lawyer and a mercenary doctor to justify his bogus claims. I did not plan on wasting any more of my time on Peter; perhaps Kandy could get him to see reason.

She gradually calmed him with her thoughtful questions and sincere concern. She encouraged him to describe the classes and the students giving him the most trouble and steering the conversation away from talk of leaves and Workmen’s comp. The details she elicited slowly drew a picture of a two-hour block of Intermediate ESL students who arrived right after lunch. They were a particularly troublesome class with varied learning abilities and social skills. They reported hot, sweaty, and hyperactive to the class, becoming quickly restless and bored. I could see that she was validating his feelings, and directing him away from a sense of powerlessness and self-pity.

“You know” she said, suddenly inspired,” let me call Suzanne, the Bilingual Coordinator. Perhaps we can do a few things to improve this situation right away. I’m thinking we could consolidate some of the language levels in your class with Ms. Sanchez’s Intermediate classes, and transfer a few of the more troublesome students”. She went over to my desk, picked up the phone and dialed the coordinator’s extension. In 5 minutes Suzanne joined us and the two women quickly huddled with Peter, at the far end of my office. They began discussing combinations of students, different classes and other teachers. Working as a team to solve his problems gradualy transformed Peter’s body language and manner. He became relaxed and animated, asking questions and volunteering ideas. He joked, laughed, and was constantly nodding his head in agreement.

“That will work, Suzanne” he exclaimed. “Great idea Kandy; that never occurred to me!” There was nothing for me to do but sit and watch, shaking my head in wonder. Kandy had taken control of the meeting. She appeared to be making one accommodation after another for Peter.

“Will this work for you?” she asked. “What else do you need?” She seemed to be redirecting all of the school’s resources and personnel to resolve Peter’s situation and convince him to return. She had become his personal Head Counselor.

As I watched her in action, one desire slowly materialized into thought: “Man, I wish I had a counselor like that on my side”. This unexpected admission stunned me. The wholehearted care and effort that Kandy was showering on Peter was making me jealous! My reaction shocked me. It was in this confused state that something odd happened. I felt as if someone next to me leaned in and whispered into my ear, “She IS on your side, dummy! She’s always been on your side!”
 

I’d worked with Kandy for seven years. During that time, we had faced countless trials and hardships: a staff conspiracy, parent insurrection, faculty unhappiness, asbestos contamination and evacuation, and a Red Team audit. In the midst and aftermaths of these catastrophes, I always esteemed her as Sue’s intelligent, left-brained partner, and the intuitive and maternal component of my administrative team. I had never considered her MY head counselor; a friend and a companion who was unconditionally ON MY SIDE. “Oh my God” I said to myself, watching Kandy orchestrate Peter’s change of heart and return to school. “She’s been on my side since the first day we met and I never saw it”. I settled back into my chair and smiled. Peter and I were in good hands. Kandy and Suzanne were accommodating Peter’s needs and guaranteeing his return. This was good for the school, good for Peter, and good for me. I memorized that moment. When Peter and Suzanne left my office, I asked Kandy to wait; then I shared my revelation and thanked her for being there.

A similar revelation struck me 7 years later, at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, California.

“I wonder if my time is almost up.”

“Don’t think about time – focus!”

“I know, I know, but it seems I’ve been sitting here an awfully long time. Peek at your watch and tell me the time”.

“Knock it off, will you; focus! Concentrate on your breathing. Come on, try it. Breathe in and feel the air enter through your nose. Observe it rushing through your windpipe to your lungs. Let your lungs and esophagus expand as they take in the cool, clear air from the outside. Let yourself be embraced by the air that swells inside you. Hold it - then release. Follow it as the air retraces its path from the lungs, through your windpipe, and out your nose”.

“I’m doing that, but it’s not working! I wonder if someone is sitting next to me. I felt a movement of air a while ago; is anyone there? Why don’t you take a look and check?”

“Let that idea go! Let all your thoughts go their way. Don’t engage them and don’t fight them; let them go.”

“Sure, that’s easy for you to say. I’m the one who’s struggling here. I doubt I have enough time left to find a meditative groove. I must have already sat here 29 minutes. Let me open my eyes and check the time.”

“Don’t do it! You’re giving in! God, WHAT AM I DOING! I’m arguing with you. I’m doing exactly what I’m telling you not to do! I’m your problem; I’m your distraction!”

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ – the vibration of my cell phone in my pants pocket seemed deafening in the contemplative silence of the chapel-like room. I was convinced the blaring vibrations were popping the eye sockets and uncorking the ears of the people around me. I hurriedly reached into my pocket and took out the offending vibrator. The clock image on the tiny screen pulsated in simulated motion. I toggled the button to cut it off, and then blinked at the scene around me. I was sitting in Sacred Space, the meditation room of the Religious Ed Congress. This was the 3^rd day I had come to sit and meditate, and each visit had proven frustrating.
 

This was my fourth year at the Religious Ed Congress. I’d never been disappointed with the convention. The speakers, liturgies, and encounters I’ve experienced have always been enlightening and a great beginning to the Lenten season. I’ve also had some truly inspirational moments at the Congress (see Beacons of Light).  This year I was hoping to attend some workshops, completing my Easter duty by receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation (Confession), and kick-starting my practice of mediation. I had not sat in meditation for almost 8 months, and my prayer life had dried up like a moist turtle dropped on its back in a summer desert. Sacred Space was the first place I visited at the conclusion of the Opening Ceremonies on Friday morning. Located on the top floor of the Convention Center, it is a cool, other-worldly place, illuminated in pastel hues of purple, red, and blue. Its sensory appeal seduced me at once, and I was convinced that I would once again have a deeply satisfying, spiritual moment. I would lose myself in the proximity to the nothing-ness and all-ness that meditation brings. I switched my cell phone to vibrate and set the alarm clock for thirty minutes. I centered myself in a chair near the tabernacle, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and bowed. I was convinced that my meditation would pick up where I left it last year. My thoughts would disappear until jolted by the movement of my silent alarm. I failed. I struggled the first day, and the second day. My thoughts and emotions jumped like panicky fleas escaping an insecticide spray. My neck ached, my leg itched, or the chair was too hard. Day three had been my last chance and I had squandered it with internal argument, self-criticism, and clock watching. I was miserable. On three occasions I’d come seeking God, and all I had to show was a cell phone in my hand. I sighed and looked around the room. There was a middle aged woman sitting next to me, with her eyes closed, and hands folded in her lap. She emanated a peace and serenity that seemed to float in the air, surrounding me for a moment and then trailing off to other parts of the room. “God, I wish I could pray like” I thought, bitterly, convinced that this woman was in the presence of God. Then I thought of Kandy, and felt an old, familiar stranger return, lean into my ear, and whisper: “I am on your side, dummy! I’ve always been on your side!”
 

Then they came to a place named Gethsemane,
and he said to his disciples,
"Sit here while I pray."
He took with him Peter, James, and John,
and began to be troubled and distressed.
Then he said to them, "My soul is sorrowful even to death.
Remain here and keep watch."
He advanced a little and fell to the ground and prayed
that if it were possible the hour might pass by him;
he said, "Abba, Father, all things are possible to you.
Take this cup away from me,
but not what I will but what you will."
When he returned he found them asleep.
He said to Peter, "Simon, are you asleep?
Could you not keep watch for one hour?
Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test.
The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

(Gospel from Palm Sunday – Mark 14: 32-39)

 A deadly gloom hung over the front of the car as we drove home. No one had spoken since leaving the Motion Picture & Television Hospital in Calabasas.

“We didn’t accomplish a fucking thing by going there!” Toñito muttered, between clenched teeth.

I turned from my driving to shoot him a quick look of surprise. Toñito rarely cursed, and he never said “fuck” in my presence. His face was a rigid mask of anguish, as he stared straight through the windshield.

“What do you mean?” I asked; addressing his words, and not reacting to his emotions.

 “I don’t know what I mean” he said, impatiently. “I don’t know why I went; and I don’t know what we hoped to do by going. I sure didn’t think I’d feel more mixed after it was over”.

I recoiled from the bitterness seething in his words. I wanted to say something calming and soothing, but I felt as lost and confused as he sounded. Since leaving Frank, I’d been practically mute, as if struck dumb by the ghastly vision of a banshee reflected on the sliding glass doors of the hospital exit. I couldn’t remain silent any further.

“What are you doing?” Toñito interjected, as I impulsively pulled the car to the right.

“I’m going to park”, I answered decisively. “We need to talk about this, and I can’t do it while I’m driving”.

I pulled over on Valley Circle, just past the freeway, and turned off the motor. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face Toñito in the passenger seat.

I’d arrived home that Tuesday to find only Toñito in the house. I was on Spring Break, but Catholic schools were still in session until Thursday. Their vacation would start at noon on Holy Thursday, the first day of the Triduum leading to Easter. As I passed his bedroom, I peeked in to see Toñito sprawled out on his bed, reading a puzzle book of some kind. He was still dressed in his school uniform. I tried recalling what Kathy had told me of her afternoon plans, but I was drawing a blank.

“Toñito” I called out, walking over to the oversized wall calendar in the kitchen, “do you know where your mother is?”

“She was still working in her classroom when I left” he shouted back from his room. “Prisa had softball practice”. Toñito’s news was informative, but it didn’t jog any more details from my memory.

“Did she mention when she would be home?” I pressed.

“No” Toñito said, walking out of his room and joining me in the kitchen. “But she did mention dropping in on Mary to see if she needed any help”.

“Oh yeah” I said, “of course. Now I remember”. We had talked about this the other night. Kathy could be delayed anywhere from one to three hours. From school she would probably go to Mary’s house or the hospital. There was no point thinking or worrying about time or dinner. Kathy’s itinerary would depend on Mary’s needs; and this week, they were very uncertain. I continued staring at the calendar hanging on the wall, looking for some new clue or inspiration. The only thing written was the address of Frank’s hospital and his room number. Kathy had written it at my request after learning that Frank was being admitted. When she asked me if I planned on visiting him during my break, I instinctively replied “Yeah”. But I really wasn’t sure when that would be. “Why don’t you write down the information for me” I suggested, “and I’ll try going over there”. It had been two days since our conversation and I still had not gone. I was dragging my feet, as if trying to slow the downward spiral of Frank’s terminal condition.

  Francis Xavier Killmond  was 58 years old. He was the father of 8 children, a former teacher, the owner of a religious goods store, and a working character actor on the popular soap opera, General Hospital. He was 5’9”, with salt and pepper hair, and a wiry, expressive face that could alternate from long and morose to lean and amused. He had aspects of a tall Irish leprechaun, or a colorful, Runyanesque character, when telling a joke or describing a story. I knew him best as Mary’s husband, Frank (see Beacons of Light). If wives are to form binding friendships, the compatibility of husbands is essential. Kathy and Mary’s friendship began as teachers in the same elementary school, evolved to a “best friends” level, and finally culminated in an “Irish sister” relationship. Along the way I got to know and like Frank, and his two youngest sons, Eddie and John, very much. His dry wit and charm were always a great counter balance to Mary’s intensity and passion. His varied interests and eccentric sense of humor always allowed us other topics of conversation when Mary and Kathy would “talk shop” and discuss parish politics and faculty problems. Frank, Mary, and the boys were regular visitors at our house on Fridays, and we were invited to all their family gatherings and parties. The summer before Eddie’s freshman year in high school, Frank had surgery to remove a mole on his neck, which turned out to be a malignant melanoma. I didn’t think further about it until January, when Frank noticed that a small lump had developed near the scar. The removal of that lump revealed that the cancer had spread to a nearby lymph node. The next three months were a blur of emotions: shock, despair, and hope; followed by a determination to battle the cancer on every possible front. It seemed to me, during this chaotic time, that the actor in Frank managed to perform all his regular routines and obligations – never betraying public evidence of his illness or treatments. He continued filming General Hospital until April, and stopped only to travel to Mexico to investigate some new exotic therapy. However, the optimism seemed to collapse upon his return, and Kathy learned that he was being hospitalized. She said that the prognosis was bad, and Mary was requesting that her out-of-state son, James, come home as soon as possible to see his father in the hospital. I looked again at the message in Kathy’s barely decipherable calendar-scrawl:

“Hospital

23388 Mulhouland Drive,

Room. 103”.

I felt it was mocking me – challenging me to keep my promise, or do SOMETHING.

“I’m going to the hospital” I declared aloud, surprising myself. “Do you want to come?” I added, turning to Toñito.

“Ahh, I don’t know Dad”, he said, hesitantly.

“Come on!” I coaxed. “You’re not doing anything important right now. Your mom will probably be there with Mary. We’ll visit for awhile and leave. It won’t take long, and we can find out what’s going on with dinner”. These reasons even made sense to me; they were buttressing my own weak and waning impulse to go. “Come on” I concluded. “You can keep me company”.

“Alright, I’ll go” he concluded, reluctantly.

The Motion Picture & Television Hospital is not far from our home, and it was an easy ride; but I don’t know if I would have made the trip alone. I was incredibly relieved when Toñito said “yes”. I feel small and vulnerable in a hospital. Fearful feelings from long ago scenes crash over me like giant combers in a stormy sea, whenever I find myself in a hospital or medical center: walking down a cavernous hallway, having left a solitary 4 year old sister, all alone in a barred hospital bed; spending a shadow-filled night, accompanied by nightmarish noises and sounds, only to have a tonsillectomy the following morning; waiting with my injured uncle Charlie, surrounded by half-naked, moaning patients in gurneys and wheel chairs, in the crowded hallway of an ER; and being told in a frigid, sterile waiting room, after an eleven-hour vigil, that my bride of two years required an emergency “C-section” in order to deliver our son. The antidote which always dispelled these past vapors of foreboding was the presence of my children, Toñito or Prisa. They did not come pre-burdened with these fearful vignettes and memories. If they were present, I was able to assume the role of father, teacher, and protector. They buoyed me with their innocent curiosity and their trust in me; and my paternal imperative to never disappoint them overrode all other fears and insecurities. Prisa was always my most enthusiastic traveling companion. As a teenager, Toñito had become less inclined in joining me on trips and errands, but he was still susceptible to family pressure and whining. If I stressed that “I really needed” his company, he would usually agree. With Prisa unavailable, this was one of those times.

 This would be my first visit to the Motion Picture hospital. Situated near the rolling hills of Calabasas and Woodland Hills, it is a vast and impressive compound. The sweeping lawns, unblemished stucco walls, and abundance of glass and open areas gave it the feel of a resort condominium, not a hospital. The availability of parking was especially refreshing, and I was able to position our car near the front entrance.

“Does the scarcity of cars mean there are few patients or few visitors?” I asked Toñito, making a feeble attempt a humor.

“I don’t know, Dad” he replied, dryly, not betraying any insights into his feelings or state of mind.

We walked in through the wide, automatic glass doors and walked directly to the Admitting Desk.

“Hi” I said to a smiling young girl in a volunteer pinstriped uniform. “We’re here to visit Frank Killmond in room 103. Could you help us?”

“Sure” she replied, and directed us down the hall, and into the next building. The simple directions and clearly marked halls and numbers were reassuring. Toñito took the lead and I followed him until we came to the room we sought. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked and entered. Mary was sitting at the far end of the room, next to a louvered, but brightly lit window, reading a book. Frank was sitting on the side of the bed, across from her, in front of a rolling table with a food tray. There was no sight of Kathy, Prisa, or any other visitor.

“Hi Tony” Mary said first, putting down her book and rising.

“Hi Mary, hi Frank” I said, entering the room. “Toñito and I thought we’d come by and see how you were doing”. It appeared that Frank was finishing his meal, so Mary took over the duty of salutations, greetings, and chatting. She explained that Rosemary and Liz had just left, and with our arrival, it appeared that visitors were automatically spacing themselves nicely throughout the day. As Frank stopped eating, and began covering the plates with the cafeteria lids, Mary started looking for her purse.

“Now that you’re here, Tony, why don’t you sit and visit with Frank. I’ll take a break, get something to drink, maybe, or go to the chapel”.

“I’ll go with you Mary” Toñito volunteered. “I’d like to see the chapel”. He had been silent all this time, and Mary’s need for a break was giving him a natural exit line. With their departure, Frank and I were alone, and I was suddenly aware of the awkwardness of this moment. Mary’s greetings and family updates had distracted us from the setting. In her absence, I was left alone to my own devices.

“How are you feeling Frank?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for voicing such an obvious and stupid question. What were the “right questions” to ask, I wondered. Just be natural, I said to myself, be normal.

“Not bad, right now, Tony” he replied, “but the nights are difficult”.

“Don’t they give you something to sleep?” I wondered aloud.

“Yeah, but I don’t like taking too much. It knocks me out, and I’d rather be alert and aware of what is going on”.

“Is it affecting your appetite?” I asked looking at the dessert gelatin and cake he had left on the tray.

 “No” he said with a laugh. “The food is surprisingly good. I’m saving the cake for later; unless John shows up, then we’ll have to fight for it. Give me a hand, will you? I’d like to get off the bed and stretch”. I pulled the rolling side-table away from the bed and parked it on the other side of the room. Frank slowly slid off the bed and arranged the gown around him. “Tie me up here, will you”.

“Sure” I replied, coming up behind him and retying the gown at his neck, and waist. I don’t know what I expected Frank to look like. I suppose I’d envisioned an emaciated, skeletal figure, barely able to move. Frank was pale with rumpled hair, but he looked okay, spoke confidently, and was mobile – albeit a little slowly. He walked over to the window and gazed out at the rolling grass and parking lot. I sat on the bed he had vacated and relaxed. “Have you had many visitors today?”

“Yes” he said, turning to look at me again. Beams from the diving sun bathed him in light as he told me that his friend John Burns had come by earlier and they had reminisced about their days in the Pasadena Playhouse. He also mentioned that his son James was arriving that evening, and how much he was looking forward to seeing him.

“I’m feeling a little tired now” he said, bringing his musings to an end. He moved back toward the bed and sat down beside me. “It was good talking with you, Tony”

“Thanks, Frank” I replied. “I’m glad I came by”

He put his left arm around my shoulder and, in a very deliberate manner, said “I love you, Tony. Thanks for coming today”.

I was caught short by this unexpected remark. “I love you too, Frank” is all I managed to say.

As if on cue, Mary swept into the room holding her purse in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She was alone.

“Where’s Toñito?” I asked.

“I’m not sure” she replied. “I took him to the chapel and then I went to the cafeteria. I haven’t seen him, so he may still be there”.

I excused myself from Mary and Frank, said goodbye again. I met Toñito in the hallway.

“Do you want to go back and say goodbye?” I asked.

“No” he replied, “that’s okay”.

As we retraced our path back to the reception area, the fading light of the crepuscular sun shone through the steel and glass. There was about 15 minutes of daylight left as we got in the car and left the parking lot.

I waited silently in the car until Toñito was looking directly into my face. I had no clue what I was going to say, until the words started flowing. “First of all, thank you for coming with me. I could not have gone to the hospital without you”.

“But I didn’t DO ANYTHING, Dad” he said in an anguished voice. “I didn’t even stay in the room with you. I ran out as soon as I could”.

“I didn’t want to be there either, son. I was afraid to go too. I just felt we had to see him. There really wasn’t anything for us to do”.

He let those words sink in, and then he asked “What happened after I left?”

“I’m not sure” I said, recalling the brief moments Frank and I had shared. “I didn’t know what to say, or what to ask. Everything that came out of my mouth sounded stupid. Thank God he did most of the talking. He told me he how he was feeling and who had visited him”. I took a long ragged breath, and continued. “Toñito” I added, quietly, as if revealing a dreaded secret, “I think Frank’s dying”. Fighting to express the next few words, I looked pleadingly into his face, hoping he’d help me understand. “He told me that he loved me”. A single sob broke free, and I stopped suddenly, struggling to quell any more from escaping. Toñito moved closer to me in the car and I desperately embraced him. The feel of his long, skinny arms wrapping themselves around me in such a firm, protective manner unleashed my pent up tears. The weeping must have been contagious, because Toñito was soon crying as well. The pressure of his face against my chest, and the energy from all his repressed sorrows rocked us both for a long time. When our tears were spent, and I could cry no longer, I moved my head back so I could see his face.

“How are you doing, son?”

“Not good, Dad” he said, laughingly, as he wiped his nose against his hand. “I don’t have a Kleenex”.

“We’ve never cried like this before, have we?” I asked rhetorically.

“No we haven’t, and I don’t want to do it again” he said in a pseudo-comic manner. “I’m sorry I left you alone, Dad” he said, repentantly. “I just didn’t want to say goodbye to Frank. I didn’t want to admit that I might never see him again. I don’t want him to die”.

“I know, son, I know” I said, taking him into my arms again. “It’s all right. You were fine, and you didn’t let me down. I love you Toñito”. I rocked him gently in my arms until his breathing was in harmony with mine. “I never saw my Dad before he died” I said, speaking over his head, but knowing he was listening. “By the time I arrived home, he was gone. I never had a chance to see him or say goodbye. Today was different. Frank is seeing all his children and all his friends. He saw us, and we were able to see him. Today was a gift, and it would not have happened if you had not come with me. Do you believe me?” I asked, pulling back and forcing him to look up.

“Yes, Dad, I believe you” he said, looking into my eyes.

“Good” I said, hugging him again, and pounding his back. “Now let’s clean ourselves up. We’re a mess. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to your mom”.

“Do you think we’ll ever cry like this again?” he asked. “I mean, together”.

“I hope so, Toñito, I hope so. I think it was a healthy thing to do”.

Frank died three days later, on Good Friday, after saying farewell to all his friends and family. Toñito and I said goodbye to him again at his funeral.

Boys you can break;

Find out how much they can take.

Boys will be strong,

Boys soldier on, but

Boys would be gone,

Without the warmth of a woman’s

Good, good heart.

(Daughters, by John Mayer)

“One cannot see well except with the heart.

The essential is invisible to the eyes.”

(The Little Prince: Antoine Saint-Exupéry, 1943)

“Prisa has been in a lot of your blogs lately”, Kathy mused, as she guided the car along Shoup Avenue on a Sunday morning.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right” I replied, thinking of three of my last four blogs.

“She really makes an effort to stay in contact, and we see more of her because of the wedding preparations” she added.

“Yeah” I agreed, looking out my passenger window to watch two joggers as they trotted along the sidewalk. “She’s a great traveling companion too”.

“Have you thought of doing one on Toñito?” Kathy asked.

I swiveled my head to look at Kathy as I replied. “Not really. We haven’t done anything together in awhile, and he hasn’t provoked a response, like his IBARW blog (see Cosmic Quest) ”.

“I know” she conceded, “and his work hours don’t make it easy to get together”.

“Well, at least he still lectors once a month” I interjected. “That gives us a regular date to see and talk to him. Will he be coming for brunch today?”

“I hope so” Kathy said. “I’d like to hear how he’s doing and how the MIT Mystery Puzzle Hunt turned out”.

I wished the same thoughts as we drove to our parish church for the 10 o’clock Mass. Tony would be one of the lay lectors who read the preliminary scriptural selections before the gospel. We stayed silent for the rest of the drive, but I couldn’t help thinking about Kathy’s observations. Did the kids keep track of the number of times I mentioned them in my blogs? Prisa had joked about rating them that way, but I didn’t think Tony did.

“Do you think I should write a blog about Toñito?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot.

“I don’t know” Kathy said, sighing deeply, and speaking almost to herself. “Before Tony grew up and went off to college, he was the center of your universe. From the first moment you laid eyes on him, he was special to you. You would come home from work to watch him sleep and move, and played with him when he awoke. Your relationship with Prisa is different. I’m just wondering if you have things yet to express”.
 

The 10 o’clock mass is not my favorite Eucharist celebration. I go when I have a compelling reason. If Kathy needs my presence at a school and parish function, I go; and when Tony is reading, I go. Seeing him read in church is much the same as when we watched him performing in Children’s Theatre, grammar school productions, high school plays and musicals, and college dramas. His renderings of the scriptures are nuanced to the messages they contain, and he makes them come alive. Kathy and I separated as she entered the sacristy to sign up as a Eucharistic minister for the mass, and I continued inside the church. Sitting in the pew, waiting for Kathy to join me, I reviewed the scriptures for the day: Isaiah 43; Psalm 41; 2nd Corinthians 1; and Mark 2. The combination of Old and New Testament offerings emphasized God’s compassion and forgiveness, and made for good readings. I was wondering which one Tony would be reading when he stepped out of the sacristy. I put down my missal and watched him. His 6’-2” frame towered over the line of altar servers, ministers, and priest, as they formed up along the side of the church and began the procession. Each participant walked slowly down the center aisle, bowed before the tabernacle, and stepped up onto the altar platform before taking their assigned places for the first part of the ceremony. Tony wore a long sleeved, royal purple shirt with black slacks. His shoulder-length hair appeared wet and stringy, as if from a quick shower, and his black, steel-rimmed glasses drooped down his nose. At the beginning of the Liturgy of the Word, Tony arose from his seat and walked to the podium. I closed my eyes and mindfully listened. He paused for an extended moment, and then in a deep sonorous voice announced:

“A reading from Isaiah:

‘Thus says the LORD:

Remember not the events of the past,

The things of long ago consider not;

See, I am doing something new!

Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

In the desert I make a way,

In the wasteland, rivers.

The people I formed for myself,

That they might announce my praise.

Yet you did not call upon me, O Jacob,

For you grew weary of me, O Israel.

You burdened me with your sins,

And wearied me with your crimes.

It is I, I who wipe out,

For my own sake, your offenses;

Your sins I remember no more’.

He paused for another moment, and then in a softer voice said, “The word of the Lord.”
 

It was as if a wild-eyed, raven-haired prophet had thundered and railed at the people of Israel; telling them of God’s boundless love for them, and his passion to forgive their sins and offenses. Tony’s dramatic interpretation had been far more effective than my silent decoding of the same words. His sweeping voice paved a wide road through the desert, and transformed a desolate wasteland into a flowering orchard. I could feel the weariness and burden of my sins being lifted and blown away, by the effortless assurances of God. I was not surprised by my emotional response. Tony always had the ability to astound me and bring tears of joy to my eyes with his actions, words, and performances. When he was a child, I thought of him as my own “Little Prince”; a boy from another world bringing the gifts of laughter and insight into our home. Toñito taught me the truths I knew as a child, but had forgotten as an adult.
 

When Toñito was seven years old, I proudly signed him up for tee-ball at the local park. I bubbled over with excitement over this critical rite of passage. Tony had played three years of AYSO soccer, but that was a kiddies’ game. Soccer consisted of little children running around an open field kicking a ball in the general direction of some netting. Baseball was Tony’s introduction into an organized sport that required physical acumen and teamwork. I saw this juncture as his first step on the same road I had traveled as a youth; a journey I could now relive with him. His grandfather, the doctor, also participated in the rite by purchasing an excellent fielders mitt. As I carefully explained to Toñito how an oversized glove would enhance his fielding abilities, I could see him soaking in every word. He was great at games; but until then, they had been board games, problem-solving games, and mental games which complemented his intellectual and reasoning skills. This was his first athletically demanding sport, and he was carefully listening and internalizing the rules, procedures, and equipment of this new game. Later I volunteered as an adult helper on his team, assisting with practices and games, but I was more interested in watching Tony’s individual progress. Even though he was awkward at the mechanics of baseball, he looked like a real ball player; being tall and lanky, with long arms and legs. We practiced at home by going out to the front lawn to play catch, field ground balls and fly balls, and bat. There we were always joined by his five year old sister Prisa. Instead of relegating Prisa to the task of “shagging” and returning balls hit into the next yard, Tony was happy to let Prisa bat, field, and throw with his equipment. She got as much practice as he.

Half way through the season, on a weekday afternoon before practice, Tony came into my study as I was working.

“Can I talk to you Dad?” he asked, sounding very serious.

“Sure” I replied, rolling back my desk chair. I was amused by his formality, but I didn’t laugh and gave him my full attention.

“Can we talk alone?” he added.

Now I was curious. “Let’s talk in the bedroom” I said, leaving my desk and leading the way down the hall. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Tony to enter and close the door.

“Dad” he said, “I don’t want to play baseball anymore”.

I was stunned.

“Did anything happen?” I asked, searching for a specific reason to explain this shocking request.

“No, nothing happened”, he said. “I just hate it, Dad. I’m not good at baseball”.

“Did anyone do or say anything to hurt you?” I pressed, still hoping to find a problem I could fix.

“It’s not one thing Dad; it’s everything. The kids don’t listen when they’re supposed to, and the coaches don’t really teach; they just expect you to play. And baseball is so boring!”
 

These were only the first erupting emotions that Toñito had been repressing about baseball. I was unprepared for such a litany of unhappiness. Tony was miserable because he felt forced to play a sport he did not value or appreciate. He described the pointless drills, the indecisive directions, and the boredom of standing in the outfield waiting for nothing to happen, because tee-ball batters rarely hit baseballs that far. But even more frightening was the growing fear that my desire to see him play baseball was the cause for his misery. I listened to all he said, and was then compelled to ask the question I dreaded to voice. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t want to play” he replied, firmly.

The finality of his response was another shot to the gut. “You mean right now?” I asked uncertainly. “You don’t want to go to practice today?”

He nodded silently, never taking his eyes off of me.

I felt the dam of my calm bursting, with the realization that I could rescue my son from all his unhappiness with a word. The onrushing flood of Tony’s misery and my desire to help swept over me. Somehow I managed to stop this compelling impulse. I needed time to think, discuss the issue with Kathy, and reach a calm decision. I paused, took a deep breath and straightened my back as I prepared to speak.

“Tony, I love you. I never want you to be unhappy, especially in a sport that is supposed to be fun. But I don’t feel that quitting is the right thing to do today. Let me talk it over with your Mom before we decide anything. There is one thing I want you to think about. When you joined the team you made a promise to be part of it for the season. When I was a boy, there was a time I wanted to quit Pop Warner football. I thought it was too hard and painful; but my parents thought it was important to finish what I had begun. I’m glad you talked to me about this, but I need more time. So I need you to go to practice today. Can you do this for me?”

I saw Toñito take a deep breath and say “Okay”.

I saw no hint of agitation during practice, and on the drive back home he told me he could await my decision. When I talked to Kathy that evening, she said Tony’s feelings about baseball did not surprise her. She had noticed his general antipathy to yard games and team sports at school, and had observed his preferences for individual achievement and competition. We both felt that it was important to finish the season, even though it would be difficult for him. This was the most painful parenting dilemma we had encountered, because it meant forcing Toñito to remain in a distasteful situation. However, insisting on fulfilling one’s commitment for its own sake seemed like such an archaic, old fashioned idea. We did not believe in continuing a practice simply because our parents thought it best; we had to weigh the merits of this virtue for ourselves. By the end of the evening, we agreed that there was a lesson to be learned from this issue - for us and Toñito. The last question I asked myself was “Am I prepared to insist on a course of action that Toñito will find painful to endure?”  I hated doing so, but my answer was yes, and I knew that I had to tell him by myself. He never looked younger or more innocent than when I asked him to join me in the living room to hear the decision. I could not predict how Tony would react. I had mentioned all the key issues on the first day we talked about this. I hoped that my decision would not be a complete surprise. But Tony was only a seven year old child, and I could not expect an adult reaction.

He listened quietly as I repeated the reasoning Kathy and I rehearsed the night before. I told him we loved him, and I was sorry if my enthusiasm for the game had influenced him into joining. However, we also believed that keeping promises was important, and he had promised to join and be part of a team for one season. I concluded by making him a promise: if he finished the last few weeks on the team, he would never have to play baseball or any sport he disliked again; but he needed to complete what he had begun. He did not cry or pout as I spoke; he simply listened, nodding his head occasionally. When I finished speaking, he asked,

“So I don’t have to play baseball next year?”

“You never have to play baseball again, once this year is over” I repeated.

“Okay”, he concluded, “it’s a deal.”

The quickness and simplicity of his answer surprised me. I gave him a hug and said “Tony, I love you and I’m proud of you. Thank you for accepting a tough decision.”

“Your welcome, Dad”, he replied, squeezing me back. “Can I go play now?”
 

I tip-toed through the last weeks of the season, watching Toñito for any tell-tale signs of sadness or pain. I saw none, and when I asked him how he was doing during practices and games, he said “fine”. I finally relaxed at the Awards Picnic at Reseda Park. Two plastic lunch tables were reserved for the team; one covered with trophies and the other with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad and cake. The boys played on the swings and monkey bars, and invented games with loosened balloons. After eating, the coach stood up to thank the parents and award the players for their participation. He called each boy to the table and handed them a trophy, with all the parents clapping and cheering. Some parents called out “speech, speech”, encouraging them to speak, but none did – until Toñito. He was sitting on the grass near the picnic table, so when his name was called he only had to stand up to receive his trophy.

He shook the coach’s hand and said “I’d like to speak”.

The surprised coach stammered for a bit, and then replied “sure”. Raising his arms for attention, he said “Tony would like to say a few words”.

Holding his trophy tightly in his right hand, Tony stood up on the picnic bench and waited until the small crowd was silent. I recall his speech going something like this:

“I want to thank the coaches for teaching me to play baseball. I especially want to thank my Mom and Dad for their support at all the games and practices, and for helping me throughout the year. I learned a lot about the game and I will always remember it.”

I found it difficult to hold back my tears. Who was this gangly youth with the angelic face? What prompted him to call so much attention to himself? There was no hesitation or self-consciousness in his actions or words. The other boys seemed just as astounded, because they all listened intently, without catcalling or making fun.

“I don’t know what the future will bring” he continued, “but I will always remember you and the time we spent together. Thank you.” With cheers and clapping cascading around him, Tony resumed his place and sat down. I just looked at him in wonder as I brushed away my tears of pride. The courage to give this speech matched the bravery he demonstrated during the last weeks of the season. He had respected our wishes, accepted our decision, and suffered the consequences of commitment. He was heroic, and he was free of baseball. As he rushed off with his teammates to resume their competition on the swings, his laughter sounded crisper and happier than it had for a long time.
 

Toñito’s laughter was his sweetest gift to us as a child. Until his voice changed at 10 or 11 years of age, Toñito had a secret, tinkling laugh that escaped during his private moments. It sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This was not his public laughter, but his private chuckling. I would hear it on quiet days from another room, while he sat alone in the living room or bedroom, reading a book, listening to an audiotape, or watching a TV program. I would inch toward the open door silently and carefully, as if stalking a skittish hummingbird, hoping to find the source of the enchanting sound. Without betraying my presence, I would peek in for a quick glimpse of a tall, skinny boy, with a shock of black hair falling over his forehead, sitting on the rug or couch, engrossed in a book or magazine. Ducking back, I imagined a luminous, Tinkerbelle-like faerie perched on his narrow shoulder, leaning into his ear, and whispering the private jokes or riddles that delight children. If Kathy appeared in the hallway, I would raise my finger to my lips and motion for silence. Her questioning look would disappear when the chiming giggles floated through the door. She would beam a smile of clarity, and we shared our secret. Too soon, a sound from the street or yard would intrude - a car, a shout, or a ringing phone; and the moment would pass. At puberty, Toñito kept reading, watching TV, and laughing, but the faeries came no more, and the sounds of tinkling laughter ceased.