A Beacon of Light

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  • My name is Kevin Carroll. I was born and raised in San Francisco, California, where I attended Saint Ignatius College Preparatory. I am a graduate of both Santa Clara University and the University of San Francisco. Following a 40-year career in teaching and pastoral ministry, I launched a new career as a writer and speaker.

    I live in San José, California. My wife, Kathy, and I have three adult sons and five precious grandchildren. I have much for which to be grateful.

    I can be reached via email at kmc43sjc@gmail.com

    My books are available for purchase online from Amazon. I also have copies of some of these titles at my home for those who would like to buy them directly from me.

    A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude  (2017)

    Cherries in the Summer  (2021)

    The Ambassador of 38th Avenue  (2022)

    Dad: 12 Questions…  (2023)

    A Focus on Gratitude  (2024)

    Through the Lens of Gratitude  (2024)

    A Bahamian Odyssey (2026)

  • Santa Cruz

    “The churning, churning,
    churning of the waves
    against the shore revives me
    — makes me whole.” 
    Nallén (poet)

    I’m sitting at an umbrella-covered table on the patio deck of a hotel in Santa Cruz, California. The air temperature is in the mid-70º range, with a gentle breeze. The view… ah, the view… is a peek at a local beach, a layer of fog well off the coastline. The words of the poet Nallén express my thoughts even better than I can. The repetitive sound of the waves crashing onto the shoreline is like music to my ears. 

    Is this Heaven? No, it’s Santa Cruz.

    When I think about the beach, especially when I reflect on some of the beach music I’ve grown to love and appreciate through the years, I can’t help but think of Jimmy Buffet. It’s been almost two years since the legendary singer/songwriter died. He once said, “If there’s Heaven for me, I’m sure it has a beach attached to it.” I have no doubt that, in some other dimension, beachgoers are enjoying hearing Buffet singing his popular tunes Come Monday, It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere, and his signature song Margaritaville.

    I’ve been here for only one hour, yet I already feel relaxed, refreshed, and renewed. I am in Santa Cruz to facilitate a one-day retreat for the faculty of a San José school tomorrow. I wanted to get here a day early to unwind, to get a good night’s sleep, and to avoid having to navigate the sometimes treacherous Highway 17 in the morning. Mission accomplished. I’m here, and tremendously grateful to be here.

    The first eighteen years of my life were spent living by the sea — the Pacific Ocean. It was a short walk to the beach from my family home. Sadly, it was a walk I rarely, if ever, took. It wasn’t until I moved to the Santa Clara Valley in 1972 that I realized how blessed I was to have lived so close to the beach all those years. 

    Oceanographer Jacques Cousteau once wrote, “The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.” Maybe this is why I feel so much at home when I visit places like Nagasaki, Japan and Nassau, Bahamas. 

    One of the primary reasons I enjoy visiting San Francisco so often in my retirement is to walk along the water, whether at Ocean Beach, Crissy Field, or on the Embarcadero. It’s the water that brings me such a powerful sense of peace and serenity. Scientists talk about the mental health effects of the negative ions present in ocean air. I don’t know much about that, but I do know that ocean air is like medicine to me. I always walk away from it feeling better than when I arrived. 

    I will definitely savor each moment of the next 48 hours!

  • A Prayer Request

    Rob Gibbs

    Some of you might recall that in April I participated in a Walk for Life in San Francisco to raise funds for cancer research, specifically Multiple Myeloma. I have two close friends who have been dealing with this specific type of cancer. One friend, Bill Roche, who was one of my classmates at Saint Ignatius College Prep, is doing well. Kathy and I had lunch with Bill, and his wife Penny, last week. He looked wonderful and was in great spirits.

    Rob Gibbs is married to Cathy, one of my elementary school classmates at Saint Gabriel School in The City. I got to know Rob when I reconnected with a number of my former classmates about ten years ago. Rob is an avid Giants’ fan, an outdoorsman, a hunter, a cyclist, and a connoisseur of fine foods and wines. Most importantly, he’s one of the nicest people I know.

    Tomorrow, August 12th, Rob will have a kidney transplant at the University of California Medical Center in San Francisco. A successful transplant will give him a second lease on life. His kidney donor is his son, Matthew. I have no doubt this will be an incredibly stressful day for Cathy and her entire family.

    May I ask those who read this to please take a moment and pray for a successful surgery. Rob is my age, and while he has lived a full and productive life, I’m convinced that God still has work for him to do here on earth. (I know Cathy does!)

    Your prayerful support will be greatly appreciated.

  • Two Roads

    “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
    I took the one less traveled by,
    and that has made all the difference”
    Robert Frost

    It was the spring of 1979. I would be graduating from Santa Clara University in June. I knew that I wanted to pursue a career in teaching. I had already experienced a one-year full-time teaching job at Saint Augustine’s College in the Bahamas. And for the past three years, while completing my undergraduate degree, I had been teaching part-time at Bellarmine College Prep in San José. With graduation approaching, I knew it was time to begin applying for a teaching position for the 1979-80 academic year.

    I dutifully sent out applications to a number of schools. I had already been informed that there were no open positions for the coming year at Bellarmine, so all they could offer me was to continue with the two classes per day I’d been teaching the previous three years. I needed a full-time job, and I knew, in my heart, exactly where I wanted to teach.

    When a letter arrived from Mr. Lou Adderley at Saint Augustine’s College, welcoming me back to the SAC faculty for the 1979-80 school year, I was ecstatic. I thought I was so ready to return to the island to continue teaching and coaching there. In the weeks following my receipt of that letter, however, something didn’t feel right.

    A retired friend, who owned multiple properties in Santa Clara, had offered to rent one his homes to me — a cozy two-bedroom, one bath house with a front porch and large backyard — for only $200/month. The going rate at the time for such a rental was at least $750/month. I also had a reliable car — a 1972 Volkswagen bug. I began to feel a bit conflicted. In Nassau, I would have to find a place to live and a vehicle to get around the island. Then came the unexpected phone call.

    The principal at Saint Christopher School in San José, a school to which I had not applied for a teaching position, asked me if I would consider teaching junior high literature the following year. My name had been given to her by my friend, Al Trigueiro. Al had been teaching fifth grade at Saint Christopher for several years, but was moving on to a new job. Sister Eileen’s call caught me off-guard, but I didn’t say no to her offer. I asked for a little time to think about it. In the following days, using the tools of Ignatian discernment I had learned, it was clear that I was being called, literally, to teach at Saint Christopher School.

    Mr. Adderley, one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, was quite understanding when I wrote back to him to explain my change of plans. He wished me well. I felt guilty for not returning to SAC, but I knew in my heart that Saint Christopher was the right choice at that time.

    I’ve often wondered,… what if? What if I had accepted the job at Saint Augustine’s College? What if I had moved back to Nassau, found a place to live and a car to drive, and had lived out my adult years in Nassau? I was 25 years old at that time. How would my life have been different than it turned out to be?

    I guess I’ll never know the answer to these questions. I made a decision in the spring of 1979 which set me on the course I’ve experienced in the 50+ years since that time. As Robert Frost described in his poem The Road Not Taken, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I…” Well, this is where the comparison ends, because I, I took the one which was more convenient at the time, and that has made all the difference.  

  • Warm Summer Evenings

    “What good is the
    warmth of summer,
    without the cold of winter
    to give it sweetness?”
    John Steinbeck

    Ah, yes… warm August nights. How I dream of them in February when they are just a faint memory of summers past.

    At this point in my life, enjoying such an evening here at home, sitting outside on the patio enjoying a cold drink and, perhaps, a chocolate chip cookie or two, is an absolute joy. For the most part, just as February’s “California cold” really isn’t all that cold, “California hot” in August is most often comfortably warm. Tonight was one of those evenings.

    In my younger days, I made an effort to escape to the Bahamas for a vacation in the first two weeks of August. In 1979 and 1981, I made enough money teaching summer school to cover the cost of my trips. In 1985, I took a group of young adults from Saint Lawrence Parish in Santa Clara to Nassau to meet up with young adults from local parishes on the island. 

    Now, August nights in Nassau are too warm for me. I could probably get used to them easily enough, but my days of spending hours on a beach getting a sun tan and partying at The Rum Keg in the Nassau Beach Hotel at night are history. My visits to Nassau now are preferably in the more temperate months of March and November.

    Here at home, though, I can enjoy the solitude of a summer evening right outside my front door. It’s amazing that with a bit of imagination, sitting outdoors with patio lights strung around the perimeter of the deck, it’s fairly easy to imaging that I’m back in the islands. I can play a little reggae music on Pandora and feel the island vibe. When I do this, I’m in my happy place.

  • The Lens We Choose

    “Gratitude is not only the
    greatest of virtues,
    but the parent of
    all the others.”
    Marcus Tullius Cicero

    When I began writing about gratitude in December 2006, I had no idea that the concept would become a popular topic in the years to come. I also didn’t realize that I had so much to learn about gratitude in my own life. All I knew at the time was that I had spent many years taking people and things for granted. This was not something I was doing consciously. I never intended to be ungrateful. My perception of my life at that time, however, was clearly one of achievement, rather than one of giftedness. I had this mistaken belief that I was where I was in my life because of things I had accomplished, and that I had somehow earned the status I enjoyed in this world. I could not have been more misguided.

    It’s interesting, and a bit disheartening, to realize that despite having attended a Jesuit high school and two Jesuit universities for undergraduate and graduate studies, I had somehow missed learning about the most foundational virtue to be drawn from Ignatian spirituality: gratitude.

    Ignatius of Loyola agreed wholeheartedly with Cicero in stating that gratitude is the foundational virtue, the virtue from which all other virtues flow. 

    Humility is a highly-valued virtue. This is the virtue which should have informed me that all that I have is not the result of my own efforts, but of God’s grace. My perspective on life changed dramatically when I acknowledged that my talents, opportunities, and accomplishments have been gifts, rather than achievements. 

    Generosity, too, is a highly-respected virtue. When I came to the realization that what I have is the result of God’s giftedness, rather than my own accomplishments, I was able to understand that nothing is truly mine in the possessive sense. Rather than considering myself to be the owner of knowledge, experience, or material possessions, I am able to see that my actual role in the world is to be a good steward of these things. They’re not mine to keep. They are mine to share with others, who, in turn, will share with others.

    The virtue of joy is also a byproduct of a grateful heart. By embracing an attitude of gratitude, and consciously choosing to view the world through the lens of gratitude, I am better able to recognize God’s presence in the ordinary, everyday experiences of my life.

    In addition to being a virtue, gratitude also has the potential to serve as a barometer of our spiritual health. A focus on gratitude helps me to recognize, and to remember, that we are recipients of God’s love and grace before we are capable of being achievers. 

    In his article The First Virtue: Saint Ignatius on the Power of Gratitude, author Andy Otto reminds us that in the garden of life, “gratitude isn’t simply one virtue among many.” Rather, he writes, it is “the soil from which all others naturally grow.”

    It’s been almost 20 years since I began my gratitude journey. I’ve learned much about the importance of being grateful in life. I’ve also learned how essential it is that we express the gratitude we feel to those responsible for it. As William Arthur Ward said so eloquently, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”   

  • Dad’s City

    Herb Caen was a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle for more than 50 years. His witty and insightful writing earned him the title “Mr. San Francisco.” One his most famous quotes about The City makes me wonder about my Dad’s experience of arriving in Heaven following his death in 2008. Caen had written, “I hope I go to Heaven, and when I do, I’m going to do what every San Franciscan does when he gets there. He looks around and says, ‘It ain’t bad, but it ain’t San Francisco.’”

    In memory of my Dad, on the anniversary of his death, I spent the day yesterday walking in The City. That’s something Dad did on a regular basis after his retirement from the San Francisco Fire Department. These photos, and the captions provided, will tell the tale of my experience in The City on July 31, 2025.

    I took CalTrain to San Francisco from the station in Santa Clara. When I arrive in The City, I took public transportation to St. Paul Catholic Church and school. This is where my Dad was baptized and where he attended elementary school. I attended the 8:30 a.m. Mass.

    After Mass, I walked from the church to 25th & Sanchez Street to the childhood home of my Dad. Immediately after taking this photo, the garage door opened. I explained to the owner that this had been my father’s childhood home. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “My family has owned this house since 1947.” I explained that Dad was born in 1925 and had lived in this house until the mid-40’s. Surprised, the man asked me, “Was your grandfather a San Francisco firefighter?” I assured him he was. Apparently, the owner is well aware of the history of his family in this home, which includes purchasing it from an Irish firefighter!

    After a quick breakfast at Chloe’s Café at 26th & Church, I set out on my walk. I didn’t have any particular agenda, so I walked over to Clipper Street… and looked up. I thought to myself, I can do this! So I began the climb up the hill, thinking that I would take it all the way up to Portola Drive. When I got to Clipper & Diamond, another thought crossed my mind. What a nice day to take Diamond Street over the hill to the south and visit Silver Tree Day Camp in Glen Canyon. So I changed directions. Along the way, I was reminded of the unique architecture of homes which had been built on the hillsides in Diamond Heights.

    I made it to the top of Diamond Street and headed down into Glen Canyon, where I had worked at Silver Tree Day Camp back in the late 60’s and early 70’s. At that time, these paths along the hillside did not exist. In recent years, the San Francisco Recreation & Parks Department has made Glen Canyon a treasured hiking venue in The City. I carefully worked my way from the top of the hill down to the road leading to the camp.

    From the hillside, one can get a glimpse of the Silver Tree Day Camp building. Color-coded picnic tables behind the building were the setting for daily lunch and snacks for the campers.

    This dirt road is the only access by car from the front entrance of Glen Park Playground on Elk Street to the main building of Silver Tree Camp. I took this road, often on foot, and occasionally on my bicycle, to get to work each day.

    One of my favorite spots on the summer camp property has always been the porch overlooking the play area and the main camp site, where campers would gather for assemblies and singing. There was also a stage at main camp where campers put on skits for their parents when they would visit the camp at the end of the day on Thursday evenings.

    After a rigorous hike up O’Shaughnessy Boulevard and then down Portola Drive, I enjoyed lunch at the Bull’s Head Restaurant in West Portal. From there I continued walking down Sloat Boulevard to 19th Avenue. At that point, I had another idea. I had not been down into Sigmund Stern Grove for many years, so I ventured down the hill into the valley to check it out.

    The driveway down into Sigmund Stern Grove is spectacular. It’s hard to believe that right there in the midst of a congested urban area, one can find such a remote, peaceful, nature-filled paradise.

    At the east end of Sigmund Stern Grove is the Trocadero Club house, which was constructed in 1892. In the early 20th century, this building was used as a road house, offering dancing and gambling at roulette tables. Today, the venue may be rented for weddings, family gatherings, or other social events.

    I walked to the west end of Sigmund Stern Grove and up the hill near Pine Lake. By then, I was close to my own childhood home at 38th Avenue between Vicente and Wawona Streets. Of course, I had to make a stop. Ironically, it was here, 17 years ago last night, that my Dad fell down the back stairs, sustaining a traumatic head injury which ended his life.

    Continuing west on Wawona Street, I got to 40th Avenue where I snapped this photo of the ball field at South Sunset Playground. This is where I played soccer and baseball. In the background, up the hill, is Saint Gabriel Church and school, where I attended grades one through eight.

    Continuing down Wawona to 45th Avenue, then one block south to Sloat Boulevard, I made a quick stop at Java Beach Café. For me, no trip to The City is complete without a visit to Java Beach, either this one on Sloat or the original shop at a Judah and LaPlaya Streets.

    After a long day of walking, I finally made it to Ocean Beach. I met two San Francisco Fire Department ambulance drivers who were taking a break in the parking area at the end of Sloat Boulevard. Of course, we talked a bit about Dad before I snapped this photo of the surf and went on my way.

    There was one final leg of my walking journey through The City. I walked along what was once known as The Great Highway. Recently, the road was closed to traffic and converted into what is being called Sunset Dunes, a walking, running, biking recreation area that runs parallel to Ocean Beach. I walked from Sloat Boulevard to Judah Street, where I would finally have an opportunity to rest my tired feet.

    At the west end of Judah Street, the N-Judah streetcar turns around for the return trip downtown, and eventually to the CalTrain Station at 4th & King Streets. I enjoyed a comfortable ride through The City and along the Embarcadero past Oracle Park, home of the San Francisco Giants baseball team. I got off at the end of the line, walked across the street, and boarded CalTrain for the ride back to my car in Santa Clara. It was an absolutely amazing day, resulting in some pretty nice stats:

    Mark Twain once said, “The person who does not read has no advantage over the person who cannot read.” I believe the same is true for walking. By the grace of God, I have the ability to walk — even the challenging hills of San Francisco. I am grateful for this gift, and for the opportunity to honor my Dad with yesterday’s adventure.

  • Dad

    A friend shared this song with me last night. I wanted to share it with you this morning. Today, July 31st, is the anniversary of my Dad’s death. He passed away unexpectedly in 2008. This song, by the group Westlife, is called “I’ll See You Again.” Click HERE to listen to it. Here are the lyrics:

    Always you will be part of me
    And I will forever feel your strength
    When I need it most
    You’re gone now, gone but not forgotten
    I can’t say this to your face
    But I know you hear

    I’ll see you again
    You never really left
    I feel you walk beside me
    I know I’ll see you again

    When I’m lost, I’m missing you like crazy
    And I tell myself I’m so blessed
    To have had you in my life, my life

    I’ll see you again
    You never really left
    I feel you walk beside me
    I know I’ll see you again

    When I had the time to tell you
    I never thought I’d live to see the day
    When the words I should have said
    Would come to haunt me
    In my darkest hour I tell myself

    I’ll see you again
    I’ll see you again
    You never really left
    I feel you walk beside me
    I know I’ll see you again

    I’ll see you again
    You never really left
    I feel you walk beside me
    I know I’ll see you again

    I will see you again
    I’ll see you again
    I miss you like crazy
    You’re gone but not forgotten
    I’ll never forget you
    Someday I’ll see you again
    I feel you walk beside me
    Never leave you, yeah
    Gone but not forgotten
    I feel you by my side
    No this is not goodbye

    Songwriters: Andrew Gerard Hill / Michelle Lena Poole
    I’ll See You Again lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

    Rest in peace, Dad.

  • Walking Time

    “All truly great thoughts
    are conceived
    while walking.”

    Friedrich Nietzsche

    Any time of day can be thought of as walking time. This morning, I walked through the neighborhood in the mid-morning to early-afternoon hours. I logged over 8,000 steps — 3.3 miles. This evening, I’m planning to walk again, but it will be a shorter walk. The sun sets in San José tonight at 8:17. If I begin my walk around 7:30, I can walk for an hour and still be home before it gets too dark. This just might be my favorite time of day to walk.

    With all the writing I’ve been doing recently, I need to get up, get away from my desk, and get my body moving more than once each day. The weather has been perfect for getting outside. I’m finding that scheduling the walks into my day, rather than simply going out if or when I might feel inclined to do so, is quite beneficial. I’m far more likely to actually go if it’s written on my calendar.

    I also have another motivating factor which has been helping me to get up and out. My “sweet tooth,” which has has been pretty much under control for about two years now, seems to be reactivating. I’m finding myself giving in to the temptation to get that scoop of ice cream after dinner, eat a couple of those cinnamon-oatmeal raisin cookies with lunch, or savor the sweetness of a Danish pastry for breakfast. I keep reminding myself that everything is okay… in moderation. Walking, however, most definitely helps with the digestion of these calorie-laden treats.

    It’s 4:30 p.m. now, so I have a good two and a half hours to continue working on my manuscript before taking a break for dinner. Then I will head out for an evening walk. When I get home, I will be more than ready to settle down for a good night’s sleep.

    Grateful? Absolutely!… for the ability to write, to walk, to eat responsibly (most of the time), to sleep well at night, and for family and friends who continue to support me in my post-retirement writing career. I couldn’t ask for anything more.   

  • The Power of Music

    “Sittin’ in the
    mornin’ sun,
    I’ll be sittin’ when
    the evenin’ come…”
    Otis Redding

    Prior to the tragic events of September 11, 2001, at a time before schools needed security fences around the perimeter of their campus, and before passengers were required to remove their shoes going through security lines at the airport, the cruise ship docks in Nassau (Bahamas) harbor were easily accessible. My friend, Dan, and I took advantage of that access on numerous occasions fifty years ago.

    Dan was an accomplished guitarist. Just as I consider writing to be my therapy, I think Dan found playing his guitar to be therapeutic. The two of us were in the Bahamas for the 1974-75 academic year to teach at Saint Augustine’s College.

    Our living accommodations that year were in two of the guest rooms adjacent to Saint Augustine’s Monastery, situated on a hill overlooking the school campus. Our compensation for working at the school included three meals per day in the dining room of the monastery with the Benedictine community. Every now and then, after dinner, Dan and I would drive down to the docks which, at that time of day, were vacant. Cruise ships in Nassau tend to arrive early in the morning and depart late in the afternoon or early evening, leaving the docks empty during the after-dinner hours. Dan and I would take advantage of the opportunity to drive our little white Volkswagen out to the west end of one of the docks. We’d get out of the car, sit on two of the mooring bollards, and Dan would play his guitar as we enjoyed watching the setting sun dip beneath the horizon.

    Whenever I hear the song “Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding, I recall those special times. Dan and I had a unique opportunity that year — two 20-year-olds hired to teach in a 7th through 12th grade school on an island located southeast of Florida and north of Cuba in the Atlantic Ocean. It is an experience I continue to savor more than fifty years later.

    Music has an amazing ability to take us back to previous times in our lives. While, for some, a particular song might bring up a sad or painful memory, I would like to believe that most of the memories which arise from hearing specific songs or genres of music are positive. This is certainly true for me.

    It’s amazing how many songs transport me back in time with vivid memories of where I was and who I was with when the song was played. The 1970 classic song “Colour My World” by Chicago is another one of those songs for me. The song “Stand by Me” by Ben E. King will always bring back fond memories of my visit to a sixth-grade class at Shitzu Elementary School in Sotome, Japan (a suburb of Nagasaki) in 1998. The teacher of that class had prepared his students for my visit by teaching them to sing the song in English. Formal education in English begins in seventh grade in Japan. The teacher, a native of Japan who played guitar in a local band, wanted to surprise me when I visited his classroom. He did. It is one of the most cherished moments of my life.    

    There is a power in music of which many are unaware and for which I am incredibly grateful. What songs bring back special memories for you?  

  • They Tried!

    John, Craig, me, Marian

    “But why — but why should
    any wish to kill me?”
    Mowgli
    The Jungle Book

    Was it premeditated? No, I don’t think so. Yesterday’s morning walk with a small group of my elementary school classmates (John Sinclair, Craig Loeffler, and Marian Ritchie — and John’s wife, Doreen) began congenially enough at 31st & Santiago in The City yesterday morning. It was drizzling, foggy, and on the cool side when we started, but we optimistically set out for a Friday morning walk and coffee excursion. It didn’t take long for me to realize I’d been set up. My friends were trying to kill me!

    Our first stop was at Sunset Reservoir Park at 28th & Ortega in the Inner Sunset District. From the northwest corner of the park, the view of the Pacific Ocean, from the Outer Sunset to the Golden Gate Bridge, was spectacular.


    Our walk continued east, and uphill, to 16th & Moraga. There I was introduced to the 16th Avenue Tiled Steps. I’d seen the staircase in photos, with the colorful tiles on each step from bottom to top, but I’d never seen it in person until yesterday. We climbed the steps, which led us to Grandview Park at 15th Avenue. We walked around the park to 14th & Moraga. Much to my surprise, there was a second set of steps.


    The Moraga Stairs are much like the 16th Avenue Tiled Steps, except that they are not decorated with colorful tiles. Marian and I followed John, Doreen, and Craig up the staircase to the intersection of 14th & Moraga. Before tackling this second set of steps, John did offer me the opportunity to select an alternative route which would avoid the steps, but I felt good enough to accept the challenge. I was certain that once we reached the top, there would be no more steps. Wrong!

    Walking south on 14th Avenue, we encountered more uphill climbs. We stayed on 14th after the split in the road where 14th Avenue meets Pacheco Street. As we climbed the hill, I mentioned to Marian that at least there were no more steps. I’d no sooner spoken those words when John again turned around to announce that we had another choice to make. By this time we were in Golden Gate Heights. 

    John said we could continue on 14th and work our way down to West Portal, where we would stop for coffee, or we could tackle the Aerial Steps. The choice was mine to make. Again, I opted for the steps. Why not? We only live once! This staircase was almost identical to the Moraga Stairs. 

    John took the photo above as I took the last of the steps for the day at the corner of Aerial & Funston Avenue. We walked southbound on Funston to Golden Gate Heights Park, then followed Cragmont Avenue into the Forest Hills neighborhood where the twists and turns of the road left me feeling somewhat disoriented. Only when we got to the intersection of Montalvo & Magellan Avenues did I recognize the neighborhood. From there, we walked down the hill to West Portal.


    I thought we were headed to Starbucks on West Portal Avenue, but we continued two blocks further to a local coffee house — Ballast Coffee. They have a cozy seating area in the back yard behind the shop where we rested our feet, enjoyed our hot drinks, and continued our ongoing conversation. Then it was time to head back to our cars at 31st & Santiago.

    From West Portal, we took Vicente Street down through the Parkside District — past St. Cecilia Church, Larson Park, and the recently-renovated James B. Moffett Tennis Courts at Parkside Square Park at 26th Avenue, where I shared a little San Francisco history with my classmates. The tennis courts were renovated in 1968 and named after Mr. Moffett, the founder of the youth tennis program in The City. At the dedication ceremonies that summer, another one of our classmates, Dan Graham, and I served as ball boys during an exhibition match between Moffett’s daughter and local tennis pro “Peanut” Louie. It was an honor to be on the court that day. Moffett’s daughter was better known by her married name — Billy Jean King.

    We walked a couple of blocks more on Vicente, then turned north on 31st Avenue to return to our cars at Santiago Street. My legs were in pain. My feet hurt. My lower back had tightened up. Even though I’d walked an average of 14,000 steps per day since last Sunday, I had not been challenged by hills and steps as I was yesterday. It was one of those experiences that “hurt so good.”

    I am grateful for the opportunity to have shared this outing with John, Doreen, Marian, and Craig. They may have tried to kill me with the 15,000 steps, three staircases, and countless hills, but I survived… and thoroughly enjoyed the day.