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)

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“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.   

“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?  

“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.

“There are far, far better
things ahead than any
we leave behind.” 
C.S. Lewis

It was another serendipitous moment. I took another 6.5-mile walk through the Outer Sunset District yesterday afternoon. I started, as I often do, with breakfast at Java Beach Café on Judah Street. After enjoying a bowl of oatmeal and cup of hot chocolate, I began my southbound trek along the Great Highway. When I reached Sloat Boulevard, I walked east to 39th Avenue. A quick left turn put me right back into the neighborhood of my youth near South Sunset Playground.

When I got to 38th Avenue, I couldn’t resist taking another walk past my childhood home, situated halfway between Wawona and Vicente Streets. For some reason, as I approached the house, I was thinking about something I had written with white chalk on the inside wall of the garage back in 1966 — on my 12th birthday. I wondered if it might still be there.

Much to my surprise, the garage door opened just as I arrived at the house. The current resident, along with his young son, was just getting ready to go somewhere. I stopped, introduced myself, and asked if I might check to see if my writing was still on the garage wall. He had not noticed it previously, but we ventured inside to check it out. A tall, narrow cardboard box leaning against the wall obscured our vision of the area where I’d written the message. The resident moved the box. I think he was more surprised than I that what I’d written almost sixty years ago was still there.

Kevin Carroll was here.
6-4-66

I snapped the photo above, thanked the gentleman and his son for their kindness, and went on my way. What a trip!

A closer look at the photo makes it look as though I had written the date as 6-4-61, but the quality of printing, and the height of the writing on the wall, leads me to believe that I must have been older when I wrote it, probably on 6-4-66. I couldn’t help but recall something John Steinbeck had written in his classic short story, Tularecito:  

“After the bare requisites to living and reproducing, man wants most to leave some record of himself, a proof, perhaps, that he really existed.”

Proof of my existence can be found on the wall of that 38th Avenue home in San Francisco. I wonder if this same desire might be a motivating factor behind my passion for writing. Long after I’m gone, the words I’ve written in my blog, along with the stories I’ve shared in the books I’ve published, will be available to future generations. 

Will my blog be accessed by anyone after my death? Will my books be read beyond my years on this earth? I will never know. Still, it’s reassuring to know that these possibilities exist, and that I exist, too.

“Golden Gate Park offers
enduring proof that human
beings can alter the planet
with reverence.” 
Kevin Starr

After several hours of writing yesterday morning, I needed a break. I’d been sitting too long. As I looked out the window of my hotel here in San Francisco, I could see that the fog had lifted and the sun was shining brightly, so I put on my walking shoes and headed out the door. I crossed the street to catch the N-Judah streetcar. I got off at the corner of Carl & Stanyan Streets, on the fringe of the infamous Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. I knew what I wanted to do. It was something I’d never done — walk the entire length of Golden Gate Park, from Stanyan Street to Ocean Beach.

Again this morning, I could write a detailed account of my adventures, but I’ll let these photos tell the story. Most people, when they think of San Francisco, probably don’t envision this 1,017-acre urban park. Out of the 45 photos I snapped yesterday, I selected these eleven to share here. I took several detours along the way, so despite the fact that Golden Gate Park is only three-miles long, I walked more than ten miles yesterday. It was a day well-spent.

I’m a 71-year-old native of San Francisco. Yesterday is the first time I’ve walked the entire length of Golden Gate Park.

Better late than never, I guess.

“The fog in San Francisco
is not just a weather pattern;
it’s a living, breathing entity.”

Rebecca Solnit

It was another one of those July San Francisco days. After thirteen hours of persistent fog, the sun finally emerged… at 7:00 p.m., and for less than five minutes. After that, the fog obscured the solar orb for the remainder of the evening. Still, San Francisco is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

My first PhotoBlog (July 15th) received such positive reviews, I thought sharing yesterday’s seven-mile walk through the Outer Sunset might best be expressed in images, rather than words. You might notice that the biggest difference between the two photoblogs has to do with the brightness of the photos and the color of the sky. Yesterday was downright dreary, a reminder of why I’ve chosen to live in San José.

It was dark. For a while, it was damp. But yesterday’s walk through the Outer Sunset was both invigorating and nostalgic. I’m grateful for the opportunity to revisit my home turf.

“One of the most
beloved and popular
treats was the
ice cream sandwich.”
Annie Reese

It caught me by surprise. Despite the fact that it was 56º, foggy, drizzly, and windy, an ice cream truck, with music blaring, rolled down 48th Avenue yesterday afternoon. An ice cream truck… in San Francisco! I had never heard of such a thing.

Ice cream trucks were popular in my childhood, but not in The City. They could be found in small towns up and down the peninsula between San Francisco and San José and in the East Bay towns like Pleasanton and Concord. These smaller communities, generally speaking, had warmer weather than the City by the Bay. These were places where kids wore shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops in the summer months. Some had a swimming pool in their backyard. Things were different in San Francisco, where summer attire for kids included jeans, sweatshirts, and Converse All Star shoes. City kids never went barefoot outdoors. It was simply too cold.

I have fond memories of encountering ice cream trucks along the peninsula in my younger years. I would often order a Push-Up, Eskimo Pie, or Missile. They were such treats back then. When we would hear the jingle of the songs playing on the loudspeaker of the ice cream truck, we’d quickly ask Mom for a quarter, then run out to the sidewalk and wait for the truck to get to us. The driver would then stop, serve all the kids (and a few adults), then move on.

While we did not have ice cream trucks rolling up and down 38th Avenue in my childhood, we did have the yellow bakery truck that would come by once each week. That was pretty special, too. We’d go outside when we heard the horn sound. The driver would stop, get out, and open the double-doors on the back of the truck. Inside were shelves and drawers with various types of bread, donuts, pastries, and other assorted baked goods. These types of products were popular even when the weather was on the cold side. 

When I heard the music of the ice cream truck approaching yesterday afternoon, I stopped and watched. The truck moved slowly down 48th Avenue between Judah and Irving Streets. On that entire block, no sales were made, which is not surprising since there were no children outside playing. The driver saw me standing on the sidewalk waiting to snap a photo as he passed by. He waved, but didn’t stop. I guess I don’t fit the demographic of an ice cream truck customer. If he had stopped, I was prepared to make a purchase, just because I felt bad for the guy.

I can only imagine that ice cream trucks in The City’s Outer Sunset district would be a tough sell, especially knowing that just a few blocks away, Polly Ann’s Ice Cream has been serving delicious handcrafted ice cream with predictable, stable business hours since 1955. And the soft-serve ice cream at Java Beach Café is pretty darn good, too! 

“Life is not always
perfect. Like a road,
it has many bends,
ups and downs,
but that’s its beauty.” 
Amit Ray

Interstate 280, between San José and San Francisco, is one of the most beautiful stretches of highway in the United States. The trees, rolling hills, open meadows, mountain views, and, at times, a blanket of fog cascading over the top of the hills from the Pacific Ocean, make it a pleasure to drive. Since I moved from The City to San José 53 years ago, I have driven this road more times than I could ever count. Even today, it is a scenic drive I enjoy.

While I did not take the photo of 280 above, I chose it for today’s blog because it is eerily similar to the conditions I experienced driving to San Francisco yesterday morning. The weather reports had warned of inclement weather in The City. Those reports proved to be amazingly accurate.

It was cold, damp, and windy all day, but that didn’t stop beachgoers from making a strong presence along Ocean Beach. I must admit that I am spoiled. Rarely does San Francisco offer what can be called “beach weather.” Yes, there are a few days each year when above-average temperatures draw people to the shore of the Pacific Ocean, but those days are rare indeed. 

After a few hours of reading through the manuscript of my friend’s first book, I took a walk along the Great Highway, which parallels Ocean Beach. The high temperature on this mid-July San Francisco day was 59º. At the time I walked, my weather app indicated that it was 58º, and the “feels like” temperature was 48º. Still, there were numerous groups of people enjoying the natural beauty of the beach.

Walking along the beach yesterday reminded me of Mark Twain’s famous quote about The City: “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

“It is only the things we
don’t understand that
have any meaning.” 
Carl Jung

The number 43. I’ve written about it before. I’ve shared my experience with repeatedly seeing it in various places throughout my day. This has been going on for several years, and it continues to this day.

It began a few years after my father died. His favorite number was 43. He graduated from Saint Ignatius High School in San Francisco in 1943. When SI had an annual raffle, at which they sold only 200 tickets at $100 each, Dad always bought ticket number 43. (He never won.) When he was sworn-in as Battalion Chief in the San Francisco Fire Department, Dad’s badge number was 43. The number was quite meaningful for him.

In the years following his death, I started to notice the number 43 showing up in random places at various times. For many years, and as recently as last night, when I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s uncanny how often my alarm clock reads 2:43, 3:43, or 4:43. When I get into my car, a 2005 Honda Accord which used to belong to my Dad, the digital clock often indicates that it’s 43 minutes past the hour. At a restaurant in Pacific Grove, Kathy and I received the bill at the end of our meal. The amount due was $43.43. At the gas station one afternoon, a neon sign in the window of the small convenience store announced that the current LOTTO jackpot was $43 million dollars. (Yes, I purchased a ticket, and no, I did not win.) And on numerous occasions, including when I had lunch in The City with my sister, Cathy, a few weeks ago, the table placard given to us when we ordered, which would help the server to locate us when our food was ready, was #43.

I was explaining this to my friend, Dan, as we walked along Laurel Street in downtown San Carlos a few years ago. I suddenly had a feeling… I pulled out my cell phone to look at the time. Dan was as surprised as I was — it was 12:43. How can the frequency of this be explained?

I found this AI response when I Googled “Why do I keep seeing the number 43?”:

“If someone frequently sees the number 43, especially in relation to time (e.g., 10:43, 11:43), it might be interpreted as a personal message or sign, potentially related to one’s life purpose or spiritual journey.”

And there’s this:

“In numerology, the number 43 can symbolize inner wisdom, a search for perfection, and a focus on building a solid foundation for the future.”

And finally, there’s this, written by author Miriam Rachel:

“The number that I have seen lately is 43. Yes, I see 43 everywhere, and I see it mainly on the clock. I tend to look at the clock when it’s 9:43, or 3:43, and so on. I have to say, this did worry me, because 43 is not considered lucky. I know that in Japan, the number does not show up in maternity wards because it can mean bad things regarding birth.”

I’ve resigned myself to not worrying about or trying to understand this phenomenon. It just is, and I’m okay with it. In fact, I savor the moment each time it happens. While I’m aware that each incident may be purely coincidental, I want to believe, and I do believe, that each sighting of the number 43 is Dad’s way of letting me know that he’s still with me, and that he approves of what I’m doing at the moment and with my life in general. While this may sound quirky to some, and I understand this, I am totally at peace with experiencing this anomaly in this way.

Just for the record, as I write this last line of today’s blog post, the time showing on the clock on my computer is… 7:12. Oh, well,…   

“There can be no
vulnerability without risk.
There can be no
community without
vulnerability.”
M. Scott Peck

I could have simply walked on and minded my own business. Most people, I think, would have chosen that option. I didn’t. I noticed something that concerned me — something that posed a risk to the safety of others, so I took action. I rang the doorbell of a house in my neighborhood, even though I had no idea who lived there. I was aware of the possibility that things might not go well, but I was confident that everything would be okay. Remember… I believe the world, and those who reside in it, are basically good.

The danger was posed by two branches of a rose bush which extended well into the pedestrian walkway along the side of the home, located just off Williams Road in San José. Protruding from a gorgeous bougainvillea plant on the south side of the property, the two rose branches had large thorns which had the potential to harm passersby. I almost kept going, but decided to stop and ring the doorbell. It was another one of those serendipitous moments.

The doorbell was a Ring video doorbell attached to the gate of a six-foot wooden fence enclosing the front yard. It took a while for anyone to come to the door, though I could hear a young voice summoning her parents. Finally, a gentleman opened the gate. I didn’t want to alarm him, so I introduced myself and immediately explained my concern. His response could not have been more congenial.

Adeeb and his family have lived in this home for the past few years. His young son and daughter came out to the patio to see who was standing at their gate. They were delightful kids. After explaining the situation about the branches with the thorns, Adeeb and his daughter, armed with two small gardening clippers, walked out to the sidewalk on Williams Road to immediately remove the potentially dangerous obstacles.

Adeeb’s daughter, who was excited to help her Dad with the task, cut the branches precisely where her father directed her to do so. It seemed to me that she was pretty darn proud of the job she did,… and rightly so.

I thanked Adeeb and his daughter for addressing my concern so promptly and with such positivity. I mentioned to him that I write, and that I would like to write today’s blog post about my experience with them, including the photo of him with his daughter cutting the branch. He assured me that he was okay with it.

I should have mentioned that when Adeeb opened the gate and I had my first glimpse into the patio, I couldn’t help but notice something hanging on the wall next to the front door. It was a piece of artwork which read “Blessed and Grateful.”

Yes, they are. And yes, I am — to have had the opportunity to meet them.