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)

  • On Being 17

    “We were seventeen, 
    but we were never their age.”  
    ~ Unknown

    I wasn’t planning to write a blog post today. I’ve been preoccupied of late working on another project. While taking a quick look at Facebook to check messages this afternoon, the image above caught my attention and reminded me of this quote.

    The source of the quote above is unknown to me, but I said something similar to all three of my boys at one time or another. Seventeen in 1971 was a totally different experience than being seventeen in the new millennium. In my youth, we didn’t have cell phones. We didn’t have computers. Heck, we didn’t even have cable television. If I remember correctly, we had only five television channels from which to choose at our home in San Francisco. And most importantly, perhaps, we did not have social media.

    Life was much more simple in the ‘70s. I don’t mean that it was necessarily easier, but it was definitely less complicated than what high school students experience today. Young people communicated either in person or over the land line in their family home. Occasionally, I suppose, some resorted to spending a dime to use a public telephone. In the ‘70s, no one was concerned about mass shootings in schools, malls, or theaters, nor were they concerned about child abduction. We had not yet received the Kevin Collins wake-up call I mentioned in a previous blog post. 

    When I gathered with my friends, we went out for pizza, to movies, or bowling, or hung out at Ghirardelli Square in The City, where we could feast on those fancy desserts in the ice cream parlor there. No one was distracted by cell phones or preoccupied with finding Pokémon characters hiding in the neighborhood. Our lives were real, not virtual. We paid attention to each other and savored the time we spent together. 

    By the time my sons were in high school, the playing field had changed dramatically. Not only was I unfamiliar with the rules of the game, I didn’t even know what game was being played! And I certainly did not understand the consequences my boys were experiencing of the existence which was their present reality.

    Now I’m a grandpa. My oldest grandson is eight years old. In just nine brief years, and yes, they will be brief, he will turn seventeen. I cannot begin to imagine what his world will be like in 2032. Driverless vehicles, artificial intelligence, and other emerging technologies will, once again, transform the playing field of life. It’s exciting, and downright terrifying.

    At least I’ll be able to show my grandson a photo similar to the one above and say, “This is what Grandma looked like when she was seventeen!”   

  • Overprotective?

    “It is not what you do 
    for your children, 
    but what you have 
    taught them to do 
    for themselves 
    that will make them 
    successful human beings.” 
    ~ Ann Landers

    Two years before the birth of my first son, the world changed — at least, here in the United States. On February 10, 1984, Kevin Collins, a fourth-grade student at Saint Agnes School in San Francisco, disappeared without a trace. At the conclusion of his after-school basketball practice in the school gym, Kevin walked to the corner of Masonic & Oak to catch a bus home. One of his brothers, just a year older, would normally have been with him, but he had stayed home sick that day. Kevin was alone.

    The disappearance of Kevin Collins was certainly not the first case of a child gone missing. It was, however, different than other similar situations. Kevin was just a normal kid. His wasn’t considered to be a high-profile case. He wasn’t well known, nor were his parents. There was no ransom note with a demand for cash for his safe return. Kevin was simply gone. What made this case different from others was that Kevin’s family launched a search, in those days before the internet and social media, which went well beyond the limits of San Francisco.

    When Kevin’s parents contacted San Francisco Police about his disappearance, the response they received was understandably lackadaisical. The responding officer suggested that, perhaps, Kevin had gone to a friend’s house. Kevin’s parents were certain that their son would not do that. With little help from local law enforcement, Kevin’s parents went public with their concern. They created posters, with Kevin’s photo, and put them up throughout the neighborhood. Soon, that image was being shown on local news channels. There was something about that photo, the haunting look on Kevin’s face, that captured the hearts of parents across The City. Kevin became every parent’s child.

    Then the photo appeared on the side of milk cartons across the country alerting consumers of Kevin’s disappearance. National news channels and popular magazines took an interest in the heartbreaking story. It seemed that everyone in the country knew of the disappearance of Kevin Collins.

    As a result of the barrage of publicity given to this case, parenting in America changed. Prior to Kevin’s disappearance, children Kevin’s age, and even younger, had far more freedom to explore their neighborhoods and cities. At the age of five in early 1960, I was able to walk unattended from my home on 38th Avenue in The City to South Sunset Playground, two blocks away. I remember this because I fell off the monkey bars one day when I was kindergarten-age and broke my wrist. I walked home alone to tell my Mom that I’d injured my arm. A few years later, I was allowed to take public transportation from my home to the corner of 5th & Market in the heart of downtown San Francisco on my own. From there, I’d walk around the corner to visit my Dad at the fire station on Jesse Street. I had no fear of doing these things without parental supervision.

    By the time my boys were born, allowing a child to do such things would have been considered neglectful parenting. For the past 30+ years, parents have driven their kids to school, to athletic practices, to the homes of their kids’ friends, to the movies, or wherever the children need or want to go. The thought of allowing these kids to walk, ride their bike, or take public transportation to their various activities engenders fear in parents. It’s the Kevin Collins effect. 

    Is there really that much risk in allowing kids today to move about independently? I would like to think not. I honestly believe that most people are good. I trust that most people in the world would be kind to my child, or any child, and do them no harm. Sadly, though, the risk is there. Bad people do exist. Bad things do happen to innocent children. And we don’t want our child’s image adorning the panel of a milk carton.

  • The Doggie Diner

    “The coldest winter I ever spent 
    was a summer in San Francisco.” 
    ~ Mark Twain

    Growing up in San Francisco, two weeks of each summer of my childhood would be spent as a camper at Silver Tree Day Camp, located in Glen Canyon, just a few hundred yards behind Glen Park Playground on Elk Street. My Dad had worked part-time for the San Francisco Recreation and Park Department in his younger years. Several of his colleagues, mostly educators during the school year, supervised the kids at the summer camp. The Silver Tree experience was always a positive one for me.

    In the summer of 1967, I was hired to work as a junior counselor at the camp. My brother, Tom, and sister, Cathy, had worked there in the same capacity the previous summer and would be on staff again that year. I vividly remember my job interview at McLaren Lodge in Golden Gate Park. I was sitting on one side of a large conference room table. On the other side were three adults. They asked me a variety of questions which I did my best to answer. I guess I did okay, because I got the job.

    Following the summer of ’67, I also worked full-time at Silver Tree in the summers of ’68, ’69, and ’70. In the summer of 1971, I had the opportunity to spend most of the summer working in Jamaica, but when I returned to The City in mid-August, I spent the final two weeks of the summer at Silver Tree, volunteering my services.

    Being a one-week program, there were specific activities scheduled for each day of the week. Most of those activities took place at the campsite in Glen Canyon. On Wednesday morning, however, instead of beginning the camp day at Silver Tree, campers were brought to the San Francisco Zoo for a morning excursion. Chartered city buses would pick the campers up at their local playgrounds and drop them off in front of the old main entrance to the zoo on Sloat Boulevard.

    Most of the high school age junior counselors, along with several adult counselors, would gather at the Doggie Diner on Wednesday mornings. The restaurant was located directly across the street from the old main entrance to the zoo on Sloat Boulevard. From there, through the large windows of the restaurant, we were able to see when the buses full of kids pulled up across the street. That was our cue to get to work.

    Wednesday mornings at the Doggie Diner were memorable. Those were the only days when I could get away with having French fries and a vanilla shake for breakfast. Someone would always drop a coin or two in the juke box to play some of the popular tunes of the day. Two songs, in particular, stand out in my mind: Patches, by Clarence Carter and In the Ghetto by Elvis Presley. I’m sure many other songs were played, but those two come to mind when I think of Wednesday mornings at the Doggie Diner. 

    I’ll admit that back then, when I spent so many foggy Wednesday mornings munching on fries, sipping vanilla shakes, listening to the music on the juke box, and hanging out with my summer camp coworkers, I was unaware of what an iconic place the Doggie Diner restaurant would become. Even today, while the business is long gone, a Doggie Diner head, like the one on the pole in the photo above, can be found in the center median on Sloat Boulevard at 45th Avenue. The Doggie Diner, even in its absence, continues to be a cherished institution in San Francisco history. 

  • San Carlos, California

    “The nice thing about living 
    in a small town is that 
    when you don’t know what you’re doing, 
    someone else does.”
    ~ Immanuel Kant

    My life could have been much different. The same could be said about anyone’s life. Why was I born into my family of origin and not some other family? Why was I born into a family living in San Francisco, California and not Sotome, Japan? Why was I born into an Irish-Catholic family and not a Moroccan-Muslim family? I don’t know. That’s just how the cards of life were dealt. I’m not complaining. I have enjoyed the life I’ve lived immensely, but like all lives, it has had its limitations.

    San Francisco, despite the fact that it is a relatively small town (49 square miles), has a big city feel to it. The City is a major tourist destination. It has large buildings, a financial district, a port, and major league sports teams. I spent the first eighteen years of my life living in The City. It’s a great place to be from.

    The majority of the rest of my life has been spent living in San José, California. When I first moved here in 1972, it was a big city (181 square miles), with a small town feel to it. The tallest building in San José at that time was the 14-story Bank of Italy building located downtown on Santa Clara Street. This paled in comparison to the 52-story Bank of America building on California Street in The City. San José was primarily an agricultural region. As for professional sports, well, they had the San José Bees, a California league affiliate of the Kansas City Royals.

    Of course, just a few years later, with the founding of Apple Computers in 1976, life in the South Bay changed drastically. It didn’t take long for the San José area to be better known as Silicon Valley, the global cradle of the tech industry.

    When I mention that my life had limitations, I’m referring to the fact that I’ve never had the opportunity to live in a small town. I did live in Santa Clara for seven years. Some think of Santa Clara as a small college town. In reality, there’s no “town” there. The city is a poorly planned community of homes and strip malls with no identifiable downtown area. It’s sad.

    I was reminded of this today. My good friend, Dan Pasini, and I met for breakfast in San Carlos, California, where Dan has lived for many years. San Carlos has a downtown. The quaint business district offers an assortment of restaurants and locally-owned shops confined to just a ten block area. Downtown San Carlos is conveniently located just across the street (El Camino Real) from the San Carlos train station. It’s a small town hidden within the larger, more congested San Francisco peninsula region.

    In the photo above, which shows the sign welcoming visitors to San Carlos, you can see an AT&T store through the arch of the sign. That is now the location of Drake’s, an excellent restaurant which offers a delicious breakfast. Dan and I enjoyed our meal and some good conversation, then wandered down San Carlos Avenue a bit to the new Reach & Teach store. This is a gold mine of books, games, and other educational products, many of which are targeted to young children.

    After leaving Reach & Teach, Dan and I walked down Laurel Street. Our first stop was at a whimsical little place called Therapy. It’s difficult for me to describe what one would find inside this establishment, as there is no particular theme. Let me just say that it’s an ideal place to look for a unique gift for an adult. We also stopped by The Reading Bug, a delightful children’s bookstore which sells my book Cherries in the Summer.

    San Carlos is not a small town in the same way as someplace like Greenville, Indiana (population 1,500), but it does offer a genuine small town feeling, despite being surrounded by the congestion and chaos of the greater San Francisco Bay Area. I’m grateful for the opportunity to experience a bit of small town charm.      

  • Game – Set – Match

    “Greatest thing in life: 
    Winning a tennis match.
    Second greatest thing in life: 
    Losing a tennis match.”
    ~ Jimmy Connors

    There was a time, many years ago, when tennis was my life. Well, sort of. In the fall of 1967, my St. Gabriel School classmate, Dan Graham, asked me if I would be interested in joining a recreational tennis team at Sunset Playground (29th & Lawton) in The City. I don’t recall having much experience playing tennis prior to this, but it sounded like fun. Once each week, I think it was on Wednesdays after school, Dan and I would spend a couple of hours on the Sunset tennis courts improving our game. There were about a dozen other kids our age, male and female, on the team. Our coach, whose name I do not recall, was a young, energetic woman who seemed to thoroughly enjoy coaching us.

    As the season progressed, each player had the opportunity to improve their rank on the team ladder. Not surprisingly, I started near the bottom, but little by little, I worked my way up. The ultimate goal was to qualify for the 1968 City Championship Tennis Tournament, which would be held in May on the courts of the Golden Gate Park Tennis Center. 

    By February, Dan and I were the top two players on the boys’ ladder. Only one of us would qualify for the championship tournament. On the girls’ ladder, one of the top players was Francesca Periotti. She, too, was hoping to earn the #1 spot by May.

    When it came time for our coach to announce the names of those who would participate at Golden Gate Park, it was no surprise when Dan was named as the #1 boys’ player. What I did not realize at that time is that there was a category other than Boys’ Singles and Girls’ Singles. It was called Mixed Doubles. Francesca and I were selected to represent Sunset Playground in this division. 

    It’s been almost 55 years since that tournament was held. I don’t recall much about how seedings were done, or how many rounds it took to qualify for the finals. In the end, however, Francesca and I found ourselves playing for the Mixed Doubles city championship.

    I would like to say that I dominated the game with my powerful serves and aggressive play at the net, but that simply would not be true. The truth is that Francesca dominated the game with HER powerful serves and aggressive play at the net. My contribution to our effort was not making any big mistakes. In the end, we won the match. For our effort, we each received a simple medal acknowledging our victory.

    I didn’t play much tennis in my high school years, but I picked it up again in college. I enjoyed getting together with friends at various courts in and around Santa Clara throughout my young adult years. I will always be grateful for the pure enjoyment I experienced playing tennis. I retired my racquet many years ago, but it still hangs on the wall of my garage as a reminder of what once was. 

  • Famous? Um…

    “I absolutely loved being famous.
    It was all great up until the point
    when it wasn’t.”
    ~ Noel Gallagher

    I am not famous, nor would I want to be. Certainly the possibility can appear attractive, but I’ll never forget Joe Montana sharing his frustration with his efforts to attend his son’s Little League baseball games. He wanted to be there for his son, as a dad, not as a professional football star, but his presence was a distraction to many others at the field who wanted to get a photo or autograph.

    With that said, my blog post today is a link to an exceptional writer, Joshua Becker, who seems to “get it.” This article, on things for which to be famous, is both challenging and inspiring.

    Here’s the link: 12 Things to Become Famous For

  • I Can Do This!

    “I wish I could play Little League now. 
    I’d be way better than before.”
    ~ Mitch Hedberg

    The word “visualization” is defined as “a technique involving focusing on positive mental images in order to achieve a particular goal.” The practice of visualization has been used in a variety of disciplines through the years. In my childhood, I didn’t know what it was called, but it was something I worked on quite often.

    I loved to go to the park or school yard to shoot hoops. If others happened to be there, I might find myself engaged in a pick-up game or two. If I was alone, I had no problem shooting around and imagining myself in game situations taking the final, game-winning shot. 

    When it came to baseball, I had to rely on a tennis ball. The backyard of our family home on 38th Avenue in San Francisco was just deep enough for me to stand at one end of the lawn and fire pitches at the wood planks in the back fence. My neighbors would never have tolerated me doing this with a baseball. As the years went on, the green paint around the strike zone became faded from the pounding it took.

    If I went to South Sunset Playground, just a couple of blocks from our home, I could throw pitches against the concrete wall which separated the basketball courts from the upper grass field. There were several strike zones painted onto the wall for this very purpose. Generations of kids played “Strikeouts” in this area. I was one of them. Like the option I had with basketball, if other kids were at the park, I might find myself competing in a game of Strikeouts with one of the other kids. If I was alone, no problem. I’d just imagine that there was a batter, and visualize myself in the bottom of the ninth inning with the bases loaded with a one-run lead.

    Baseball really wasn’t my sport. I played for a couple of years in elementary school, but I was not one of the better players. When I did get into the game, I was most often sent to right field, where it was hoped I would do as little damage as possible. At the plate, I was so afraid of getting hit by a pitch, I recall only one time when, with my eyes closed, I swung wildly at a pitch and actually connected with it. I got a triple. No one was more surprised than I was. 

    One night in the mid-‘60s, my team was playing at Park Merced field near San Francisco State University. The team we were playing seemed to be an equal match for us. As we entered into the final inning, we had a one-run lead. The first batter hit a shot right back at the pitcher, striking him in the neck. I don’t recall the injury as being serious, but he was removed from the game with a runner on first base. Normally, we had two other pitches on our roster, but neither was at the game that night. Coach Groswird put the third baseman in to pitch, and sent me to third base. Eight pitches later, the bases were loaded with no outs.

    Coach came back out on the field, called all the infield players together, and asked, “Who want’s to pitch?” Without hesitation, I volunteered. Coach handed me the ball and walked off the field without a word. I guess I realized that this would be my only opportunity to pitch in a real game. I know everyone expected that we would lose the game at that point, so I had nothing to lose.

    It was a strange feeling standing on the pitcher’s mound, which really wasn’t a mound at all. I remember being totally unaware of the three base-runners. I just focused on the glove of the catcher and threw the baseball as hard as I could. I wasn’t nervous at all, because I’d been in that game situation hundreds of times in my backyard and at the playground. I didn’t have any “stuff.” I was in fifth grade. All I could do was throw hard, which I did. Nine pitches later, all of which were strikes, the game was over. We’d won!

    All I will say is that my pitching career was short-lived. I did pitch one more time, but I faced only three batters and never got an out. But that night at Park Merced field was memorable. Only in my later years did I realize why I was able to finish the game the way I did. I had engaged in the practice of visualization on a regular basis. There was no doubt in my mind that I could do it.

    Visualization works!

  • What if…?

    Although I was educated in Jesuit institutions (St. Ignatius College Prep, Santa Clara University, and the University of San Francisco), when leading a group in prayer, either as a classroom teacher, pastoral minister, or presenter at workshops for adults, I liked to begin with the traditional introduction practiced by the Christian Brothers:

    “Let us remember… 
    that we are in the
    holy presence of God.”

    I’ve often wondered,… what if? What if all of us could be more consciously aware of God’s presence in our world? What if all of us could be more aware of God’s presence in our relationships and in our workplace? What if all of us could more consciously acknowledge God’s presence in people who are different than us, most notably those we either do not approve of or simply do not like?

    On Easter Sunday, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Whether we understand it or not, whether Easter is a spiritual celebration for us or a cultural one, millions of people around the globe acknowledge the risen Christ on this day. But do we acknowledge the risen Christ every other day of the year?

    St. Ignatius challenged us to see God in all things. This means recognizing God in all people, as well. All people! That’s not easy. It’s something with which many of us struggle. And yet, this is precisely what our faith calls us to do — to love the liberal and the conservative, to love the homeless and those addicted to drugs, to love people who embrace different philosophies than we do, to love those whose sexual orientation we might not understand. God is in all things. God is in all people.

    Happy Easter!

  • Crosses We Carry

    “It is not the finest wood 
    that feeds the fire of Divine love, 
    but the wood of the Cross.”
    ~ St. Ignatius of Loyola

    Growing up in an Irish Catholic family, I heard many of the same pearls of wisdom being shared in households of faith across the globe. One of my mother’s favorite sayings, which she would verbalize when we happened upon a homeless person, a severely disabled person, or someone going through a particularly difficult time, was, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” Even at a young age, I understood the meaning of the statement. It’s a lesson etched in my mind… and my heart.

    Another such lesson was echoed by my father, as well as my mother. The meaning is similar to the quote I just mentioned, but it is different enough to discuss. 

    I’ve come across a quote on Facebook fairly often which rings true for all of us. In seeking the source of the quote, I found it attributed to Plato, Socrates, and Robin Williams. I’m sure there are many others who would like to claim ownership of these words:

    “Be kind, for everyone you meet 
    is fighting a battle 
    you know nothing about.”

    These are not the words I heard from my parents, but the meaning is quite similar. The wisdom my parents imparted on me was based on the experience of Good Friday — Jesus carrying his cross to Calvary. I heard these words on many occasions and in response to a variety of situations: “Everyone has a cross to carry.”

    Life is not easy. It is a challenge for me, and, I’m sure, a challenge for readers of this article, as well. Everyone, without exception, deals with difficulty, pain, disappointment, and grief at various points in their life journey. This is the human experience. We might be tempted to focus on the difficulties in our own life and feel like we’ve been slighted. Some might even be tempted to ask, “Why me? Why this?” Often, there are no answers to these questions, and yet we struggle with the reality of the situations.

    When I heard my parents remind me that everyone has a cross to carry, and most, I believe, have more than just one, I am better able to recognize that I’m not alone in my pain. In difficult times, I am joined with the human community in striving to accept and come to terms with the challenges in my life. 

    Without a doubt, I have had crosses to carry. I still do. When I look around, however, and recognize the crosses being carried by others, I can only respond with gratitude. Yes, life is tough, but, by the grace of God, the crosses I have carried pale in comparison with those on the shoulders of so many others. It seems that Good Friday is an appropriate time to reflect on this reality in our lives. In our reflection, we can respond with compassion for those who bear burdens heavier than our own, and we can respond with gratitude for the opportunities for growth contained in our own cross-bearing experiences. 

    St. Teresa of Avila offered these words of wisdom:

    “When we are overcome by sadness, fear, 
    or suffering; when the pains of loss overwhelm us; 
    when evil seems to have taken power; 
    let us look to the cross and be filled with peace, 
    knowing that Christ has walked this road 
    and walks it now with us and with 
    all our brothers and sisters.” 

  • The Gift of Gratitude

    “Bearers of gratitude 
    make the world 
    a better place.” 
    ~ Pope Francis

    I try not to get too religious in my blog posts, but today is a special day — Holy Thursday. On this day each year, the Church enters into the most sacred three-day period of the liturgical calendar: the Triduum. It can be a bit confusing, because the Triduum touches on four calendar days. So why the three-day designation? The Triduum begins on Holy Thursday evening, with the commemoration of the Last Supper. It ends at sundown on Easter Sunday. So even though it touches on four calendar days, it’s actually a 72-hour event.

    It is on this day, Holy Thursday, that Christians recall the Last Supper, when Jesus and his twelve apostles gathered in the upper room for a meal. It was at this meal that Jesus broke bread, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take this, all of you, and eat. This is my body, which will be given up for you.” Jesus then took a cup, and before taking a sip of the wine contained in it, blessed it, and said, “This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.”

    In this biblical event, we see the origin of the Sacrament of the Eucharist. The Catholic Mass today is referred to as a Eucharistic celebration, beginning with the Liturgy of the Word (readings from Sacred Scripture) and coming to culmination in the Liturgy of the Eucharist (sharing of the Body and Blood of Jesus). The word “Eucharist” is derived from a Greek word meaning “thanksgiving.”

    Gratitude is one of the foundational aspects of our faith,… and most other faith traditions, as well. During the Liturgy of the Eucharist, the priest recites the Eucharistic Prayer. Think about it. The Mass is a celebration of thanksgiving. The Eucharistic Prayer is a prayer of gratitude. Yes, our faith is based on gratitude.

    Gratitude is one of those strange gifts that has real value only when we outwardly express the gratitude we feel in our heart. Author William Arthur Ward wrote, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a gift and not giving it.” In other words, gratitude may be understood as a verb — an action word. Feeling grateful is good, but it is in expressing our gratefulness that our gratitude becomes real.