February 14th

Tomorrow is a big day, filled with anticipation, love, and more than a little excitement. It is, of course, the first day major league pitchers and catchers report to spring training.

About once a year I set aside my usual topic of education and say something about our national pastime. Occasionally I’ll try to tie baseball to something related to teaching and learning, but just as often I just let my love of the game have the stage for its annual post. Baseball is, like life, or learning, a subject that invites waxing poetic.

So… Pitchers and Catchers.

I scraped ice from my windshield this morning, bundled up against the 28°, and headed to work in the dark. The trees around my house are bare, and even though a few intrepid daffodils are starting to poke up through the flowerbeds, spring seems miles away.

Somewhere in warmer climes professional baseball players are beginning to arrive to play ball. They are loosening up arms, jogging along outfield walls, and preparing for the long season they hope won’t end until October. Between now and then is the end of winter, the full of summer, and the beginning of fall, and with their arrival, forgetting what the frost tells me every morning, is spring.

SpahnWith spring my thoughts span memory, lighting on the time when I was twelve and my dad took me to see a college ballgame where Warren Spahn was coaching. I wanted so much to get his autograph, but the game was going long it was almost time for me to leave. I went up to the chain link dugout between innings and asked: “Mr. Spahn. Mr. Spahn. Could I have an autograph?” He frowned at me. “We’re in the middle of a ballgame,” he chided. “I know,” I apologized, “but I’m catching a game in half an hour and I have to go.” He nodded and signed the paper I handed him. I still have that autograph.

Pitchers and Catchers.

I think about going with my uncle to the Metrodome in Minnesota to see Frank “Sweet Music” Viola pitch for the Twins. It was the dome’s first year and the air conditioning wasn’t working. We sweated into the plastic seats and I got to see the imperial Carl Yastrzemski stride across the field ignoring everyone in the stands. Afterward we went to a little hole in the wall bar for coney dogs. There were black and white photos of athletes everywhere, memorabilia, patrons who looked like they might have been sitting in those worn out booths for decades. It was a place unlike any other I’d ever seen, and at thirteen I felt like I had been welcomed into adulthood.

YastrzemskiPitchers and Catchers.

My team did not win the World Series last year. They did not win the year before that, or the year before that. In fact while I have been with my wife for 26 years, she has never known me when my team won the series.

But with the arrival of pitchers and catchers hope returns to fans like me. We see under the southwestern sun …possibility. My team may not be playing come this October, but they might. They certainly will be in the background of my April and May, June and July, August and September.

They will be on the radio, my favorite window into the game, while I finish this school year and begin the next. They will fill the hours of summer and the first cool days of autumn. And if my team isn’t out of the running by the all star break, and maybe even if they are, they will provide a chance for hope every night, 162 times between now and the end of September.

When I am given the chance, loving the game as I do, I will strive to have the grace of Warren Spahn and avoid the superiority of Carl Yastrzemski, at least as they seemed on the days when their paths crossed mine. I will do my best to show those around me the generosity of my uncle, sharing a coney dog (whatever that might be a metaphor for), and show everyone around me the smiling optimism captured in the notion: “Maybe this year.”

Until the first pitch is thrown, which now feels like it will be soon, I will scrape my windshield and think about spring.


Words, Words, Words

IMG_5722“Are otters artists?”
“Our otters are artists.”
Tongue twisting bursts
of shared creativity.

My daughter came up with the otters
and as we refined the couplet
laughing in our kitchen
the world felt good.

Words have the magic
of connecting

No new idea there, but
a simple appreciation
for the times poets spun
“morning morning’s minion”
“sibilant penumbra”
or “man’s first disobedience and the fruit…”

And for those instances
in kitchens
and in poems
when we ourselves
turn something
of an artistic otter.


A Couple of Jedi

I’m proudest that at the end of the visit my son insisted that the sandspeeder stayed with Papa.

IMG_5521It started as a Christmas present from my folks to my nine year old son, a Lego set that made his eyes widen. Sitting at the dining room table assembling his Jakku Quadjumper, my son seemed as happy as the proverbial clam. Midway through the big project my dad sat down next to him, looking from the visual directions to my son’s nimble hands dancing over the plastic blocks.

For the past few months, remembering has been a bit tougher for my dad, familiar things sometimes unfamiliar, and while his memory of people is unflagging, some of the complexity of life that he has always enjoyed wrestling with seem to be taking an upper hand.

But as he watched my son build, the expression on his face was a mixture of delight and curiosity. Bit by bit this spaceship was taking form, my son so focused on his work. I went into the kitchen for a cup of tea and by the time I got back something wonderful was happening: they were building together.

They’ve always been pals, but watching them now I saw something different. My son, patient and positive, helped guide my dad’s hands to the right blocks, put them together, and snap them into place. My dad, concentrating, listened to my son and smiled as they completed each step.

IMG_5581They stayed at it for the better part of an hour, leaning in to talk about the emerging spaceship, my son offering “great job!” after they finished each page.

Teaching. Learning. Collaborating. Creating. The principal I am saw something to admire.

The expression of happiness on both their faces as they presented the completed Jakku Quadjumper to my mom, my wife, and me was marvelous. That Lego set provided a path to something magic.

It’s the sort of magic that a principal like me longs to see in classrooms at my school, teaching and learning led by love and followed by building, the process of working together to construct something to be proud of. At its best learning is creating, making something (from robots to meaning) in an environment that is supportive, focused, and can be transformative. When that happens, lives change.

The next morning, a trip to the store for toothpaste and dental floss brought me near a toy aisle. I couldn’t resist.

By the afternoon our two Jedi were at it again, not Padawan and Master, just two noble knights working together to build a sandspeeder, the pile of Legos around them building blocks of memories.

About ten minutes into the build my dad looked up and said: “He’s a good foreman!” Then he smiled and they went back to building.

IMG_5572When we were ready to leave town the next morning, my son told me that we should leave the sandspeeder for Papa. “He might want to play with it,” he said. The perspective of a nine year old. “You bet,” I answered. “He might.”

And it was in this last kindness, on top of the patient collaboration I’d seen earlier, that I felt an overwhelming sense of joy.

As we begin a new calendar year I wish for every student a teacher with passion and patience, and for every teacher students with curiosity and a pinch of awe. For all I wish kindness and connections, the chance to build, the chance to learn from each other, and the chance to be proud, together, of a job well done.


This Saturday my kids and I made a pie. I peeled the apples that my son washed and handed to me, in turn handing them to my daughter who cut them into slices and stirred in sugar and cinnamon. They worked together on the crust, one rolling out the bottom layer, the other the top, each careful to wrap the dough loosely around the rolling pin and spin it smilingly first beneath and then atop the mound of apples.

After we wiped the flour from the kitchen table, preheated the oven, and tucked the red checkered cookbook back on the shelf, the three of us brewed tea and lit a fire.

IMG_4651My wife was out of town and we’d agreed to fill the day with simple things: two early soccer games, my daughter’s in a frigid fog bank and my son’s so wet spray flew off the ball with every kick; a trip to the library, where a librarian scowled at me when I asked to pick up a book my wife had on hold, “You do not have her card,” she pointed out, “we should not do this,” and then, we did, like naughty children, so easily bending the rules; a visit to the library book sale, where for three dollars I left with a book of William Stafford’s poetry and two paperbacks by Stephen King that I remember buying during my freshman year of college; and an hour of housework (laundry, dishes, vacuuming) interrupted by conversation.

It is so easy to get so busy.

Obligations, responsibilities, legitimate, persistent, real, all vie for our attention.

But with my wife away, the immediacy of parenting pulled me away from work and the world beyond our family. I’m so thankful it did.

The book relinquished to me by today’s librarian (who should feel no guilt in sending it home with me) was about Hygge. It’s a Danish concept that defies easy translation, but might be captured in part by the feeling of enjoying a book from a window seat on a lazy afternoon, the feel of a warm blanket looking out over a snowy day, or a cup of cocoa as your mittens dry by the wood stove. I’m told that in Denmark it’s a way of life.

If that’s true, then Saturday at our house felt pretty Danish.

And while I know that the hustle and bustle of work and home is waiting on the other side of tonight’s sleep, and while (if I’m honest with myself) I’m looking forward to the unexpected adventures and breakneck pace of being a principal, it helps me with perspective, priorities, and patience to have a day like today with the sweetness of baked apples and cinnamon.

The weather turning cooler is a nice reminder to slow down, and my kids did a great job of unplugging and really connecting today. Not every day can be a weekend. Not every meal can end in pie. But savoring these Danish days can be such an important balance to the hurly burly, necessary ballast in our ship of life.

Wordsworth captured the feeling I ended the day with in his poem “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey.”

…here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years.”

I will carry that tea and fire and apple pie with me for weeks. Finding our renewal is worth a few neglected emails or projects postponed. I’m so thankful for my kids, the rain, and a librarian willing to bend the rules.


My daughter laughed aloud. My son’s eyes got wide …then he laughed too. Thin, mustachioed, and grinning through newsprint from across the years, the grainy photo of my sixteen year old self (handed to me with a smile by a friend I’ve known since 7th grade) invited me on an unexpected stroll down memory lane.

This surprise gift of an antique newspaper clipping followed close upon a terrific conversation I’d had with my yearbook teacher during which she’d asked me, in three words, to describe what I was like in high school. My three: So. Very. Boring.

FullSizeRender (2)Looking at that thirty year old scrap of newspaper I reconsidered.

It’s not, I realized, that I wasn’t boring; it’s just that in 1986 I didn’t understand that I was. Like so many of the students I work with, my perspective as a high school junior was limited. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I saw the world through the only eyes I had, with the inexperienced vision of an adolescent.

That clipping, when the ink had still been wet, meant the world to me. It was validation of hard work and a signpost that I was on the right path. It was a nod from The Statesman Journal that I was successful.

Three decades later the same piece of paper was a curiosity, good for a moment of fun, but inconsequential in who I am, or better put, who I have become.

That truth, as black and white as a newspaper article, is something educators like me struggle to help our students understand.

“Why would I want to take the PSAT?” a junior asks. “I know what I’m going to do and it doesn’t involve a four year university.”

“I don’t have time for a career inventory,” the senior tells his counselor. “I’ve already got it all planned out.”

I believe the students when they say these things. They are, for them, the truth.


That sixteen year old buffoon I was (with so very much hair) reminds me that as real as that truth is, time has a way of changing us and our perspective in ways that are as unexpected as they are profound.

Who we are in high school is who we are in high school. This is not who we will become.

Our inner core may be the same, go watch Michael Apted’s 7 Up film series if you have any doubts of that, but the way we see the world and our place in it does evolve.

At sixteen I regarded myself as twice as clever and ten times as able as I really was. I acted boldly when I was really scared and tried to look confident when I didn’t have a clue. I took my privilege for granted and my success as a direct result of my talent, not the amalgam of luck, hard work, and the support of others that it really was.

The adult I now am looked at that newspaper clipping and understood more of the truth. Even so, if I were a time traveler who could sit down with my high school self I don’t know that I could persuade him to believe that point of view. Maybe that’s best.

The importance of youthful exuberance should never be undervalued. Sinatra was wrong when he sang that youth was wasted on the young. Youth is the transformative experience that makes us who we are as adults. It empowers us to take on the impossible, believing that for us reality just might make an exception.

As an educator then, how to help my students balance passion and perspective? How do teachers, counselors, and administrators like me help kids see that we are not dismissing their teenage truth even as we encourage them to make choices that keep doors open (that PSAT and career inventory) and give them the options to do great and unexpected things with their emerging lives.

Maybe a part of the answer is introducing them to our sixteen year old selves.

As we are honest with our students about who we were and who we are now, we may have the possibility of helping them see that directions can change and all still may turn out okay.

Engaging with our kids about what it was like for us to navigate adolescence might help them see that the path is seldom straight and that the bends and curves might not only be the reality of growing older, but might also be the best parts of becoming an adult.

On top of that I’d wager that our students might smile at the things that stay the same; driving to work this morning I found myself singing along to Depeche Mode.

At the very least I’ll suggest that as educators we are wise to pause from time to time to put ourselves in our own students’ Chuck Taylor high tops. Memory Lane leads past the corner of Insight and the cul-de-sac of Empathy, if we look up and see them.

If nothing else, that junior with the Tom Selleck mustache is good for a laugh.


…I am not crying
on the inside. I am no brave faker
On the contrary, I am a simple laugh
-Donald Hall “The Clown”

I picked up a copy of Stephen King’s It at Powell’s on Valentine’s Day. 1500 miles from my wife, my nerves still jangling after a job interview in Oregon, I spotted the book while browsing in a book shop to try to relax.

As thick as an upended business card, its heft enthralled me. I’d owned a copy before, a paperback with a wonderfully lurid claw reaching up from a storm grate on the cover. Alone in the bookshop, I couldn’t help but plunk down $10, curious to revisit the novel on a rainy Portland night.

The last time I read Stephen King’s 1986 behemoth, a book I can’t think of without remembering a high school friend’s amazement that anyone could write a book so long, I lived in Oregon. I can’t recall the circumstances of that first reading; there was so much pop fiction in my young adulthood. I suppose it was at least in part read alone in a room to the sound of falling rain.

It coverThe differences of more than a quarter century struck me as I read the novel through the eyes of a dad, and husband, and high school principal. …and a fellow who has been away from his home state for a long, long time.

It’s not that I haven’t felt at home throughout my adult life, but seeing Mt. Hood as I drove from the airport to my interview I felt a wave of emotion not unlike Ulysses must have experienced when he stepped back onto Ithaca.

It saw me through the flight back to San Diego, and up and back to a second interview and then a third. As I turned the pages I found that while there was so much I didn’t remember, the story, or better put the stories; It is at its heart a collection of related tales about what it is like to be human, carried with it a feeling of familiarity.

Not unlike the Sunset Highway or the stacks at Powell’s, It felt like something I knew, and at the same time it felt a little surreal.

For any who haven’t cracked the book, It tells the story of a group of friends from the fictional town of Derry, Maine who confront the manifestation of evil, often in the guise of a demonic clown, as kids in the summer of 1958 and again in 1984. In the twenty some years between the two events all but one of the “Losers Club” as they dub themselves leave the state and create adult lives of their own.

Those adults return “home” different than when they left it. The decades between their moving away and coming back, roughly the same amount of time I’ve been away from Oregon, changed them, and they returned altered versions of the selves who had gone away.

This more than struck a chord.

The twenty something teacher I was when I moved to California has been replaced by the forty something principal I have become. Along the way I’ve had experiences good and bad that have matured me, humbled me, and inspired me. As I prepare to return to the Pacific Northwest I do so with a feeling of hope, expectation, and excitement.

Staying in California would have been, to use the old saying, “penny-wise and pound foolish.” My days at San Dieguito, surrounded by gifted educators and blessed to work with so many friends, have been a dream come true, but for life beyond being a principal, my life as a dad, and a husband, Oregon was the choice that was more than a pound wise. Foolish youth, replaced by something akin to maturity.

Stephen King captured the feeling those characters had looking homeward after so much time away, across the miles and years alike, and that understanding of leaving youth and becoming an adult.

It was no big deal; it didn’t go all at once, with a bang. And maybe … that’s the scary part. How you don’t stop being a kid all at once, with a big explosive bang, like on of that clown’s trick balloons … The kid in you just leaked out, like the air out of a tire. And one day you looked in the mirror and there was a grownup looking back at you.”

And now the grownup in my mirror, so different from the fellow who filled a U-Haul and drove from Forest Grove to Oakland, is packing boxes and cleaning the garage, preparing to drive back up I-5 in the company of cats and kids who were not yet born when we left Oregon so many years ago.

I’ve got no maniacal clown to fight or promise from youth to fulfill, but like those adults from King’s novel I’m preparing to go home to a place that has not stopped changing in my absence.

Both of us are different than we were, me and the state, and how we will find each other when we meet again in July carries a delightful, if a little unnerving, uncertainty that I’m ready to meet head on.

The spring sun makes it feel all that more real. The boxes piling in our garage, the seemingly endless decisions as to what we keep and what we give away, and the steady stream of work to be done, these realities of moving will end soon and I’ll find myself back in the Willamette Valley preparing for the next stage of life.

Has the kid in me “leaked out” slowly? Maybe some; I certainly see an adult in my mirror. But working with students does much to inspire a spirit of youth. It’s tough to be too adult when every week or so someone invites you to be silly.

So I hope that as I return to Oregon I do so with a little gray hair, a few more wrinkles, and a youthful heart. …and no clowns.

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The Last Month

photo (4)I am surrounded by boxes. Rows of cardboard holding my family’s life, or at least our pots and pans, toys and games, photo albums and framed art fill our garage, linger in corners, and wait half full, flaps agape, to close over the remaining odds and ends, legos, plates, knickknacks, and books.

Of books, if I’m honest, I’m down to fewer than a half dozen: a biography of Duke Ellington; a paperback mystery I’m saving for the plane ride up to Oregon in June to find a place to live, slim enough to fit in a pocket, just enough pages for two flights and a couple of nights in a hotel; a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, likely to be consumed and left at the library in Encinitas before the end of June; and Crow by Ted Hughes.

In just a few weeks my family and I will be unpacking those books and boxes in Beaverton, a reality still hard to wrap our heads around.

That every time we now do something (go to a Padres game or eat at our favorite burrito spot) is the last or nearly the last time we’ll do so is sobering. So too each of my final days at San Dieguito.

I’ve been to my last SDA games, a pair of lacrosse playoffs. My last coffee with the principal has come and gone, and how hard it was to say goodbye to those familiar and friendly faces, some of whom I’ve known for years. In a week I’ll go to my final play in the Clayton Liggett Theater, Picnic, a midcentury emotional potboiler. This Wednesday is my last Spring Concert. The Friday after that is the last assembly of the year.

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As emotional are the final visits to classrooms, those places where the truly important work happens at a school. Some of my favorite memories at SDA are from classrooms, where students and teachers work together to imagine, create, learn.

Along with these “lasts” come some unique to San Dieguito: our last Student Forum, our final Exhibition Day, and a graduation unlike any I’ve ever seen.

Leaving SDA means saying goodbye to so much, so many friends, so many special experiences, and…

…and after that last “last” event, when the mortarboards land and parents swarm the field to hug their kids, something else will start.

This July I begin life at ACMA, a creative place of new adventures, and there I’m eagerly looking forward to experiencing just as many…