Goodbye, Farewell, Amen
Last week I announced that this would be my thirtieth, and last, year at Sacred Heart. I thanked my students, administrators, and staff for a rewarding career. Over 300 people liked my post and about a hundred people commented on it. Here is a sampling of what some of my former students said.
Sammy Samuels and Caroline Pitt said that they enjoyed seeing me during parking lot duty in the afternoon when they are picking up their daughters. It has been rewarding for me to have taught the daughters of the girls who I first had in class when I arrived at Sacred Heart. Shilpa Borkar wrote, “I had no idea that you were a newbie when we were there. You hid it well.” Ann Conely wrote, “30 years isn’t possible! I was in your first class and I feel like I am only thirty years old.” Among those students who I taught in my first years, and who replied to my post, were Edwina Randall, Brittany Brewer, Lori Weiss, Cari Weller, Laurie Dobbins, Amanda Dearing, Shannon Jeffus, Kennetta Diehlman, Ashley Horrall, and Christie Turner.
As the years flew by, and I felt like I had a tighter grip on how to teach, my bonds with my students became even stronger. Katie O’Daniel wrote, “you were a fabulous teacher. I remember how those Jeopardy games helped us to prepare for the tests. You always made history interesting and thought provoking. Thank you for your many years of service in education.” Lauren Evans wrote, “I have always looked up to you, dear sir. You are an Ironman, an amazing teacher, and a friend, in my book.” Ashley Fain wrote, “Congrats! You were one of my favorite teachers and helped to create my love of history. Thank you!” And Jade Mulgrew wrote, “thank you for making me enjoy something that I didn’t before.” Among those students who I taught in my middle years, and who replied to my post, were Jenna Crowdus, Emily Popham, Maddie Calzi, Stacy Snowden, Sarah Heck, Kaleighn Whipkey, Susan Reising, Angela Russo, Leslie Fischer, and Cody Kristen.
The following students had me in class during my final two years, which I think were my best years because, in addition to having the content down pat, I had developed my own unique teaching style. JonMarie Johnson wrote, “Congrats! You have impacted the lives of so many and I am thrilled that you had a successful teaching career.” Natalie Fichter wrote, “Sacred Heart was blessed to have you, along with every student you taught!” Among those students who I taught in my final years, and who replied to my post, were Ashley Young, Caraline Baker, Emily Arnold, and Alex Ann Heim.
Note: Ted Elsesser and Alvin Guenther were long time teachers at Sacred Heart and the following is a speech that I wanted to give but, regretfully, could not read it to the student body.
Before I begin may I have the following ladies join me up here on the stage? Mary Jane Herp, Jean Cassidy, Mary Anne Kollros. Are they not here today? I think that they are here, through the work of the Holy Spirit. You see all three of these ladies taught at SHA for over 30 years. Are they not here today? I think that they are; that they, and the many other teachers who have passed through these walls, are still here through the works of the Holy Spirit. The teachers of past years have influenced many of the teachers who are at Sacred Heart today, and so they are an influence upon you.
A good teacher is a true believer; one who battles it out every day, without thought of applause, reward, or gratitude. A good example of such a teacher is Alvin Guenther. Alvin died two and a half years ago and so you upper classmen are among the last at Sacred Heart to remember when he was still teaching here.
What made Alvin Guenther a true believer was his dedication to the cause. For example, he was literally on his hospital deathbed as he was putting the final touches on the Senior Prom. Mr. Guenther was in charge of that dance for many years and he kept all of the important papers for the prom in a small suitcase, and if you visited him in the hospital, you would see that suitcase propped up on his bed as he was reviewing the final details for the prom.
Alvin showed up every day to teach even though he was sick and was suffering. When I complimented him by say that he was my hero because he continued to teach even though he was obviously unwell, he would not accept the compliment. Alvin didn’t teach because he was looking for praise or gratitude. He taught because he thought that he was making a difference, that he was bringing young people to God. There is no more noble cause than that. My inner light is like that of a candle, Alvin’s inner light was like the sun and it never dimmed, even at the end of life.
Now he belongs to the ages. What I say about him today can never match the influence that Alvin has had on the faculty, and for that he will never be forgotten. He is still with us today, through the Holy Spirit. It is that same spirit who has worked through Mary Jane Herp, Jean Cassidy, Mary Anne Kollros and will work through the teachers who are about to leave us - Jacob McGill, Paula Roberson, Dan Van Meter and Anne Cunningham. But more than anyone I think that the Holy Spirit will work through Ted Elsesser because Mr. Elsesser has been at Sacred Heart for 39 years. Imagine, 39 years, battling it out, day after day, without any thought of reward or even gratitude. Mr. Elsesser once told me that he has taught over 6,000 students and that makes him, like T.R.s man in the arena, a warrior: fighting not with sword and shield, but armed only with his faith in God and his fight is against malaise, inertia, and ingratitude. I couple Alvin Guenther and Ted Elsesser together because the Holy Spirit is strong with them, and because they started at Sacred Heart at about the same time. And, just like Mr. Guenther was humble when I told him that he was my hero, Mr. Elsesser is humble when I mention his many years of service. He has demonstrated a passion in his teaching; to inspire, to make a difference, a true believer.
And so as Ted Elsesser completes his 39 years of service here at Sacred Heart, let us acknowledge him today and the Holy Spirit who works through him. For the honor of being a good teacher, Mr Elsesser is completing his career at Sacred Heart. Let us say of him, in the language of another time, “Good soldier, faithful friend, great heart, hail and farewell!” Let’s give Mr. Elsesser a round of applause.
Thursday, August 27, 2020
Friday, August 14, 2020
Book 3 Chapter 10 The Day My Father Died
The Day My Father Died
My father died early one morning in the spring of 2006. Once I received the word of his passing, I called into work to tell my boss that I would be out for a few days. After driving over to my parents’ house, I sat with my mother and sister in the kitchen as we waited for the ambulance to take away the body. Every once in a while, I peered in the living room to look at my father who lay on the couch. The thought occurred to me that it isn’t like the movies where the deceased’s face looks peaceful, almost like the dead person had fallen asleep. No, it was nothing like that at all. My father’s crystal blue eyes were crossed because there was no conscious muscles there to keep them in place. They rolled around when ambulance driver picked him up to put him into the body bag.
The three of us waited in the doorway and watched as the technician certified that Dad was dead and then two men loaded the body onto the gurney and wheeled him out the front door. Mom cried quietly. She said, to no one in particular, “my father would not be proud of me right now. He would have told me to keep a stiff upper lip.”
Dad’s health had been declining for years so his death wasn’t unexpected. When I was a freshman in college, my father had his first major stroke. He recovered nicely and suffered no visible damage but his doctors told him that it was time to slow down. It was probable that he had several small strokes before and after the major one but they didn’t register with Dad or his doctors. Ten years later, Dad retired from the company that he helped to build up for three decades. He never talked about it but, after he died, I went through my father’s personal papers and I found a sheet with his unique handwriting on it. There were two labored paragraphs where Dad tried to write about being conflicted about retirement, but the words wouldn’t come. He wasn't used to expressing himself in emotional terms and shoved the paper in the back of a drawer for me to find twenty years later.
After his career ended and his health slowly deteriorating, my father began to lose interest in almost everything. Even the simple act of going out to eat became a chore for him. An example of this is when he went to his favorite restaurant and the waiter asked Dad if he wanted any change from the fifty-dollar bill that he used to pay the check. This question irritated my father, who didn’t like that the waiter assumed that he earned a fifteen-dollar tip, and he tersely asked to be given all of his change. The waiter became testy and, with an attitude that no owner would have agreed with, he asked my father not to sit in his section any more. In his younger days, my father would have given the waiter a tongue-lashing for his impudence, but now he meekly accepted the rebuke. He never went back to his favorite restaurant, and eventually stopped going out to eat altogether. In fact, he rarely left the house and asked my mother to go to a drive through restaurant to bring home sausage and biscuits.
When he first retired, my parents took many vacations to Europe together, but that was just to give my father something to do. He enjoyed planning the trips more than actually going on them. It became an undertaking that was too much for him because of the hardships of travelling, having to find a place to shelter the dogs, and the disruption of his routine. As time went by, and his health declined, Dad didn’t want to do anything at all, so my parents stopped taking trips. Since they no longer went on vacations or out to eat, Dad’s only distractions were reading the paper and watching television. When asked how things were going my father always answered "Peace and quiet."
Because he rarely left the house, my father stopped taking caring about the way that he looked. While he still had a career, he wouldn’t leave until his hair was in place, his suit was cleaned and pressed, and his shoes were shined. After a few years into retirement, he rarely wore anything but a t-shirt and shorts around the house and he stopped caring about how his hair looked. The highlight of his day, and what occupied his mind, was taking “a big poop.”
When he was about fifteen years into retirement, Dad’s gait was so unstable that he began using a walker. He had to lean over it to keep his balance and, when he looked up from that cramped position, the emotion that registered on his face was one of fear. In order to see where he was going while using the walker, my father had to crane his neck upward. It was an awkward posture and he was afraid of losing his balance and falling down. Once he was seated and comfortable, he looked like his old self; but the simple act of moving from room to room became a trial.
At the end of life, having switched from the walker to a wheelchair, Dad resigned himself to his fate. He had given up. After he lost his health, he also lost his social life and, since he could no longer enjoy his hobbies, my father spent most of his time sleeping on the couch; the same couch on which he would die. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t leave the house, he never left the den. A hospice nurse visited him to give him a sponge bath since he couldn’t manage to take a shower by himself. If he needed to relieve himself then he had a bottle to urinate in and a toilet chair set up in the middle of the family room, which was available for him to take "a big poop" in if he needed to.
After he died, it took a couple of hours for the ambulance to arrive to take away Dad’s body. I remember thinking that I regretted that I never had the chance to sit down and have a heart to heart discussion with my father before he died. I would have liked to ask him if he was ever happy and if he took any joy in raising a family or building a career. Later, as I looked through an old album, I saw a picture of my father sitting next to his first-born son, who must have been just five or six years old at the time. At that moment, he was happy, taking pride in his eldest boy and was clearly full of hope for the young family that he had created. The old pictures give me a clue as to what was truly in my father’s heart and I like what I see in the albums.
My father died early one morning in the spring of 2006. Once I received the word of his passing, I called into work to tell my boss that I would be out for a few days. After driving over to my parents’ house, I sat with my mother and sister in the kitchen as we waited for the ambulance to take away the body. Every once in a while, I peered in the living room to look at my father who lay on the couch. The thought occurred to me that it isn’t like the movies where the deceased’s face looks peaceful, almost like the dead person had fallen asleep. No, it was nothing like that at all. My father’s crystal blue eyes were crossed because there was no conscious muscles there to keep them in place. They rolled around when ambulance driver picked him up to put him into the body bag.
The three of us waited in the doorway and watched as the technician certified that Dad was dead and then two men loaded the body onto the gurney and wheeled him out the front door. Mom cried quietly. She said, to no one in particular, “my father would not be proud of me right now. He would have told me to keep a stiff upper lip.”
Dad’s health had been declining for years so his death wasn’t unexpected. When I was a freshman in college, my father had his first major stroke. He recovered nicely and suffered no visible damage but his doctors told him that it was time to slow down. It was probable that he had several small strokes before and after the major one but they didn’t register with Dad or his doctors. Ten years later, Dad retired from the company that he helped to build up for three decades. He never talked about it but, after he died, I went through my father’s personal papers and I found a sheet with his unique handwriting on it. There were two labored paragraphs where Dad tried to write about being conflicted about retirement, but the words wouldn’t come. He wasn't used to expressing himself in emotional terms and shoved the paper in the back of a drawer for me to find twenty years later.
After his career ended and his health slowly deteriorating, my father began to lose interest in almost everything. Even the simple act of going out to eat became a chore for him. An example of this is when he went to his favorite restaurant and the waiter asked Dad if he wanted any change from the fifty-dollar bill that he used to pay the check. This question irritated my father, who didn’t like that the waiter assumed that he earned a fifteen-dollar tip, and he tersely asked to be given all of his change. The waiter became testy and, with an attitude that no owner would have agreed with, he asked my father not to sit in his section any more. In his younger days, my father would have given the waiter a tongue-lashing for his impudence, but now he meekly accepted the rebuke. He never went back to his favorite restaurant, and eventually stopped going out to eat altogether. In fact, he rarely left the house and asked my mother to go to a drive through restaurant to bring home sausage and biscuits.
When he first retired, my parents took many vacations to Europe together, but that was just to give my father something to do. He enjoyed planning the trips more than actually going on them. It became an undertaking that was too much for him because of the hardships of travelling, having to find a place to shelter the dogs, and the disruption of his routine. As time went by, and his health declined, Dad didn’t want to do anything at all, so my parents stopped taking trips. Since they no longer went on vacations or out to eat, Dad’s only distractions were reading the paper and watching television. When asked how things were going my father always answered "Peace and quiet."
Because he rarely left the house, my father stopped taking caring about the way that he looked. While he still had a career, he wouldn’t leave until his hair was in place, his suit was cleaned and pressed, and his shoes were shined. After a few years into retirement, he rarely wore anything but a t-shirt and shorts around the house and he stopped caring about how his hair looked. The highlight of his day, and what occupied his mind, was taking “a big poop.”
When he was about fifteen years into retirement, Dad’s gait was so unstable that he began using a walker. He had to lean over it to keep his balance and, when he looked up from that cramped position, the emotion that registered on his face was one of fear. In order to see where he was going while using the walker, my father had to crane his neck upward. It was an awkward posture and he was afraid of losing his balance and falling down. Once he was seated and comfortable, he looked like his old self; but the simple act of moving from room to room became a trial.
At the end of life, having switched from the walker to a wheelchair, Dad resigned himself to his fate. He had given up. After he lost his health, he also lost his social life and, since he could no longer enjoy his hobbies, my father spent most of his time sleeping on the couch; the same couch on which he would die. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t leave the house, he never left the den. A hospice nurse visited him to give him a sponge bath since he couldn’t manage to take a shower by himself. If he needed to relieve himself then he had a bottle to urinate in and a toilet chair set up in the middle of the family room, which was available for him to take "a big poop" in if he needed to.
After he died, it took a couple of hours for the ambulance to arrive to take away Dad’s body. I remember thinking that I regretted that I never had the chance to sit down and have a heart to heart discussion with my father before he died. I would have liked to ask him if he was ever happy and if he took any joy in raising a family or building a career. Later, as I looked through an old album, I saw a picture of my father sitting next to his first-born son, who must have been just five or six years old at the time. At that moment, he was happy, taking pride in his eldest boy and was clearly full of hope for the young family that he had created. The old pictures give me a clue as to what was truly in my father’s heart and I like what I see in the albums.
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