Together at Christmas

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in December 2008. A slightly shorter version also appeared in the Valley Times on Christmas Day.

When I was a youngster, Christmas meant getting on a plane with my family and flying to southern California to visit relatives where my mom and dad grew up. Picture two young parents with two little boys and a girl boarding a PSA 727 on the tarmac at San Jose Airport. The boy with the cowlick and freckled face was me.

We always spent Christmas week with my maternal grandparents in the tiny two-bedroom home in Venice where my mom grew up. My grandparents bought the house when it was brand new in the 1940s. As a boy, I thought nothing of the fact that the home had only one bathroom that seven of us shared during our visit. It also never mattered that we kids slept on the living room floor in sleeping bags, or that it always took me a few nights to get used to the ticking of an heirloom clock that sat atop my grandma’s hutch.

What mattered was that we were all together as a family.

I’m sure for my mother, who wasn’t even 20 when we began this tradition, the visit meant coming home to the warm embrace of her childhood, to her mother’s cooking, to her dad’s funny jokes.

My mom’s father was brought up on a farm in Minnesota. He held several jobs over the years, even once painting the steeple of a church that housed a tribe of angry yellow jackets. Eventually, after moving to California, he was able to pursue his dream of opening an archery shop.

While Sierra Archery sold high-end hunting gear to a number of movie stars—including a young Michael Jackson—I knew the shop as a place of mystery, where the heads of bear and deer my grandfather had killed hung high on the walls. The shop was a world of textures and smells, of feathers and leather, of paint and wood shavings. My grandfather made many of the bows and arrows himself.

Of course, one Christmas we kids got our own archery sets. I don’t remember actually using the bow much as a boy, although one time my brother and I stood in the large field behind our home in Los Gatos and shot arrows straight up into the air. This we did beyond the eyesight of my mom, because the object of this bright stunt was to move as close to the arrow as possible as it rocketed back down to earth and plunged its tip into the ground.

Anyway, Christmas morning at my grandmother’s house was everything Christmas was supposed to be. Even though we three kids slept only a few feet from the tree, Santa managed to sneak in and place our gifts under its branches without so much as a sound.

One year, when we were old enough to realize that Santa would probably appreciate milk and cookies, we were pleased to see that he always took a few bites and drank a few sips to sustain his long journey around the world. I remember once being truly amazed as I stared at the nibbled cookies that Santa had stood in this very spot.

This Christmas I will be traveling again, but not by airplane. In fact, I won’t even be leaving the city limits. As we’ve done for the past six years, my wife and I will drive the three minutes it takes to get to my former wife’s house where our two daughters will have just awakened in their upstairs rooms.

Although our girls split their time between our two homes, they always wake up Christmas morning at mom’s house. We drive over when the call comes, and once the three parents are together near the tree, the girls come downstairs to discover what Santa has brought them and to see if the reindeer have nibbled the carrots and if Santa has eaten any cookies.

Yes, even at ages 16 and 13, the girls set out goodies for Santa because they know that some traditions really matter at Christmas, like being all together as one family.

English 1A Fall 2008

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English 1A Fall 2008 at Las Positas College

A great class full of wonderful students!

A call for child advocates

Tara Beckman clearly remembers the first time she met Jeremiah, a 13-year-old boy who at the time lived in a group home in San Francisco.

"I always find myself smiling when I tell people about this boy," said Beckman, 32, who volunteers for a program that provides one-on-one court advocacy to abused, neglected and abandoned children. "He has an infectious smile and such endearing eyes."

Beckman recalls her first conversation with Jeremiah, which took place a year ago. He wanted to visit his little brother, Jesse, whom he hadn't seen in several months, as well as his adoptive mother who could no longer care for him.

"I was able to arrange a court-approved monthly visitation with his family," she said.

After returning to pick up Jeremiah from his first visit with his brother, Beckman said she felt "a sense of sadness" behind her. She turned to see tears streaming down little Jesse's face. He was afraid his older brother would never come back.

"I explained that Jeremiah would be coming back," she said, as the older boy went to hug his little brother.

"Bro, don't worry," Jeremiah is reported to have said, "Tara will bring me back next month."

Called CASA, which stands for Court Appointed Special Advocates, the nonprofit organization currently serves 91 of the approximately 2,300 foster children in Alameda County. Children are referred to the program by the courts, social workers and attorneys.

"We currently have 81 children on our wait list," Beckman said. "We just need more people to volunteer."

A volunteer herself for five years, Beckman is currently an advocate for three teenagers, including Jeremiah.

She recalled another visit between Jeremiah and Jesse, when she drove the boys to go hiking. On the way to the park, Jeremiah was sitting in the front seat and his brother in the back.

"When I pulled over to get the boys a cinnamon roll," she said, "Jeremiah asked if he could sit in back with his brother."

Beckman will never forget looking in her rear view mirror to see the frosting on their faces and fingers. "At that moment, the frosting on my seats didn't matter," she said. "What mattered was giving these two boys the precious gift of being together to laugh and be excited and just be brothers."

Today Beckman continues to mentor and advocate for Jeremiah, who in the last four months has lived in five different group homes. She encourages anyone interested in making a difference in the life of a child to consider CASA. Volunteers are asked to make a one-year commitment and spend 15-20 hours per month on the child's case.

To learn more about CASA, visit www.casaofalamedacounty.org. Potential volunteers may contact Di Roberts at (510) 618-1950 or email her at diroberts@acgov.org.

Thanksgiving 2008

Cousins from the Pleasanton and Atlanta Ott families and the Bodines got together with aunts and uncles and grandma for a wonderful Thanksgiving in San Francisco. These photos were taken at Baker Beach. Soon after, we played touch football (hence the jerseys) on a field in the Presidio.

Interviewing Dean Karnazes

Today Kathy Cordova and I got to interview Dean Karnazes, world-famous ultra-marathon runner, on our TV show on TV30, Tri-Valley Community Television. Dean is such a nice guy, so down to earth and easy to talk to.

Thanks to Jerry Pentin for this photo.

William H. Ott

Farewell, Dad.

You were the best father ever.

You touched so many lives.

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You made us laugh.

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You gave us hope.

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You will be missed.

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God bless you as you find your way into Heaven.

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July 13, 1930 - November 2, 2008

When Magic Happens

Even as a boy growing up in Oakland, Leo Luna had a passion for the stage. In 1951 when he was nine, his mother took him to see nationally-known magician Harry Blackstone, Sr. at the Paramount Theater. Luna sat transfixed among the crowd, amazed at the power the performer had over the audience.

At Castlemont High School, Luna auditioned for the school play and was thrilled to get a part--even though the role had only one line. Still, he practiced repeatedly for the performance. Then, on opening night, with hundreds of eyes upon him, Luna accidentally changed the tone and delivery of his line as he became consumed in his role.

“For a second, I thought I did something wrong,” he said.

The audience’s response was astounding. The crowd broke into applause and laughter. After the show, his teacher congratulated him on his performance.

“In that instant I knew I belonged on the stage,” he said.

Throughout high school and after graduating, Luna prepared for a career in acting. He took dance lessons and landed roles in community plays.

“Then I got a draft notice,” he said.

After four years in the army, including three in Germany, Luna came home to Oakland with greater responsibilities. Now married, with a small daughter and another baby on the way, Luna saw his dreams of acting diminish. Yet the stage quietly called to him, and one day in 1972 he read a quotation that changed his life: “A magician is an actor pretending to be a magician.”

Although he later learned the phrase was a common misquotation of magician Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin, Luna will never forget the effect it had on him. The words ignited his interest in magic and he saw an outlet to perform after hours and evenings. He immediately dove into magic, working to perfect his craft.

Having performed in a variety of venues, Luna fondly recalls a moment in the mid-1970s when he was asked to appear at a school for hearing impaired youth. Although he was told an interpreter would be by his side as performed his usual show, he was concerned that the full effect of his magic might be lost on his audience.

Luna’s concerns eased as the youngsters responded enthusiastically to each illusion. Afterward, a teacher approached him and said that a student was asking to come forward and shake his hand. Luna agreed, and watched as a nine-year-old girl was wheeled up to him. As he took her hand, she pulled him close and, as all the students watched, gave him a hug. Suddenly all the childen came forward to greet and hug the wonderful magician.

"I’d never experienced anything like this,” said Luna, his lips quivering. “It really made me realize this was what I was supposed to be doing. It was like a stamp of approval.”

Luna, who moved his family to Pleasanton in 1976, retired a few years ago from his full-time job driving school busses. But he’s never retired from magic and has never lost the passion. These days he can be found performing at corporate events, birthday parties, daycare centers, and other gatherings.

“The audience makes it exciting and keeps it fresh,” Luna said. “As a magician I get to take them out of their everyday problems, even if it’s only for an hour. Magic really is magic.”

To experience Leo Luna’s magic, contact him at 925-846-3888 or by email at rabbitsgon@comcast.net.

EMTs breathe life into their work

This column was published on September 30, 2008 in the Tri-Valley Herald

Keith Humphrey stumbled out of bed and pulled on his boots at 2:40 in the morning on a recent Saturday. His partner did the same.

“Dom is naturally a big guy, tough as titanium,” said 20-year-old Humphrey, who spoke over a cup of coffee about his experiences as an Emergency Medical Technician, or EMT. “But Dom’s a gentle giant who will always go beyond what’s asked to make a patient feel a little better.”

Humphrey, who has short blond hair and blue eyes, has been an EMT in Alameda County for two years.

What awoke Humphrey at the emergency services station where he and his partner were asleep was the radio’s sudden bark about a woman having trouble breathing at a nursing home. As Dom fired up the ambulance and drove, Humphrey did paperwork, recording the who, what, and why of the call.

“Most people feel a sudden jolt of adrenaline when faced with an emergency,” Humphrey said, “but over time on this job I’ve lost that kick. To help me wake up, I drank a Monster energy drink.”

Soon the ambulance pulled up to the nursing home. After unloading a gurney and a bag of medical equipment, Humphrey and Dom entered the lobby.

“My mind quickly ran through how to handle this call,” Humphrey said. “Few things in life are as scary as being unable to breathe.”

According to Humphrey, patients who can’t breathe often panic, which quickly uses up available air in their lungs. This can lead to respiratory failure, which can then lead to heart failure.

“It’s a snowball effect that can happen as quickly as five minutes and usually once it begins, it’s hard to stop,” he said.

Encountering a questioning nurse, the EMTs stated the patient’s name and were nodded through, the nurse holding open the door.

“In the movies, emergency medical service workers sprint to the victim,” Humphrey said, “but in real life this doesn’t happen.” Running down a hallway with heavy equipment doesn’t bring the needed calm to the chaos of an emergency, he said. In fact, arriving at the room, Humphrey found a scene far from calm.

“As soon as we walked in, I knew this was going to be a rough one,” he said. They found an 85-year-old woman gasping for breath and almost unconscious. Severe dementia kept her from answering questions and knowing where she was. Humphrey placed an oxygen mask on her face and checked her vital signs.

“The woman’s low blood pressure and high heart rate screamed heart failure to me,” he said. “Her heart was trying to get oxygen-enriched blood to her body. She was minutes away from full cardiac arrest.”

Humphrey recalls looking into the eyes of this tiny woman who probably only weighed one hundred pounds. “I saw a lost and frightened soul,” he said.

Then, as she was loaded into the ambulance, Humphrey made a critical discovery as he listened to her lungs with his stethoscope. “I heard what sounded like a washing machine in her chest. This lady’s lungs were full of water,” he said. In other words, she was drowning internally.

After a full lights and siren race to the emergency room, the partners wheeled their patient through the automatic doors. “I looked around for someone to talk to, but everyone was busy at their computer screens,” Humphrey said.

In a few moments—which seemed much longer to Humphrey—a nurse said she would be with them in a few minutes.

“I boiled inside,” Humphrey said as he quickly told the nurse, “No, you don’t get it. She has fluid in her lungs and respiratory failure.” This got the nurse’s attention. As doctors converged on the patient, the two EMTs quietly slipped out.

Later the same evening, a routine call brought Humphrey and Dom to the same emergency room. The fragile woman was sleeping peacefully in the bed where they'd left her.

“The nurse noticed me looking at her,” said Humphrey, “and asked if I'd brought her in.” Not looking away from the sleeping woman, Humphrey nodded. The nurse told him the woman was lucky the nursing home called when it did. Another half hour and she wouldn’t have made it. “You get the save for that one,” she told Humphrey.

“I smiled because that was both true and false,” he said, staring into his now tepid coffee. “I didn’t push the drugs that flushed her lungs clear. I didn’t take the chest x-ray. I didn’t start the IV line. All I did was recognize her emergency and get her to the hospital as fast as we could.”

Humphrey said EMTs are just one link in a chain that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t when it comes to saving lives. As far back as he can remember he admired emergency service professionals. In one of his favorite photos as a little boy he wears a helmet and a firefighter jacket his grandmother made for him.

“Although most days are routine, I love getting up in the morning to go to work,” he said. “It’s an honor being there when people need us most.”

Unemployed, but hopeful

She’s a 41-year-old single mother with 7-year-old twin boys, and she’s been unemployed for nearly four months.

While she fondly remembers growing up in a safe and stable neighborhood in the Oakland Hills near Knowland Park, today she lives in the Tri-Valley.

“I chose to move here four years ago because I found a nice town home under $1,000 a month to rent,” she said, asking that her name not be published. “I like it here because it’s safe and the schools are better.”

Though she earns some money working a few hours a week for her uncle, a tax accountant, she’s hasn’t found a full-time job after nearly four months of looking, even with the help of a local employment agency. Her last job was with the Contra Costa County Department of Employment and Human Services.

“I’ve never gone this long without finding a job,” she said.

To make matters worse, she’s having trouble sorting out whether she can draw unemployment.

“The state agency that pays unemployment wants state disability to pay and they want unemployment to pay,” she said. “Meanwhile, I had to apply for an appeal and go on aid just so we can make rent.”

In addition to job hunting, she makes productive use of her time by taking classes to improve her education and work skills.

Sadly, some people in her community don’t seem to respect her right to live where she chooses.

“I’m embarrassed when people find out we’re struggling to make ends meet,” she said. “Living in an upper class town has it pros and cons.” The pros are obvious, such as good schools, safer neighborhoods, clean streets, and parks. But the downside is what she calls “quiet racism and being stereotyped, which I hate with a passion,” she said, referring to the fact that she is African-American. Both happen most often at her boys’ school.

“Some parents who know I’m on welfare stare at me with malice that loudly says ‘we do not want your kind here.’”

Surprisingly, she even finds some resistance where she worships on Sundays.

“While many people in my church are supportive and friendly, I receive the same judgmental stares from some because they know I’m divorced,” she said. “I just struggle with the few who are doing this to my children and me.”

She says if people would just engage her in a friendly conversation, they would discover she’s a good person.

“I still smile and wish them a good day because in some ways I can’t worry about their opinions,” she said. “I especially want church to be a safe place for my boys, where they are judged only by their character.”

Speaking of her boys, one of her greatest challenges is shopping with her twins. On a recent excursion for basic supplies, she had to contend with her sons’ relentless requests for an item that caught their attention: a T-shirt that comes with a toy.

“My boys begged me with their big puppy dog eyes for the shirt, but I just couldn’t afford it,” she said. “I hate having to break their little hearts, especially since they’ve been so good at conserving things such as food, toothpaste and soap. I hate moments like these.”

She says the most difficult part of being unemployed is when she’s around family and friends who have jobs and don’t realize how fortunate they are. “They complain about their pay and how they’re one paycheck from the street,” she said. “But their bills are paid and they have food and new clothing.”

Yet in spite of the adversity, this woman, who speaks confidently with hope and a ready smile, has words of encouragement for her young boys, and perhaps for herself: “I tell them I know it’s difficult being poor, but when mommy lands another job and pays a few bills current, I promise them we’ll have a special shopping day to make up for what we missed.”

Running from childhood terrors

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on September 25, 2008. The young woman I interviewed is a student in my English class. Her story touched my heart.

In July 1975, her new baby sister arrived, she said, “in the guise of a chubby cherub wrapped in a pink fuzzy blanket.”

Eyes peeking out, round as the July moon, the new baby stole all the attention from the two-year-old sister.

“I’d become invisible even to my favorite aunt,” said the 30-something woman who lives in the Tri-Valley and who asked that her name not be published. “And this aunt usually hugged and kissed me and twirled me around in her arms each time she came to visit.”

As time passed, she grew to love her little sister, playing together from dawn to dusk in a home full of sweet aromas, of herbs, garlic, onion, and tomato sauce. A blend of music and languages made up the background of their childhood—French, Spanish, Croatian, German, and sometimes even English, though English was never spoken in a complete sentence.

“It was fine with us,” she said, “because my little sister and I had our own language.”

But among today’s memories lurk dark recollections of sexual abuse.

“We’d take refuge under our bunk beds, hand in hand, our hearts pounding as our father walked past with his dirty black steel-toed boots looking for us,” she said. “Either one of us would do if he found us.”

Another memory is of palms-up punishment, red welts rising from sticks whipped across hands for slamming the back screen door or running in the house or other small infractions.
“If a tear was shed, we’d get double,” she said.

What haunts her most is the memory of the nightly ritual when her little sister would scramble up the side of the bunk bed to join her. Together they would wait for the sound of keys in the front door, then the opening and closing of the refrigerator door and the cracking of beer cans one after another.

“Five, six, seven,” she said, “as we held our breath.”

Next came staggering feet and wicked laughs echoing down the hallway outside of their room. On cue, they would plunge into the safety of blankets, plugging ears so hard it hurt, plugging and unplugging for hours, checking for the sound of soft whimpering of their mother from the bathroom.

Then snores from the living room would signal the terror that night was over.

“In the morning we’d run to check on our mother,” she said. “We often found her in the kitchen washing a single dish over and over, staring out the window as if in a trance.”

Daylight brought playtime in the park, being kids again, a mother in dark glasses, swings flying up and away from the night before.

“One night, when I was about 10, I decided I wasn’t going to allow this any longer,” she said. “My father was chasing my mother through the house with a gun.”

From a crack in her bedroom door, she watched, and then warned her sister to hide in the bed as she ran to the kitchen for a knife.

“I draped myself over my mother, who had fallen and was crying,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what to do next, but as he sneered at us, something snapped.”

Her anger came to a boil and wielding the knife a voice emerged she hadn’t known she possessed.

“If you’re going to kill her, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

She doesn’t remember what happened next, but she does faintly remember her father locked in the basement, and paper bags of possessions being quickly loaded into a station wagon. She remembers her mother driving them to her aunt’s house, where little girls didn’t have to plug ears, where the anticipated nighttime sounds now were crickets and frogs.

“Many people have looked at me in shock when I say I wish I’d never had a father,” she said. Yet today, assisted with therapy, she strives to replace the devastation of her childhood with positive thoughts. In fact, she occasionally speaks with her father, a man whom she has come to realize was no doubt abused himself as a boy. Growing up in a foreign country, he’d married and brought her mother to the United States to run away from his own childhood terrors, to purse a dream that became a nightmare for a mother, two innocent girls, and for a lonely man still struggling for a better life in America.
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Trainer is a saving grace for horses

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on September 16, 2008.

When Lucinda Romero was little, she lived with her mother and two sisters in Idaho with no electricity or running water 20 miles from the nearest town. They shopped for clothing only once a year, just before the start of school. For firewood and fences, they cut down trees on their property.
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But as tough as it was growing up poor, some of this rural childhood brought pleasure. “We always had horses,” said Romero, 31, who trains horses and lives in Livermore. “I’ve loved horses, probably since before I was born, and can’t remember a moment when I wouldn’t think about them, even to this day.”

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This love Romero inherited from her mother, who trained horses and dogs to make ends meet, and then began raising Tennessee Walking Horses after she remarried when Romero was eight.

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“My dad brought new bloodlines to the breeding program and a new style of training,” said Romero. “We had a blend of horses. My mom’s eye for the old style, strong, sure-footed, strait legs, and good overall conformation blended well with my dad’s eye for what’s flashy in today’s show ring.”
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Together, Romero’s parents produced several outstanding horses with natural talent, and trained them for show using legitimate methods that develop muscle strength to perform at a high level, just like a human athlete.
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Such methods contrast with illegal shortcut training techniques that many horse trainers used in the 1980s and are occasionally seen today. Called “soring,” trainers use chemicals such as mustard oil, diesel fuel, or kerosene to burn a horse's front legs around its hooves. This causes the horse to quickly lift its legs as it steps, creating an accentuated gait or prance.
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Because soring is illegal, trainers hide the burns and scarring by using dye or kicking dirt onto the horses’ legs before entering the show ring.
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Growing up, Romero witnessed soring and saw its damaging effects. Even a few years ago at a show she came upon “a beautiful Palomino stallion with his mane hanging nearly to the ground,” she said. The horse stood back in a stall as still as a rock. While most horses come forward to be petted, Romero said this one stood frozen, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.
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“You can’t understand the look until you see it,” she said. “It’s like an empty shell that looks like a horse from the outside, but when you look deeper, it’s a lost soul.”
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Romero hadn’t intended on becoming a horse trainer. Even with her love of horses, she watched her parents work many long hours on their ranch. So when she turned 21, she bought a one-way plane ticket to California and started a new life. “I wanted to wear a suit to work, live in the big city, have a fancy car, and wear nice shoes,” she said. “Remember, I only got one pair of shoes each year. Imagine cleaning horse corrals and then wearing the same shoes to school the next day.”
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But she missed the horses terribly, and after a couple of years she bought a black colt from her parents. Then, a few years later, she learned about a 2-year old Tennessee Walker for sale in Kentucky.
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“I bought the horse for just $1,500,” she said, explaining that the mare—who comes from a bloodline in which one stallion sold for one million dollars—had gone lame from soring. The people who owned the horse, whom Romero named Gracie, simply want to get rid of her.
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“When I purchased Gracie and saw how much damage had been done to her, that’s when my crusade began,” she said.
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Romero rehabilitated Gracie over the next year and began showing her. “We did well at our first show and were crowned Champion Mare at Halter and Grand Champion Halter horse,” she said.
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Then one day Romero was at the stable and gave a little girl a few tips about riding. Soon, she found herself spending more time training riders and horses, and in 2005 she opened Symmetry Stables, located in north Livermore at the Cayetano Ridge Equestrian Center on Dagnino Road.
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“That was three years ago,” said Romero, whose blue eyes brighten as she reflects on her life. Her training program “takes a lot of time to build muscle and strength, physically and mentally,” she said, “but the horses are happy in their jobs and competitive in the show ring.”
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Romero and her clients enter their horses in shows in northern California. They still encounter sored horses, but are seeing fewer. Still, Romero hopes that one day no horse will be mistreated.

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“I guess you could say I’ve gone back to my roots,” she said. “Even though I swore I wouldn’t train horses for a living, I still ended up here. My parents were believers in leading by example, and now I’m doing exactly that. I’m content to live this life and make the world a better place.”
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To see pictures of Gracie and Romero, visit www.symmetrystables.com. Romero invites visitors to come and meet Gracie at the stables, who will come forward to be greeted.

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Writing so bad it's good

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on August 26, 2008.

Picture a younger me walking down the hall of the English department at San Jose State University back in the late 1970s. Imagine me stopping to look at the office door of one of my English professors, Dr. Scott Rice, who had taped up a cartoon of Snoopy on top of his doghouse typing: “It was a dark and stormy night.”

Little did I know as I read the cartoon that Dr. Rice would soon hatch the idea for the now world-famous Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which invites entrants to compose bad opening sentences to imaginary novels. The contest takes its name from the Victorian novelist Edward George Bulwer-Lytton (1803-70), who penned the famous “dark and stormy” line.

Because Rice was one of my favorite professors in college, I’m always pleased by how many people have heard of the contest. I entered once, but I'm not expert enough to write an award-winning bad sentence. Chances of winning are slim anyway, since entries can be as high as 10,000 for the annual contest.

This year’s winner, recently announced by Rice, did write a pretty darned good bad sentence. Written by Garrison Spik, a 41-year-old communications director and writer from Washington, D.C., the winning sentence reads:
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“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped ‘Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.’”

Wow that’s bad. I mean good.

So why would Rice encourage us to consciously write really awful sentences? Besides being fun, writing poorly in a masterful way requires knowledge of good writing. So the contest teaches us how to write well even as we try to write poorly.

I’ve been thinking about Rice lately and realized I haven’t spoken to him in decades. So I found his email address and sent him a message that began: “No doubt you’ll need to brush off the dusty memories of the late 1970s to recall me, but I was a graduate student of yours way back when.”

A few days later, I got a reply: “I remember you well. You were the guy whose dad made him write essays and then corrected them.”

And so began a conversation in which I learned that these days Rice teaches just two classes a semester and enjoys playing golf. The contest, of course, is a significant part of his life. “I don't run the contest,” he said, “it runs me. I will keep doing it as long as enough people are interested.”

Rice said he gets sentences submitted every day. “The contest takes more work than many will be willing to do,” he said. “I am working on it almost on a daily basis.”

Rice also said that in the 26 years since he came up with the idea, he hasn’t tried to improve the contest, which is judged by former winners who often disagree over which sentences should be winners. “I am a charter member of the if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it club,” he said. “I ignore all suggestions for how I might make the contest bigger or flashier.”

When Rice was my professor, he’d been teaching at San Jose State for just over 10 years. He grew up in the Pacific Northwest and went to school in Spokane, spending his summers on his great-grandparents’ dairy farm in Clarkston, Washington. After high school, he spent a year working at a lumber mill in Idaho.

Rice became interested in teaching English during his freshman year of college at Lewis-Clark Normal School in Idaho. “I had a Humanities course from a charismatic teacher named Wayne Sims,” he said. “Listening to his enthralling lectures and working my way through the old Warnock and Anderson ‘The World in Literature,’ I realized that I wanted to become an English professor.”

Rice also credits a second teacher, John Sisk, with inspiring him at Gonzaga University in Spokane. “Sitting in awe listening to his lectures, it seemed to me he had read everything,” he said. “After I had spent some time in graduate school, I realized that he had.”

Rice earned his doctorate from the University of Arizona, and fortunately for me, he found his way to San Jose State right out of graduate school in 1968. In the same way that Rice enjoyed the talks of his professors, I was captivated by his lectures. I took several courses from him. I’ll never forget his Rhetoric class. I still have the textbook handy in my office. I learned about persuasive arguments, diction, style, and sentence composition. Much of what I learned in that class taught me how to write.

My other memories of Rice include his sense of humor, his beard, and his style of teaching, a style I borrow and honor even to this day in my own English classes at Las Positas College.

For more about the Bulwer-Lytton writing contest, visit www.bulwer-lytton.com.

Retired scientist recalls life as boy in Brooklyn

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on August 5, 2008 and in the Valley Times a few days later.

Albert Rothman still has a faint indentation on his right index knuckle from when a picket fence tore open his thumb during a skirmish when he was four years old. He’d called a neighbor boy fat and took a beating for it.

“I’d developed a taste for danger,” said Rothman, 84, of Livermore.

Born in 1924 during the Coolidge administration, Rothman grew up in Brooklyn, New York. His parents moved many times, so the young Albert often felt isolated as he moved from one public school to the next.

At one point, though, his parents settled down long enough to own a store. “The place had rats,” said Rothman, who remembers watching a large rat behind the counter in a corner while a customer was in the store. “My folks calmly helped the customer, then as soon as the door closed, they chased away the rat.”

When it came time to sell the store, relatives pretended to be customers when prospective buyers visited. “They wanted it to look like business was booming,” he said.

Rothman, who retired in 1986 from Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, earned his doctorate in chemistry and chemical engineering from the U.C. Berkeley in 1954. He has lived in the Bay Area since 1948.

But it’s his childhood that prompted him to write his memoir: “A Brooklyn Odyssey—Travails and Joys of a Boy’s Early Life.” The book portrays a young Jewish boy during the Great Depression on his journey toward adulthood.

One passage describes two gifts Rothman received from his Aunt Sina, gifts that became the catalyst for his career in science. “She gave me a microscope and a chemistry set,” he said. “I spent hours inspecting tiny things, especially wiggly protozoans from nearby ponds.”

Rothman’s aunts and uncles had wonderful personalities that populate his memoir. His British-born uncle Moe, for example, was a successful businessman and the only Republican in the family. “We all adored Roosevelt,” Rothman said, “but not Uncle Moe. He wasn’t shy about his hatred for our president.”

Moe had a great sense of humor: “He was completely bald, and I remember him calling out to my Aunt Sina to come quick and get him a toothpick,” Rothman said. “She asked ‘what’s the matter, what’s the matter?’ and he said ‘I need to comb my hair.’”

Another uncle, Sam, had entered the United States illegally from Russia as a stowaway. “He never applied for citizenship,” Rothman said, “although he did pay into Social Security.”

When Sam reached 65, he got a Social Security check for $600. He returned it because he didn’t believe a non-citizen deserved the money. “They sent that check back to him twice,” Rothman said, “and twice he returned it.” After the third time, Sam gave up and distributed the money to his children. “Sam had admirable integrity,” he said.

Other episodes in the memoir include tasting Coca Cola for the first time at the 1939 New York World’s Fair, attending a workshop with baseball legend Lou Gehrig, and being invited to a Benny Goodman concert where Rothman encountered a young Peggy Lee.

Today, Rothman still embraces life with a youthful sense of wonder. He loves nature and frequently hikes alone. A safety patrol volunteer with the East Bay Regional Park District, Rothman has hiked in Northern California, Washington State, Utah, Canada, and other locations. In fact, in1987 he made a solo ten-week journey in his truck-camper and hiked every day in every national park from Nebraska to the west coast.

A survivor of both non-Hodgkin lymphoma and a heart attack, Rothman stays fit through his hiking and a healthy diet. He enjoys classical music and, by his own admission, tries to read too many books.

His memoir is the latest work in a long line of writings. He has published and won prizes for his poetry, short stories, and essays in a number of venues, including the Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Contest, The Poets' Edge Magazine, Northwoods Journal, Dan River Anthology, Bristol Banner Books Awards, and the Las Positas College Anthology.

Rothman is contemplating writing a travel memoir about his hiking trips. But in the meantime, Wingspan Press has published “A Brooklyn Odyssey.” Readers are encouraged to pick up a copy by visiting www.wingspanpress.com.

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Big sister sees big picture

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on July 22, 2008.

Sabrina Chaco of Livermore was 8 years old when one day after school her parents had something to tell her that would change her life forever.

“My mom actually put me on her lap,” wrote Chaco, now 12, in a recent school essay, “and told me that she and my dad loved me so much and that they were sad they couldn’t give me a baby brother for Christmas like I had asked a few years ago.”

Her mother went on to say they were thinking about adopting two sisters, ages 2 and 4, from a foster home. The little girls were wards of the state.

They also happened to be Chaco’s cousins, her father’s sister’s children.

“Wondrous thoughts bounced around in my head,” Chaco wrote. “Would they like me? Would they share the same room as me? Are they friendly? What if they think I’m mean? Could they be mean?”
Chaco’s parents wanted her to be part of the decision about whether to adopt. “I had to think it through,” she wrote, adding that saying no would mean wondering her whole life about what could have been, while saying yes could cause regret. After all, though she had an older half-sister named Tasheena, Chaco was living like an only child since Tasheena had her own place and Chaco usually got whatever she wanted.

“But just looking at how happy my parents were, and seeing those wide smiles on their faces and how much this meant to them was what convinced me the most,” she wrote.

Chaco gave her mom a big hug and kiss and said in a cheerful voice, “Of course! It’s totally fine with me.”

Soon the family was driving down every three weeks to Southern California to visit the sisters in their foster home. This went on for six months and included visits with the girls’ social workers, court-appointed attorneys, and counselors.

After a hearing in which the rights of the girls’ biological parents were abolished, a judge allowed the girls to move in with their new family in November 2004. Within a month the little girls started referring to Chaco’s parents as mommy and daddy.

Still, this was only the beginning of the adoption process.

“We were answerable to the state,” said Rose Chaco, Sabrina’s mother. Over the course of the two-year adoption process, the Chacos were visited twice by court-appointed attorneys and every month by various social workers.

“Not only were we subject to questioning,” said Rose, “but our home had to meet state standards and was subject to inspection.” State workers checked sleeping accommodations, fire extinguishers, child safety latches, even the temperature of the water heater.

“We were exhausted, but we never gave up,” Rose said. “My husband and I felt like we were living under a microscope, but we understood the need for such procedures.”

Sabrina Chaco recalls enjoying the process of picking new names for the girls: “My mother and father wanted all of our names to start with an S and end with an A since my name was Sabrina. We ended up giving them really long names.”

Chaco’s youngest new sister, Aaliyah, became Samantha Aaliyah Flisco Chaco. Her other new sister, Kylani, became Sophia Kylani Flisco Chaco.

In November 2006, thanks primarily to a mother’s willingness to open her heart to two little girls whose troubled early years will likely complicate the years to come, the adoption became final. For many people, such a choice would mean too many sacrifices.

But not for Sabrina’s mom.

Born in Florida, Rose Chaco moved at an early age to Guam where she grew up and lived for 21 years. “My father was in the Navy,” she said. “When my parents divorced, my brother and I lived with my mother, while my father continued his Navy career.”

After graduating from college with a degree in psychology, Rose’s love of children led her to become a caseworker for a privately funded shelter for troubled youth. “Most of my cases involved children who were physically and sexually abused,” she said. “It was an emotionally demanding job.”

While Guam is a beautiful place, Rose said tough economic times prompted her to return to the United States with her husband and daughter in June 2000. Among her various possessions, she brought along from Guam her compassion for children in need.

“I love all my children,” she said. “In my eyes, I have always had four daughters, and while we may not be the typical family, we are still a family.”

And as for Sabrina Chaco, she has no regrets: “I often look back and wonder what my life would’ve been like if I said that it wasn’t okay with me,” she wrote. “But every time I think about it, I am more convinced I made the right choice. I can’t imagine my life without my sisters.”
















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To fish or not to fish

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in July 2008.

As I type these words on a laptop, I’m sitting on a sofa in a cabin in the small resort town of Twain Harte, California. It’s early morning and my two daughters are still asleep. My wife is next to me reading. Coffee is brewing in the kitchen.

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As you read this, Fourth of July has come and gone and I've returned home, but as I write this, I’m still here in the mountains hoping to capture for you the scent of pine, the clear sky, the sounds of pingpong and swimming and a rushing stream.
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We’ve been coming up to Twain Harte for many years. Located north of Sonora, the town is named after Mark Twain and Bret Harte, who spent time in these parts. This is Gold Rush country, and the small mining town of Columbia, now preserved as a state historic park, is just a stone’s throw from here.

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Each summer we rent a cabin and we’re always pleased to see people up here from back home. Across the street is a cabin owned by Art and Christine Hein, who were here for a few days and took in the Fourth of July parade.

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And just a few strides down the road are cabins owned by the Hart family. These are the grown children of Thomas Hart, for whom the middle school in Pleasanton is named. In fact, another family of educators, the Sweeneys, are here for a reunion with the Harts. Neil Sweeney, the first principal of Foothill High School who still lives in Pleasanton with his wife Bev, introduced Thomas Hart to this resort town back in 1971. In all, more than 50 Harts and Sweeneys of all ages gathered for an old-fashioned barbeque on Independence Day.

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Summers in Twain Harte often provide my family with some type of life lesson. Two years ago we were all reminded how precious life is when I was violently swept downriver from my family on a rafting trip. This year’s lesson occurred at a trout farm.

I heard about the trout farm from Don Cooper of Livermore, who spent many childhood summers in this area. I knew instantly we’d visit because my 12-year-old daughter, Kelsey, loves to fish, though she’d only ever caught two fish in her life.

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Before I go on you need to know that Kelsey loves all creatures, and hates to see animals in pain. Like many kids her age, she’s been shaped by the threat of global warming and the impending extinction of species, so she doesn’t even like it when I snatch snails from flowers in our yard.

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How she justifies the thrill of catching a fish is with the knowledge that she can release the slippery little being back into its habitat.

So as we arrived at the shady farm of streams and a pond brimming with trout, we were confronted with a sign that read, “No catch and release.” And so began the dilemma.

We understood that the farm’s proprietor needs to earn a living. He charges no entry fee, but instead charges for each fish caught, which he cleans and packs in ice. To catch and release is akin to, say, buying a book, quickly reading it, then returning it with no profit to the bookstore.

So Kelsey had to make a decision: to fish or not to fish.

Melissa, my 16-year-old who brought along a book instead of fishing gear, offered her sister the reassuring perspective that as humans, we’re part of the food chain. “When we eat chicken, someone has to kill the chicken,” she said.

Still, the thought of personally killing a fish gave Kelsey pause. We didn’t need the fish to survive. And yet the thrill of the hunt called out to her prehistoric inner cave warrior. Here she was, fishing rod in hand, trout visible just yards away.

On her second cast, she hooked a mighty rainbow trout that fought the line like a scene from “The Old Man and the Sea.” Then, not unlike Santiago after he caught the marlin in the Hemingway tale, Kelsey regretted her action as we slipped the gasping fish into a bucket.

And yet the challenge of line against muscle lured her to cast yet again into the teaming multitude of fish. And soon adrenaline ricocheted through her veins as another trout complied with the ancient ritual we call fishing.

This time, though, she stopped. Two fish—one now dead and one nearly so—were enough.

As the souls of the two trout edged silently toward heaven, I knew I’d never forget the look in Kelsey’s eyes as she grew a little older that day, as we ended another chapter of memories in the quiet pines of these mountains.
















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Babies at work? You bet!

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on July 1, 2008

Last year when Wendy and Tommy Zanotelli became the proud parents of a baby boy they named Christian, they knew that soon their son would tag along with mom to work.

“My employer encourages moms and dads to bring their babies to work,” said Wendy Zanotelli. “We’re very fortunate.”

Ironically, Zanotelli, chief operating officer of UNCLE Credit Union, had her doubts about the program when it was first proposed in 2002 by an accounting manager who was expecting.

"At that time, I just couldn't fathom how having babies in the office could possibly work,” said Zanotelli, “especially with our staff on the teller line.”

Nonetheless, a few months later in 2003, the program was launched. “Now I’m one of the biggest supporters,” Zanotelli said.

Titled “Babies in the Workplace,” the program allows employees to bring their infants to work with the written release of a doctor. This benefits both the employer and the employees, and allows the babies to be with their parent instead of a daycare provider.

“As employees, we’re more likely to come back to work sooner,” said Angela Hewey, who has had two babies in the program and is expecting her third. “This benefits our company because we don’t have to hire and train temporary help,” she said.

Zanotelli said employee productivity hasn’t been a problem because while an employee with a baby may not be quite as productive as usual, a new parent who worries about a child in daycare isn't necessarily productive anyway if he or she is constantly calling to check on the baby.

“In my experience, the parents are even more diligent to make up for the time when they are caring for their child,” Zanotelli said.

An unexpected benefit of the program has been the morale boost and sense of family that comes with having a baby around.

“Our employees love the babies and pitch in to care for them,” said Rose Chaco, another executive at the firm. Chaco said the babies encourage employees to get to know one another on a more personal level as they talk about their children and families.

Chaco is proud to point out that in 2003 the credit union won a Family-Friendly Employer Award from Child Care Links, a local agency that serves as an advocate for quality childcare.

Even customers enjoy the babies. The typical customer response is summed up in this email excerpt: “Thank you for being sensitive to the needs of new mothers and their babies. It must be wonderful for both mother and baby to be together during the day. And I suspect saving the cost of infant childcare will gain you some valuable employee loyalty.”

Of course, mothers aren’t the only ones who bring their babies to work. Four fathers have participated, and one dad had two boys come through the program.

In all, 19 babies have participated. (The firm employs about 80 people.) Looking ahead, eight employees are currently expecting, and most plan to bring their babies to work.

"This will be the most babies we've ever had at a given time,” said Zanotelli, who notes that babies are welcome on site until they reach the age of eight months or begin to crawl, whichever comes first.

“After they leave us, we really miss them,” she said.

While a handful of firms have contacted the credit union about this unique program, including a company from Australia, Zanotelli hopes to get the word out to more employers and encourages them to explore this family-friendly benefit. She invites inquiries at wzanotelli@unclecu.org.

Tiny boy changes world

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on June 24, 2008.

Aimee Hensley’s eyes are brown and her smile is contagious. She works in Livermore and lives in Manteca. She’s married to David. Adapted from her blog, this is her story about a boy who made a difference in the world:

Dameron Hospital, Stockton, Nov. 1, 2007: “Now at only 24 weeks, I was finding myself pushing. My water broke and nearly flooded the doctor and her staff. They induced contractions and 20 minutes later William David Hensley was born. He was tiny at 1 pound 8 ounces and only 12 inches long, but he was hanging in there. It was such an emotional roller coaster to see how tiny this little baby was, and how much he was fighting to live.”
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Nov. 3: “Will is now a little over 55 hours old and still fighting. The doctor was worried about his kidneys, but he is showing signs of improvement. He does not enjoy having his diaper changed because this morning his heart stopped three different times. This afternoon the doctor decreased his blood pressure medication, which is great. And his kidneys are continuing to improve. We are trying to remain optimistic, because he deserves a good chance at life.”
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Nov. 5: “Will had a brain ultrasound today and no bleeding was found. His skin is translucent, so we can see underneath the skin. During his blood transfusion yesterday you could actually see the blood flowing through his veins. At this point, we could not ask for better results. To see him making such strides is really a miracle right before our eyes.”
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Nov. 7: “Will is still proving to be fighter. I was able to visit for quite some time this afternoon, even during his assessment. But he did fine and I am glad I stayed because I got to hold his hand. Though Will is stable, we have a long road ahead of us. Please continue your thoughts and prayers; he needs them now to stay strong and defy the odds.”
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Nov. 8: “I always have anxiety driving to the hospital and going up to the 3rd floor, but once I see how peaceful he is, I feel much better. When parents talk about the overwhelming love they feel for their children, I always wondered how that felt. Now I know how that feels.”
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Nov. 9: “Will is breathing well today and is starting to move around quite a bit. This shows he is not suffering from pain, but we also don’t want him to use up all his energy showing off his new dance moves. Each day is a new day and we are so thankful for him. He is now just over eight days old and fighting strong with a WILL to live!”
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Nov. 12: “Today was the best day yet! I was able to hold the little man for an entire hour.”
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Nov. 14: “They stopped his feedings due to residue in his tummy. His blood sugar has been high, so they are giving him insulin. His oxygen has been low, so they increased the oxygen on his ventilator. His blood pressure has been low, so he is back on Dopamine. And yesterday they gave him a second dose of Curosurf that helps when he is in respiratory distress. All of this sounds overwhelming, and it is. But everything happening is expected with a micro preemie. What really matters is how he handles the treatment.”
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Nov. 15: “The little man is starting to open his eyes. They won't do a vision test until December, but he responds to our voices, so I know he is aware of our presence, even if at this point he cannot see us.”
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Nov. 20: “Will continues to love to lie on his tummy. We are consistently seeing a ‘poopie’ diaper! I know this sounds gross, but as tiny as he is, pooping on his own is great news.”
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Thanksgiving: “We have so much to be thankful for. Last night our nurse was wiping his mouth and Will started sucking on her finger. She let me place my pinky into his mouth to feel his sucking.”
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Nov. 23: “Kangaroo Care is an essential part of Will's recovery. It’s where Will is placed directly onto my chest for skin-to-skin contact and so he can sense my heartbeat. This immediately benefited his oxygen level, blood pressure and heart rate. Dads also can hold their baby and bond with Kangaroo Care.”
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Nov. 30: “This morning the nurse noticed blood in his stool. They stopped his feedings and ordered an x-ray. One thing they are trying to avoid is infection of the intestines, called necrotizing enterocolitis, or NEC. In addition this afternoon Will starting looking pale, so they ordered a blood transfusion and tests. For the majority of the day his oxygen was good until about 5 p.m. when his oxygen dropped lower than I have ever seen it before.”
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Late evening, Nov. 30: “I am so extremely sad to post that this evening our precious little Will passed away. He gave us and many family and friends a wonderful month. Even though many of you did not meet him personally, you touched his heart. His passing came so quickly that no one was prepared. In the end, NEC took its toll more aggressively than anyone could have ever imagined.”
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Today, six months after Will’s passing, Aimee Hensley thinks about her baby every day: “We were with Will for each of the 30 days of his lifetime,” she said, her brown eyes welling with tears. “He was our little boy, and because he lived he’s changed the world for other premature babies who follow him at Dameron Hospital.”
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Until Will came along, the medical staff didn’t use Kangaroo Care as a treatment. One nurse insisted it be tried, and Will’s positive responses to being placed on his mother’s chest impressed the doctors. Now every nurse is trained in the technique.
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What a wonderful legacy for a 12-inch boy who even today is touching the lives of other babies on their embattled road to survival.













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Father's Day 2008

Published in the Tri-Valley Herald June 17, 2008

For Father’s Day we drove down to Los Gatos to hang out with my dad and mom. My parents are in their mid-seventies and just celebrated their 57th wedding anniversary. They met as teens in southern California, but they’ve lived most of their lives in the same house in Los Gatos, built in 1914, where we moved when I was in third grade.

My dad enjoys our visits, and especially likes to goof around with his grandkids. He’s been overheard asking my daughters such questions as “Did they suck your brains out at school?”

In fact, he’s known in the family for funny and odd phrases repeated over the years. Two summers ago my mom typed up every repetitive expression we could think of that my dad has uttered. She then surprised him with a book for his birthday dedicated “to all who have heard Bill’s words and remembered them over the years.”

My mom gathered the expressions through email. For several weeks my brother, sister, and I emailed my mom with memories as she secretly recorded each phrase. "How could we forget ‘Cool at the motor pool,’” my brother emailed. “Or ‘Thank you very little,’” my sister recalled.

The book is 14 pages, categorized into sayings, rules, advice, songs, and behaviors. Two of his rules, for example, are “Park away from other cars” and “Get rid of old magazines.”

His advice runs the gamut from “Never say no when you can say yes” to “Don’t buy it unless you need it, then don’t buy it.”

A Depression-era baby, my dad was born in 1930 in Buffalo, New York. His mother died when he was three, and his father worked in a steel mill. After high school, my dad enlisted with his twin brother in the Air Force and then went to college. He became a History and English teacher, and later a guidance counselor at a community college.

No doubt his career informed his perspective about education, whose purpose, as my mom quotes in the book, “is to teach people to think critically so they can make considered decisions that affect their lives.”

Yet in spite of the occasional erudite pronouncements, my dad’s phrases are mostly humorous, such as: “I think I slipped a disk in my brain” and, holding up a fist, “How’s about a knuckle sandwich?”

As I thumb through the hand-crafted book today, stories well up around certain phrases, such as one that simply reads: “The tree’s a-fallin!’”

This expression came from a stormy night in 1971 when rains and torrential winds threatened the grand old sycamore that grew between our house and the house next door. The winds were so strong that the tree was bumping into both homes.

As legend has it, our neighbor, Mr. Cunningham, rose in the middle of the night to pull on his rain boots and heavy coat and hat to come over to our front door with his dire news about the faltering tree. Picture if you will Mr. Cunningham with a wild look in his eyes and his hair all sticking up and crazy. (I know I just said he was wearing a hat, but childhood memories are like that and besides, I slept through the whole thing.) He bangs on our door, and as my mother and father stumble half asleep to answer, Mr. Cunningham, like some character in a gothic novel, cries out--as if something could be done about it--“The tree’s a-fallin!’”

I’ll never forget the image, in the stormless quiet of the morning, of my sister standing on the fallen massive tree in the long driveway that leads to the back of my parents’ home, its long dark branches silent and helpless.

Such are the memories captured in my mom’s little book. And such are the expressions stored in some lobe of my dad’s wondrous brain that under a microscope surely looks like a Rube Goldberg contraption.

Volunteer rides with a heart for community

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on June 10, 2008.

A few weeks ago, Jerry Pentin was riding his bicycle along Calaveras Road near the Sunol Regional Wilderness. Like most of his excursions along this favorite route, the ride was scenic, but uneventful.

That is, until a mountain lion stepped onto the road 25 feet ahead.

“I let out a loud and long ‘Wow!’” said Pentin, who lives in Pleasanton.

This startled the lion, which simultaneously looked at Pentin and crouched, then scurried across the road to jump 8 feet onto a hillside. It then jumped up another 8 feet and looked down at Pentin as he came to a stop to admire the cat.

“I've spent my life in the outdoors of California,” said Pentin, 51, who owns Spring Street Studios, a video production firm that has served most of the big companies in Silicon Valley. The studio has also shot hours of wildlife footage for a diverse clientele.

“I've shot video of desert tortoises, rattle snakes, ospreys, and sharks,” Pentin said, “and I’ve encountered bobcats and lynx along with lots of wild critters over the years.”

Since Pentin started cycling a few years ago, he has seen raptors, elk, a fox, a coyote, and now the mountain lion. “I even had a bald eagle fly right over my head just a few weeks ago,” he said.

While Pentin enjoys cycling for exercise and has ridden over 1,800 miles this year alone, he’s become something of an advocate for cycling in Pleasanton.

“I’m currently the vice chair of the Bicycle Pedestrian Advisory Committee,” said Pentin, who also serves as a Parks and Recreation commissioner since 2004 and is the liaison to the East Bay Regional Park District. “The advisory committee has been formed to create a master plan to make Pleasanton a friendlier place for bicyclists and pedestrians," he said.

Community involvement is a way of life for Pentin. As a member of Rotary since 1984, he has participated in numerous community projects, and chaired for three years an annual event where local service clubs worked together to provide repairs and litter clean up throughout Pleasanton.

In March 1997, he was appointed to the Pleasanton Golf Course Committee by then-mayor Ben Tarver after a meeting with Tarver and council members Sharrell Michelotti and Kay Ayala.

“We thought it would take between a year and 18 months for the committee to complete its work on Callippe Preserve,” Pentin said. The course opened eight years later in November 2005. “Not exactly a short 18 months."

Pentin, who served in the Marines and is distantly related to the famous feuding Hatfields, was also appointed to the Veterans Building Task Force, which oversaw renovation of the historic hall, and he has participated in various other committees over the years, including Trails Ad Hoc and the Kottinger Place task force. “One of my favorite task forces involved public art in the downtown,” he said.

Along with donating his time, Pentin often involves the talented employees of Spring Street Studios in creating videos to support fundraisers.

“I'm proud of the work my studio has produced over the years with non-profits,” he said. The videos have raised tens of thousands of dollars, especially for wheelchairs, many of which Pentin has personally delivered with other Pleasanton North Rotarians in Nicaragua, Peru, Bolivia and Mexico.

Pentin credits his wife of 24 years, Josine, with allowing him to dedicate so much time to volunteer work. “I’m blessed to have found someone who understands my passion for community,” he said, adding, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “and she's pretty darn good looking too.”

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When he’s not serving others or pursuing his goal to cycle 3,660 miles this year, Pentin enjoys supporting his daughter and her pursuit of golf. “I’ve traveled with Joi to more than 100 tournaments over the years, many that take us all over the United States,” he said.

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Pentin first gave his daughter a set of clubs at age four. She showed a knack for the game, and now, at 16, has played in three Junior World Championships and in two Walmart 1st Tee Opens at Pebble Beach, along with other national junior tournaments.

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“I enjoy serving our community and participating in my various roles in life,” Pentin said, “but my favorite role is as Joi’s dad.”