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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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!”
.
Nov. 12: “Today was the best day yet! I was able to hold the little man for an entire hour.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.”
.
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.
.
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.













.

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.”

.

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.

.

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.

.

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

TV worth watching

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in April 2008

The phone rang. It was Darla Stevens, then-executive director of TV30.

.

The year was 1999, and she was getting back to me about my proposal for a new show for Tri-Valley Community Television. My idea was to interview local authors and feature programs that encouraged reading and literacy in our region.
.

I knew it was a long shot. A banker with an English major was going to launch a new TV show?

Yeah, right.

.

I’d watched TV30 over the years, and enjoyed its local programming designed just for the Tri-Valley (the station broadcasts to Comcast subscribers primarily in Livermore, Pleasanton, Dublin, and San Ramon). But I also knew the budget for the station was next to nothing. So my proposal included volunteering my time to produce and host the show, to solicit sponsors, to do post-production editing and to draw sketches of five famous authors to use as a backdrop for the set: Mark Twain, Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Maya Angelou and Marcel Proust.
.

So when I heard her voice of the phone, I didn’t know what to expect.

“I’m calling about the show,” she said. “We like your idea.”
.

A few months later I was in the studio. My sketches had been professionally enlarged and were in place on the set. My first guest was sitting with me, a poet named Dr. Edmond Chow. I remember the rush of adrenaline in the glaring lights as the camera operator counted down the seconds and suddenly I was saying something about a new television show on community television and welcoming our first guest.
.

And with that, “In A Word” aired its first episode.
.

Since then, we’ve interviewed both local and nationally known authors, including Scott Adams, Frank Delaney, Elizabeth Berg, Jean Shinoda Bolen, Natalie Goldberg, and many more. We’ve promoted literary events and library programs, chronicled the success of Harry Potter to get youngsters reading, shot interviews on location, and gained sponsors, including Towne Center Books in Pleasanton.

After several years of hosting the show alone, I welcomed Kathy Cordova to “In A Word” as co-host and producer. She introduced the idea for a book club segment where we read a monthly book and invite local readers to come on television and discuss the work.

Kathy and I enjoy hosting the monthly, 30-minute show and promoting what occasionally seems like the disappearing love of reading in our country. We’re both regularly published writers, so our passion for the craft often spills over into on air discussions. We hope our enthusiasm encourages people to write their own stories or to pick up a book and read.

We’re especially grateful for the support we get from viewers who tune in to watch not only our show, but the other programs on channels 28, 29, and 30.
.

With TV30 in the news lately, largely due to budget constraints, news producer and interim executive director Kevin Wing sees a bright future for the station: “All of us at TV30 are in the midst of this wonderful opportunity to do what we can to make the station an even better place to watch locally-produced television," he said. "We provide a necessity for the community that isn't offered with any other Bay Area television station.”

Wing said that all of the programs focus in one way or another on the Tri-Valley. “This includes programs of interest to our viewers, whether it's getting local news, watching a city council meeting, staying healthy, or finding the best coffeehouse in Pleasanton or San Ramon."
.

Wing is especially encouraged that businesses underwriting the station are renewing their long-term contracts, and potential sponsors have inquired just recently about financially supporting the station. Sponsors such as Big-O Tires and Splashes Car Wash are promoted to the thousands of TV30 viewers through television spots.

.

Certainly, the station faces budgetary challenges as it seeks to replace aging equipment, maintain its programming, and create a new vision given today’s Tri-Valley viewer. Since the station is funded in large part by Tri-Valley cities, the mayors of Livermore, Pleasanton, Dublin, and San Ramon are taking an active role in studying and tackling these challenges.

.

Writing as a TV30 volunteer who was lucky enough to see my idea for a TV show about books and authors become a reality, I know that TV30 is a gem in our community. The few employees of the station work long hours to bring us local programming, to air council and school board meetings that often run late into the night, and to ensure that our community television remains focused on serving the needs of its many viewers.

.

Running 50 miles

On Saturday, April 5, 2008, my wife and I ran in a 50-mile race called the American River 50-mile Endurance Run.

At 6 a.m, about 500 runners shuffled off into the darkness along the paved American River Parkway. Given the course and its logistics, we had to actually run the first mile in the opposite direction from the finish line, then loop back to pass the start area.

Ah, just 48 more miles to go.

Pam and I ran together for 27 miles to a key checkpoint, called Beal's Point. (Although there was no marker at the 26.2 marathon distance, a nearby runner with a GPS Garmin announced our marathon time at approximately 5 hours, 10 minutes. Not bad even for a marathon-only distance.)

Beal's Point is the approximate point at which the relatively flat (and paved) pathway ends and the hilly trails begin. We had a drop bag at Beal's Point, and changed from our regular running shoes into trail running shoes. Because I was feeling very strong at that point, Pam and decided I would go on ahead, allowing Pam to run the same pace we'd been running. I told her "I love you," and set off as she filled her water bottle at the Beal's Point aid station.

Since we'd never run a 50-mile race before, we had only a general idea what our finishing times might be. Because runners must cross the finish line no later than 7 p.m. (or 13 hours), our first goal was simply to finish under 13 hours. In other words, we didn't want to run for, say, 45 miles, only to miss one of the cut-off times required along the route and be pulled from the race, which does happen each year to a small percentage of the runners.

So just finishing was our goal, though our 'dream' goal (there's always a dream goal) was to finish under 12 hours.

Leaving Beal's Point, runners soon encounter hills and single track trails. I found this to be a good time to turn back on my iPod Shuffle to create that fuzzy glow that music can create. Soon I was running with old favorites, including a few John Denver songs that fit amazingly with the scenery.

And speaking of scenery, the views of the river and Folsom Lake were awe-inspiring. The weather, too, was perfect, and we counted ourselves fortunate since we'd heard that it had rained on and off at the race the two prior years, creating mud and streams along some of the trail.

As I ran the trails, I wondered how Pam was doing behind me. Having run several 30-mile training runs over hilly trails on the Pleasanton Ridge near our home, I knew that Pam had the endurance and determination to finish the race--barring any injury or mishap. Still, I hoped she was doing well and I even said a prayer to keep her safe.

So the miles ticked by and my legs and hips actually felt less pain than they had in the earlier part of the race. At 51 years old, I've become friends with pain, especially on longer runs. But apparently we had an understanding at this point (a little Advil didn't hurt either) and I was feeling, well, quite good. (I was going to say I was feeling "in the groove," but as a writer I try to avoid cliches like the plague. But that's how I felt. )

Running so well and passing about 20 runners in the last half of the race, I resisted the urge to look too closely at my watch and calculate my finish time, but I knew I was going to finish easily under 13 hours.

One wonderful part of running these long races is greeting people along the way. Everyone was so friendly, and we all shared "good job!" remarks with one another. In some cases, you can end up running several miles with people and hearing a bit about their running experiences and even their lives, and these encounters are just great.

Other highlights are the aid stations along the route, including the volunteers who are wonderful people of all ages. This race had 12 aid stations, most with names associated with their location along the lake or river, such as Buzzard's Cove and Granite Bay. The last aid station, which you must reach by 6:20 p.m. or you are pulled out of the race, is aptly titled Last Gasp.

The stations are little islands of food and drink that feature water, sports drink (GU20), Oreo cookies, boiled potatoes (which you dip in salt to keep your legs from cramping), bananas, M & Ms (which I never eat but ate by the handful to replenish my energy), potato chips, Goldfish, brownies, carbonated soda (not diet, but full of sugar), and similar items. At one station they even had ice cream cones. Aid stations are guilt-free zones where ultra runners can eat like 6 year olds. After all, 50 miles burns up about 5,000 calories and unless you eat as you run, you WILL run out of energy and have to stop. (The body can only store enough energy for about 20 miles. That's why marathon runners often hit "the wall" at that point.)

.

At the second-to-last aid station, called Manhattan Bar (again, named for that spot along the river and not because they were serving margaritas), with 6.8 miles to the finish, I finally allowed myself to speculate on what my finishing time might be. I looked at my watch and knew I would finish around 10 hours and 45 minutes, more than an hour under our dream goal of less than 12 hours.

Soon I was at Last Gasp, with the finish only 2.4 miles away, but it's almost all uphill, and fairly steep in parts on a wide gravel road. I turned on my ipod again (sometimes I ran with no music just to enjoy the quiet), and there was Josh Groban singing You Lift Me Up, an inspiring song that never fails to, well, inspire me. Here I was moving up this steep road and looking ahead to several runners in the late afternoon sunlight who were walking, running a few steps, then walking again. Some had friends with them for encouragement in the final miles.

.

I was moved by what I was seeing. Here were men and women reaching deep into themselves to achieve something many would call crazy: running 50 miles in one day. In these final two miles, I could see in their labored footsteps why they had come, why they trudged on in spite of the pain they knew even before the race that they would feel at this point. And I knew as well that I had come for the same reason: to encounter ourselves and our limits in ways we don't get to feel every day. By being here, we got to become the indescribable joy of pushing through a physical challenge that many would never attempt; to touch the DNA of our early human / pre-technology ancestry; and to rediscover what it feels like to be fully and completely alive.

.

As I crossed the finish line, the time read 10 hours, 39 minutes. And as the loud speaker announced my name and welcomed me to Auburn, I felt I was being delivered back into the world after 50 miles of labor.

After a short rest, I took off my race number (443) and headed back down the hill to find an attractive woman I'd been running with earlier. I was intrigued by her, and wondered how she was doing. I knew her race number by heart: 444.

We saw each other at the same time about two miles from the finish. I pointed at her and she lifted her arms in triumph. As I accompanied her the final two miles, we swapped stories of the last 22 miles that we'd run separately. It was so good to see her.

.

Pam crossed the finish line in 11 hours and 47 minutes--under her dream goal of 12 hours. As the announcer read her name, I was so proud of her and of us, two reborn and fully alive human beings.

Here we are before the start of the race wearing plastic garbage bag liners for warmth provided by Steve Tuggle, Pam's brother. We stayed in Auburn with Steve and Michele. Thanks guys!

Race director Greg Soderlund welcomed us and reviewed the course at the banquet the night before the race. Greg is also the director for Way Too Cool, a 50 kilometer (31.5 mile) race, and the famous Western States 100-mile Endurance Run.

Here we are with Tim Twietmeyer, who attended the banquet. Tim lives in Auburn and has run the American River 50 21 times. He has also run the 100-mile Western States race numerous times, and won Western States five times. He was very friendly and gave us a few last minute tips for the next day. Yes, he's a famous runner.

.

Still a long way to go

The last rays of sunlight illuminated a craggy mountain in Death Valley as I steadily pedaled my bicycle toward the finish of a long ride this past weekend. At that moment, I’d ridden 120 miles, with 30 more to go.

I did a quick mental calculation. If I could finish 150 miles, it would be the same as leaving Pleasanton and riding my bike over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, then to Napa, on to Santa Rosa, and finally arriving in Ukiah.

I knew my wife Pam had probably finished her ride of 105 miles, along with our friend Jerry Pentin. And somewhere ahead of me three other friends—Bryan Gillette, Gary Boal, and Barry Schwartz—were attempting to ride a full 200 miles in a single day.

Back for our second year, we’d driven nine hours to Death Valley to participate with some 300 riders in a sport we enjoy, to test our endurance, to test our resolve, to enjoy the stunning beauty of Death Valley, and, for the six of us, to raise money for the “We the People” competition civics teams of Pleasanton’s two comprehensive high schools, and Amador High’s Mock Trial team.

The competition civics students need to raise more than $40,000 to travel back to Washington D.C. to represent Pleasanton and California in the national competition. For three years in a row, they won the state division, and in the past two years they took second in the nationals.

At one point as my bicycle and I climbed an almost relentless 3,300 feet from below sea level up to Salsberry Pass, I thought about the team of high school students. Only a few nights earlier I’d shaken their hands at a school board meeting, proud of their commitment to learn and debate about our constitution, proud of the commitment of their advisor, Brian Ladd.

But I was also proud to know that our team of riders had gathered donations from companies and individuals to help fund that long trip to Washington.

For my long trip through Death Valley, I was now reminded how every long bike ride comes with thoughts and thoughts and thoughts. With none of life’s common distractions, and aside from the occasional chatting with fellow riders or volunteers at the aid stations, 13 hours on a bicycle provides a generous supply of time to just sit and think.

So, here is a condensed version of my thoughts over 13 hours: I hope I don’t get a flat. Can I really ride this far? When’s the next aid station? Wow that’s a beautiful mountain. That guy has a cool bike. Look at those yellow desert flowers. I wonder how my wife is doing on her ride? I wish I could tell my kids I’m fine because they were worried about Dad riding so far. I wish my brother were here riding with me. Look at that long road ahead! What time is it now? Why do people do stuff like this? I love my wife. I love my kids. Look at that incredible view. Will this hill ever end? Here comes someone going the other way which means the turnaround point can’t be far. I’m feeling pretty good. I’m not feeling so good. I’m going to sleep well tonight. I hope they have cookies at the next aid station. I’m running low on water. What time is it? Why am I doing this? At age 51 should I really be doing this? Why can’t I be home reading? I love this. I love my kids. I miss my kids. I miss my wife. I love her so much. It’s getting dark, I’ll turn on my lights. I wish I was in that car that just went by. Only 20 more miles. I really miss my wife. Thank you, God, for all the blessings in my life and for the beauty of nature. I see the rear lights of a few riders ahead. Just 10 more miles. Wow it’s really dark now. I can’t believe I’ve been riding since 6 this morning. Maybe next year I’ll try to ride the whole 200 miles. Maybe next year I’ll just ride 105 miles with my wife. Maybe next year I'll go to a movie. I can’t wait to eat a sandwich. Hey there are the lights of the finish way in the distance. Just 3 more miles. Will I finish? Yes I’ll finish. I feel tired but wow do I feel great….

And then I pulled into the finish area and was greeted by my wife and Jerry and that wonderful feeling of getting off my bike and sitting in a real chair.

And in the same way this column just sort of ends, that’s how a long bike ride ends. All of a sudden, you’re finished.

But in a way, we’re not finished, because we’re still gathering donations for the civics students, who travel to Washington in May. We’re short of our goal to raise $10,000, and every dollar helps. So send me an email if you want to make a difference in the life of a student. Donations are tax deductible.

And as much as I love the amazing fulfillment when riding my bike, it’s always nice to come home.

.

All photos taken by Jerry Pentin. Thanks to the many individuals and the following sponsors for helping us raise funds: CyclePath, Big-O Tires of Pleasanton, ClubSport, UNCLE Credit Union, Spring Street Studios, and Hopyard Alehouse.

Essays tell tales

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on February 19, 2008.

One of my favorite moments teaching college English is discovering the stories of students when I read their essays. I never know what tale of woe or triumph or joy I might encounter.

Imagine turning, as I did recently, to an essay in a stack and reading this: “In 1975, the communists from North Vietnam overran the south not long after the American soldiers left. My family faced a dark future.”

The student describes her many years in and out of prison for repeated attempts to escape her country. Until I read her words, I had no idea that the quiet Asian woman in the third row of my class had endured such hardships, the threat of malaria and other diseases, or that she’d escaped by bicycle through Cambodia to Thailand.

Of course, not all essays are so dramatic. Many well-written papers describe interesting vacations or experiences falling in love or the trauma of divorce or people who made a difference in the students’ lives.

Sometimes the essays are funny, such as one that got me smiling by a young man who writes, “I’ve been breaking stuff since I can remember. Somehow, I broke all four windows in my friend’s Honda Civic by leaning on them the wrong way. He also has a beanbag couch I put a huge gash in because my keys were sticking out of my pocket. That room turn into a winter wonderland.”

Later in the essay, this writer asserts that he comes from a long line of men who were known for breaking things: “The crack in the Liberty Bell was an accident by my great-great-great grandfather.” And the leaning tower of Pisa, he claims, got that way due to “a stick of beef jerky, a goldfish, and a hot Italian chick” that one of his ancestral grandfathers was wooing. “But that’s a whole other story,” he writes.

Some essays move in unexpected directions, such as one that introduces a morning in a hospital never to be forgotten on September 11, 2001. But as the essay unfolds, the memorable moment, we discover, is not the loss of life and the destruction of the twin towers. Rather, writes the author, “I’ll always remember it as the day my life began. Some people call it a moment of clarity, others call it an epiphany. I don’t know exactly what to call it, but when I held my baby girl, I was a new man. I had a purpose. I was a father now.”

Other memorable essays involve heartbreaking or suspenseful moments, such as when one writer describes helplessly witnessing the drowning of his friend as the brute force of a river pulls him under, or another suspenseful essay that begins, “I remember the doctor telling us she could die in her sleep. I remember not really understanding what it meant that she needed surgery.” This author tells about her younger sister’s successful journeys through heart and scoliosis surgery, her visits in and out of the hospital for various conditions. “She only complained when it really hurt,” she writes. “Her attitude toward life is strong-willed.”

As a teacher, I enjoy engaging students in the process of writing. Often an artistic and therapeutic tool, writing is a healthy activity on many levels. It requires a mental focus, and prompts us to think through elements of our lives we may not have explored in much depth.

When I read the essays, I share in the lives and hopes and dreams of my students. In one essay, an 18-year-old woman shares her love of dancing, a love she’s had her whole life.

“Dancing has taught me to be determined,” she writes. “I may not become a famous dancer, but I know it will help me in whatever I decide to do. At heart, I will always be the little girl pulling on her soft pink tights and leotard in awe of the art that is dance.”














.

Jazz Happens

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on February 5, 2008.

When Jim Campana first raised his conductor’s baton in 1959 at Amador Valley High in Pleasanton, the school had just 20 students enrolled in music. By the time he retired two decades years later, 300 students were signed up for band and the popular music courses.

“Friday night football and basketball games came alive thanks to the band,” said Eileen Morley Hofstadt, who was a student at Amador in the late 1960s and early 1970s. “In those days, Jim Campana was always there in his quiet way, inspiring young talent.”

Impressed with Campana’s success and reputation with students and music, the city of Pleasanton asked him to help establish a Pleasanton jazz festival.

“The city recreation department had been interested in having me put together a festival that would include bands from a variety of schools,” said Campana, who is now 81 and lives in Sonora with his wife Rosemary. “But I was so busy I kept putting them off.”

Finally, in 1975, at the Pleasanton Hotel, in what Campana calls a “moment of weakness,” he agreed. The first festival included 30 bands and was held that year at the Alameda County fairgrounds.

"We had a good first festival,” Campana said, “though it rained that day. Fortunately we were able to use the exhibition building and move the instruments and equipment inside.”

Over the years, more and more people gathered to hear the talented students perform. After Campana’s retirement in 1979, the Pleasanton jazz festival was appropriately renamed after the man who made it all possible.

Now in its 33rd year, the Campana Jazz Festival will take place at Amador Valley High School this Saturday, February 9, featuring more than 700 middle and high school students in 45 jazz ensembles from 24 schools around California. Schools from as far away as Folsom and Roseville will compete in the event.

Performances run from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., followed by a ceremony where over $7,000 in sponsorships to various jazz camps will be awarded. Wristbands for the festival may be purchased throughout the day for $6 at the Amador Theater lobby. A festival program will be included containing the complete day’s schedule.

Thanks to the vision of co-chairs Carl and Marilyn Palowitch, the festival this year is now part of a larger “Campana Jazz Weekend,” with jazz happening all around Pleasanton.

“In planning for our 2008 festival,” Carl Palowitch said, “we contacted the Pleasanton Downtown Association, the library, and the city of Pleasanton, and together we coordinated our respective jazz events to create a weekend where the public can encounter jazz all around the city.”

Kicking off the weekend this Thursday evening is the Pleasanton Downtown Association’s popular wine stroll, titled Truffles, Tidbits and Wine Tasting.

“Imagine pairing the taste of a chardonnay or cabernet to the sounds of seven jazz ensembles at venues up and down Main Street,” said Christine Salidivar, Executive Director of the association. "We’re excited to bring jazz and wine to our downtown.” Because the wine stroll events almost always sell out, contact the downtown association right away for tickets at 925-484-2199.

Following Thursday’s wine stroll, Pleasanton’s Civic Arts Presents will host on Friday saxophonist and composer Ravi Coltrane at the Amador Theater, who will also give a jazz clinic for Foothill and Amador jazz students that afternoon. Coltrane, the son of jazz legends John and Alice Coltrane, is described as a young jazz pioneer. Tickets may be purchased at the door at 8 p.m. or online at www.civicartstickets.com.

On Sunday following Saturday’s Campana Jazz Festival, the Pleasanton Library will host the Silver Moon Band at 1:30 p.m., followed by the Lee Waterman Latin Band “Jazz Caliente” at 3:30 p.m. These performances are free and open to the public.

Carl Palowitch said that for the first time vocal jazz will be a part of the festival on Saturday. He also noted that many people don’t realize the festival is more than a venue for students to perform.

“This is an educational festival,” he said, “where students come to observe and learn, to attend workshops, and to get instruction from the judges and other music educators.”

The festival each year is a collaboration of many community members, including the Amador Friends of Music, instructors Jon Grantham and Mark Aubel, the Amador Music Department, parent and student volunteers, regional music educators, music camps, local businesses, and others.

This kind of collaboration and love of music is what first brought Campana to town to teach more than 45 years ago. It’s what will bring him back this weekend to attend the festival he created.

“Pleasanton has always been a town that appreciates music,” he said. “I loved my years teaching, and I’m looking forward to coming back to see friends and hear the students perform.”

.

Conversing about verse to high school sophomores

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on January 22, 2008.

I recently accepted an invitation to speak about poetry to several honors English classes at Amador Valley High School in Pleasanton. I suppose my credentials as a past poet laureate of Pleasanton and my decade of teaching writing at Las Positas College helped assure English teacher Wendy Garner that I might have something interesting to say.

It also didn’t hurt that my 15-year-old daughter, Melissa, wanted me to address not only her class, but several other classes as well. It’s not every day a teenaged girl wants her dad around when other teens are present, so I was happy to take up the challenge.

While I’m used to talking about poetry with college students, I was initially uncertain at the thought of standing in front of sophomores.

What, exactly, would I say?

Ms. Garner had asked me via email to share some of my own poetry, as well as the process I use for writing poetry. But which poems would I select? Would the students relate to my work? Would teenagers even care about the poetry of a baby boomer?

The key, I knew, was to present whatever I said with passion, high energy, humor, and yes, technology.

So when I stepped in front of the first class, I did what any wise professor would do to capture the youngsters’ attention: I clicked on a video from YouTube.

Up came an animated poem by former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins. The students fell silent as the short video mixed visual images with Collins’ spoken poetic words. Next I showed a PowerPoint slide listing elements of good poetry. Another slide gave examples of haiku.

Then I transitioned into one of my own poems. Projected on the screen, the poem recounted the funeral after the shooting death of a young woman. The poem refers to a “dead sister” named Natalie.

Because I wrote the poem, the students assumed as I read the somber verses that I had lost my own sister to murder.

As I finished reading the poem, I noted that my sister’s name is Laurie and she lives in San Francisco "and is very much alive. This is a fictional poem.”

As the room instantly lightened, I described how poets have the ability to explore though words the common experience of what it means to be human. Even if we have not lost a sister to death, we can tap into that experience and examine it through our work.

Next I shared a lighter poem, a published sonnet I’d written about how great life would be to have an English accent.

“By the way, how many lines are in a sonnet?” I asked the kids.

The students muttered various numbers.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I expect to hear a clear answer, and it’s 14. So how many lines in a sonnet?”

“Fourteen!” the students recited back.

“Can there ever be 12?”

“No!” they said.

“So how many lines in a sonnet?” I asked again.

“Fourteen!”

Along with sharing two other poems I’d written, I recited a few famous poems I knew by heart during the 50-minute talks. I encouraged the students to memorize their favorite poems, and I pointed out that I’d recited Hamlet’s soliloquy so many times over the years that my daughter memorized the lines when she was a little girl, and knows them to this day.

As each presentation drew to a close, I encouraged the classes to consider registering for the upcoming Poetry, Prose, and Arts Festival (www.PleasantonArts.org) taking place in Pleasanton on April 5 and 6.

Now in its 7th year, the festival has been so successful that it has expanded to two days, offering workshops in poetry and prose for both adults and teens, poetry for younger kids, writing contests for all ages, book signings, performances by musical and dramatic groups, a fine arts exhibit, even a keynote address by award-winning poet and essayist Jane Hirshfield.

While I appreciated Ms. Garner’s enthusiasm and an invitation to return to the school next year, I felt I’d connected with students when a week later I received 67 handwritten notes.

While each note is wonderful, one from a young man echoed many other students' remarks, suggesting that I'd bridged the generation gap. He wrote quite simply, “I like your ink, Mr. O.”

2008 Arizona Rock 'N Roll Marathon

Seven friends from Pleasanton traveled to Arizona in January 2008 to run in the Rock N Roll Marathon. The marathon (26.2 miles) and half-marathon (13.1) started in Phoenix, and ended in Tempe, where we stayed. Pam and I ran the full 26.2 miles, and our friends ran the half-marathon.

Pam took this of me at the start of the marathon.















This is Bobby, from Colorado. I ended up running quite a few miles with him during the race. He's an ultra marathon runner, in training to run Leadville, which is a 100 mile run. This 26.2 mile marathon was just a short training run for him!

We had a great time getting away for a weekend of exercise, lots of eating (it seemed like we were always eating), and lots of relaxation -- of course, after running 13 or 26 miles, anything feels like relaxation!

Valley Humane Society teaches pets aren't toys

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on January 8, 2008.

By the end of this year, Wendy McNelley will have stood before every second grader in Pleasanton and delivered to them a dog or a cat, along with its own carrying case.

With these pets come a profile that tells the animal’s name, age, what it eats, and some of the animal’s special traits.

Oh, it’s worth noting that the pets are plush stuffed animals.

McNelley, program director for Pleasanton’s Valley Humane Society, has already met this past December with 120 kids in their classrooms to introduce this new program, called Keeler’s Kids, that allows children to experience the level of commitment needed to care for a pet.

“It's just wonderful to have those light-bulb moments where you can see the students understand what a big responsibility it is to own a dog or cat,” McNelley said. “This is a hands-on lesson, so they take away so much more than if we just went in and lectured for 45 minutes.”

Named after Joyce Keeler, a 40-year educator in Livermore who left a significant donation to Valley Humane Society after her death in 2005, Keeler’s Kids teaches students about pet overpopulation and the importance of spaying and neutering. Then, through use of a workbook and catalogs, the children go to a pet store and to a veterinarian to learn what costs are involved.

“The kids are always shocked at the $300 to $400 price tag,” said McNelley, who shared a funny moment when the youngsters quietly totaled the expenses. One little boy finished his addition, smacked his forehead, and announced "Sheesh, this is getting expensive. And money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"

McNelley said such moments allow the children to see that pets require money, time and effort, and are not toys. In fact, when McNelley and her helper went back on a second day for another round of classes, two little girls from the previous day were carrying their pets to lunch with them.

“They didn't want to leave them at home where they would get lonely,” McNelley said. “One little girl had put a sweater on her dog because it was cold out. I loved that.”

The students are surprised to learn that in most cases they will have their animals until the children grow up and turn 26 or 27 years old. McNelley said most students are not able to fathom being that old.

Kids also learn that for every pet in this country to have a home, every person would have to adopt 15 dogs and 45 cats. This means that a home of four people would have 60 dogs and 180 cats.

“At first, the kids think this would be fun,” McNelley said, “but then we talk about all that poop. Yuck! They get the point.”

At the end of the presentation, students fill out an adoption application and contract, similar to the documents used at Valley Humane Society. At this point, if they don't think they’re ready for the responsibility, the children may choose not to adopt their animal.

“It’s a pivotal moment in the lesson when they really comprehend the amount of work ahead of them,” McNelley said.

McNelley hopes one day to expand Keeler’s Kids to other school districts, but needs to focus for now on Pleasanton. She would also like to adapt the program for high school students.

To make a donation or to learn more about Valley Humane Society and its many worthwhile programs, visit www.valleyhumane.org or call (925) 426-8656.

100 Years of Joy

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on December 27, 2007. The idea for the column and the invitation to the Rotary luncheon came from Jacquie Williams Courtright, owner of Alden Lane Nursery and current president of the Rotary Club of Livermore. Thanks Jacquie!


Imagine you are 99 years old and in a few days you’ll be turning 100. Teddy Roosevelt was president when you were born, 50 years ago you were 50, and you drove a car until you were 97.

Far-fetched? Read on.

Now you’re seated at a luncheon with tables of people who’ve gathered to make a fuss over your birthday and the birthday of another nearly 100-year-old woman.

While she’s not in attendance, you are, and in a moment you’ll be asked to stand and speak.

At nearly 100 years, what could you possibly say to sum up your life?

Keep reading to discover what Dr. Grace Devnich said to some 125 Rotarians who gathered last week to celebrate her 100 years and the 100 years of Henrietta Greer, both of Livermore.

While Greer was unable to attend, Devnich was on hand as several eloquent individuals spoke about her and Greer.

Local historian Anne Homan provided an overview of the era when the women were born, a time before television, radios, or movies. Homan touched on the lives of Devnich and Greer, which led into remarks by former Livermore mayor Dr. John Shirley who provided a wonderful introduction of Devnich, Livermore’s first woman doctor.

“Grace delivered 800 babies,” said Dr. Shirley, “and for many years she only charged $125 for prenatal care and the delivery,” he said.

Dr. Shirley said that Devnich and her husband, Henry, who was also a doctor, came to Livermore in 1948 to set up their practice. Devnich still lives in the house they bought on K Street in 1952.

Born in Colorado, Devnich first attended Union College in Nebraska, where she met Henry in 1929. In time, the couple saved enough money to attend medical school at the University of Nebraska, graduating in 1945.

The two practiced medicine for more than three decades in Livermore, made house calls that initially cost just three dollars, and touched the lives of thousands of people. Shirley reminisced about the birth of his own four children through Devnich’s caring hands.

In 1992, Devnich lost Henry to a brain aneurysm, but not before the couple spent 16 years together in retirement, traveling and enjoying their golden years.

More recently, Devnich has become an author, having written a book about her husband’s family.

Similarly, though she was absent, Henrietta Greer and her life were introduced by Bill Nebo, who said that Greer’s family first arrived in Livermore in 1936 and settled onto a dairy farm out on Patterson Pass Road. Greer met her future husband, Tom, when he reported for work at the ranch after a San Francisco employment agency had placed the former Colorado cowboy in Livermore.

Nebo told a funny story about when Tom was struggling to coax a rambunctious mare into a corral. Greer watched for a while, then suggested she might help.

“If you can get this mare into the corral,” Tom told her, “I’ll give you five bucks.”

At the time, five dollars was a lot of money, and Greer simply opened the corral gate and called, “Tessie, get in here!”

The mare quietly did as she was told. Tom never paid her the five dollars, Nebo said, but he did marry her.

Nebo, who met Greer in 1972 and calls her his adopted mother, said that Greer is a woman who knows the difference between what one wants and what one needs, a woman who values companionship and relationship, who respects people of all age groups, and who understands the need for balance between work and enjoyment.

“For a woman who mended many cattle fences over the years,” Nebo said, “Henrietta is a woman with very few fences in her life. She accepts people for who they are and sees the best in them.”

After the introduction, when it came time for Devnich to stand and address the assembled Rotarians and guests, everyone stood and applauded. Devnich slowly made her way to the lectern, and as she reached for the microphone, the moment became emotional.

“I’ve had a wonderful life,” she said, “but I just can’t speak about it or I might begin to cry.”

And with that, she returned to her seat to thunderous applause.

With those few words, Devnich summed up 100 years of giving and receiving, of births and deaths, of healing and loss, of happiness, and yes, of joyful tears.















Dr. Grace Devnich spoke only for a moment, but her words filled the Livermore Rotarians with great joy.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Otts!

Spare the rod and spoil the child?

When Danville resident Frank Hanna was growing up in a small Texas town, his mother used to swat him with a limb from a backyard peach tree for misbehaving.

“My mom kept a peach switch on top of the refrigerator,” said Hanna, 46, who speaks with a Texas accent. “One night after everyone fell asleep, I climbed up and broke that switch into about 500 pieces.”

Hanna was abruptly awakened the next morning by the whacking of a new peach switch his mother simply pulled from the tree.

“As she administered the punishment, she suggested I never again break her switch into pieces,” he said, smiling.

Hanna’s experiences echo the memories of many who grew up with some form of corporal punishment, whether by teachers or parents.

Wayne Yeaw of Pleasanton recalls that in the 1950s his father used a long stick, carved with little faces like a totem pole, to punish him and his siblings when they stepped out of line.

“My dad would line us up,” he said, “and if whoever was responsible for whatever happened didn’t confess, he would swat all of us.”

Whacking youngsters and even adults to encourage better behavior dates back many centuries. In the Middle Ages, corporal punishment was common in Europe and authorized by religious leaders who viewed the practice as a healthy way to discipline the wayward human body. This philosophy found its way into medieval schools, and was introduced into America with the first settlers, spawning in this country more than three centuries of discipline by such methods.

California banned corporal punishment in public schools in 1986, though only after it was made illegal in child care centers, youth authorities, and state prisons. This meant for a period of time in California a prison guard couldn’t swat a convicted felon, but a teacher could paddle a youngster. In fact, only by a narrow margin were legislators persuaded that children are unable to learn effectively when threatened by physical punishment.

Approximately half of the population in the United States believes that modest corporal punishment is an acceptable method of disciplining a child, including 22 states that allow their schools to administer some form of such punishment.

In fact, just over a decade ago in response to growing behavior problems in California schools, conservative Republican legislators in Sacramento—led by a feisty 68-year-old retired Marine from Orange County named Mickey Conroy—sponsored two bills, one to reintroduce the option of corporal punishment into the classroom with certain limitations, and a second that would allow a judge to order a parent or bailiff to paddle a juvenile graffiti vandal up to ten times with a wooden paddle.

Both bills met with strong Democratic opposition, especially the corporal punishment bill. Opponents pointed to studies showing that paddling and other forms of humiliating physical punishment create resentment and teach children that violence is acceptable. The bills were defeated.

Still, Hanna observed that his fellow high school students did benefit from the occasional whipping by his Texas football coaches, and he does credit his loving mother’s peach switch with amending his own occasional errant behavior.

In the end, though, corporal punishment only goes so far.

“When I was about 12,” Hanna said, “my mother used one of my dad’s belts to give me a whipping. Regardless of how hard she swung that belt it just didn’t hurt much.”

Hanna remembers looking at his mother when suddenly they both burst into laughter.

“We nearly died laughing as we realized whipping me was no longer going to be effective.”

When writing becomes healing

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in November 2007.

Ten years ago, Elizabeth Martella gave birth to a girl she named Viviana. Like many new mothers, Martella held the baby in her arms for pictures, and made prints on paper from her daughter’s tiny palms and feet.

But the occasion was not happy.

“Having a stillborn baby means dealing with very hard emotions,” said Martella, who lives in Lathrop. “For months my mind raced with questions of guilt and misgivings.”

To cope with the tragedy, she turned to the love of her husband, Jorge, but she also turned to poetry.

“Writing was a way of healing for me,” she said.

In fact, Martella, 35, has tapped into the power of writing poetry to grapple with the many challenges life has thrown her way.

When she was eight, her father left his wife and children for another woman.

“I was devastated,” she said, “and I still have difficulty with this.”

Martella’s mother, who was born in Taiwan and met Martella’s father when he was a Marine overseas, moved her young family from San Francisco to Oakland to live with her sister. “My mom was a strong woman,” Martella said, noting that her mother had to work three jobs—as a waitress, a hotel housekeeper, and a late-night janitor—just to support her family.

As Martella wrestled in her pre-teen years with her father’s absence, she became the victim of sexual abuse by a cousin. This went on for many years until she turned 14, when she stood up to him and said no more.

After high school, Martella took a few classes at Merritt College and started working. “Growing up with barely any food to eat sometimes,” she said, “it was great to be able to make my own money, so I left college and began working full time.”

Martella managed a Chevron service station and one day met a young man whose family had immigrated from Buenos Aires. “I soon discovered that Jorge was my soul mate,” she said.

A kind and caring husband, Jorge understood and loved Martella like no one else ever had. Then, a few years after the loss of their first baby, they were blessed in 2001 with a baby girl they named Izabella.

Though from the outside it appeared life was settling down for the Martellas, an avalanche of unresolved inner conflict led Martella to a nervous breakdown in 2005.

She began to see a therapist, and as she made progress, she leaned heavily on her writing for support.

“The month after I started therapy,” she said, “I started compiling a collection of my poems, which led me to write even more poems.”

Martella poured her tears and sadness into her work, writing about her father, her stillborn baby, the abuse—all of her life’s experiences.

The result is a book of published poems dedicated to readers “from broken homes and dysfunctional families” and those “molested as a child.” Martella states in her dedication, “Know that there is light at the end of that tunnel.”

And part of that light for Martella became the publication of her second work, this time a children’s book. Based on a happy experience with Martella’s 6-year-old daughter, the book is titled “Izabella and her Wardrobe.”

“My daughter was my inspiration,” Martella said. “She is quite the character, especially when it comes to her clothing.”

Martella’s goal is to write a ten-book series on various topics as Izabella grows older.

Both books, available at http://www.lulu.com/, are the expression of a caring woman dedicated to sharing her experiences with others on the path to healing.

As she writes in her book of poems, "Life isn’t always perfect; it’s what you make of it that counts.”














.