NEWS FROM THE CHAIR
Hola Amigos,VALENCIA IS GROWING
Osceola Campus
On February 14 Valencia Community College hosted a ribbon-cutting ceremony and reception for Building 3, the new technical science, information technology and workforce development building at its Osceola Campus. The public was invited to attend the opening and tour the $7.2 million facility, which is the most technically advanced building on any Valencia campus.
The 60,000-square-foot, three-story building features a learning center stocked with the latest computers and Internet access for studying and tutoring. Technical workforce programs offered in the new building include computer engineering, Cisco and Microsoft certification, computer information technology, IT support, computer programming and analysis, database technology, Oracle and office systems technology. In addition, the college's nursing program, which began offering courses on the Osceola Campus last fall, has expanded its presence with dedicated nursing labs and classroom space. UCF has also established a presence here, with courses available to fulfill the requirements for a Bachelor of Arts degree in elementary or exceptional education.
Annual student enrollment on the Osceola Campus is currently just under 5,000 and continues to grow rapidly. The new building will give the college more room to expand, and help to better serve the community by training workers for high-tech and healthcare occupations..
East Campus
On March 29, Valencia Community College opened another technology-rich building, with a ribbon-cutting ceremony on its East Campus for Building 8. The ceremony officially opened the doors to the $6.2 million, 80,000 square-foot facility, which features 33 classrooms, 4 science labs, and several computer labs.
Building 8 will house Smart classrooms for a variety of academic disciplines. Smart classroom technology provides for the integration of audio, video and web-based teaching tools. Building 8 also contains faculty offices, meeting space, and a computerized student assessment area. Along with Building 8, Valencia will officially open its first-ever parking garage, immediately adjacent to the new building. The two-story structure will hold approximately 300 cars, and is expandable for a third deck, should the College add another classroom facility to its East Campus. The parking garage cost approximately $1.2 million. Valencia's East Campus is its second-oldest campus, and has grown tremendously since its debut in 1975. It has a current enrollment of just under 13,000 students.
Gustavo Morales
NEWS FROM PRESIDENT SHUGART Recent Awards
In recent weeks Valencia has received two significant awards for the collaborative work of faculty and staff toward improving student learning. One is from the MetLife Foundation in conjunction with the University of Texas and the other from the Community Colleges Futures Assembly, a "Bell Weather Award."
That the College continues to receive such recognition is, perhaps, nothing new. The good work of Valencia faculty and staff over the years has attracted many awards. I think it is safe to claim that the College continues to be considered one of the best in the country. Certainly our graduation rates suggest this.
What seems most important about these particular awards is the fact that they were unsolicited (i.e. we didn't nominate ourselves) and they speak to the very core of our learning-centered journey. The recognitions were for the most significant projects to date in our effort to improve student engagement and learning outcomes. The MetLife Award, in fact, was based on a broad national study of student experiences called the Community College Survey of Student Engagement (click here for link). It seems that Valencia scored among the highest in the country on measures of student engagement with learning, with professors, and with one another in the classroom. The Bell Weather Award focused on three initiatives designed to increase these outcomes: the LifeMap student development model, the College's Teaching and Learning Academy, and Atlas, the College's learning portal.
We have a long way to go to achieve the kind of quantum improvements in student learning we think are possible here, but these recognitions are encouraging milestones on the way. You'll be glad to know that your tradition of doing the best work in the business is continuing at Valencia.
Bachelors Degrees at Community Colleges?
It's likely that you have been reading that several community colleges in Florida have added limited bachelors degrees in teacher education and nursing. They include St. Petersburg College, Miami-Dade College, Okaloosa-Walton College, and Chipola College. Considering these developments, many, perhaps many of you, are asking about Valencia's plans. While our Trustees could signal a new direction at some time in the future, our position now is to continue to concentrate on the assigned community college mission and expand our already outstanding transfer partnerships with UCF and other state and out-of-state universities. To this point, the College is engaged in program planning with UCF toward construction in the next three to four years of a University Center on West Campus. Complete bachelors degrees and some graduate-level opportunities will be featured in the shared building.
On the larger policy issues raised by our sister institutions, we will continue to evaluate the trend. I am personally concerned that the state may trade the nation's best community college system for a mediocre state college system, and do so without a clear policy decision.
More to come on this and other matters....
Sandy Shugart
FROM THE EDITOR When I told my wife Deedee and everybody else who cared (or didn't care, for that matter) that I was going to retire in 1996, I heard all kinds of "discouraging words" as I planned to leave VCC and head for my home on the Maitland range: "You won't enjoy retirement; you'll be bored." "They'll have to hire three persons to do the job you do." "What do you plan to do in retirement?" " You'll be back teaching part-time in no time." Those kinds of comments.
I had answers, which I kept to myself, for most questions that didn't seem to be merely rhetorical. Says I to myself, "I don't bore easily." Besides, I considered what would become my daily routine: rise at dawn (Josie, our Cairn terrier, lets me know by gently clawing my arm when the light penetrates the drapes in our bedroom); stumble to the bathroom; shave; comb my hair; put on deodorant; brush my teeth; put on my socks, jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt; do the dishes I didn't do the night before; feed the dog; take my pills; bring in the paper; take Josie for a walk; exchange pleasantries with Democratic neighbors who are walking their dogs; exchange unpleasantries with Republican neighbors who are walking their dogs or driving around in their cars or pickups; eat a bowl of raisin bran (on Saturday and Sunday mornings bacon or sausage or ham and eggs--easy over, scrambled or poached--or eat out; read several comic strips, especially Doonesberry; play the 'Daily Word Game,' work the crossword puzzle, and sometimes unjumble the 'Jumble'; read the various sections of the newspaper; ride my stationary bike for 40-50 minutes while watching either ESPN or the History Channel; work in the yard; do whatever housecleaning needs to be done (sweeping, dusting, scouring, laundry); shower; read; write; read; write; read; write .... Special occasions? Motoring to Gainesville and Tampa to score essays for UF and USF and schmooze with Florida colleagues I've known for thirty-some years.
How could I be bored with so much to do?
If it takes three persons to do the job I retired from, I am pleased to think that Brother Bush could have used those two NEW positions to support his otherwise lie that he was creating jobs. Of course he is creating dead-end jobs for young men and women in Iraq--most of which were created after he boasted that his mission in Iraq had been accomplished.
As to part-time teaching, I tried it for a semester and decided it wasn't for me. My best teaching days, I discovered, were in the past, not in the present or the future. However, I figured I'd enjoy substituting now and then--and I have done so.
During a lull in this furious activity, I sometimes find myself going through my chaotic filing system looking for and not finding whatever I think I'm looking for but stumbling onto stuff I didn't know I kept. A few tears trickle down my cheeks as I consider the past. Perhaps, I'm convinced that one of these days I'll discover in a manila folder reasons for my having wanted to retire.
Not too long ago, for instance, I discovered a letter from M. Carolyn Parker, the woman responsible for my being hired in 1963 to teach English at St. Petersburg Junior College. Unfortunately Carolyn retired as department chair before I started my first year at SPJC; fortunately she was replaced by Joe Madden, who became a friend and mentor as well as a boss. (But that's another story.)
Though she stepped down as chair, Carolyn stayed on for two or three years to teach. (The students always voted her the best English teacher at SPJC.) Her new office was right next to mine, and although proximity is supposed to breed contempt, we office neighbors hit it off nicely and became good friends. In fact, she said I saved her life.
I recall vividly the day I heard a thud in her office and then her call for help. She had opened the loaded top drawer of her filing cabinet, and the entire cabinet had pitched forward and pinned her between it and her desk. She couldn't budge it. Fortunately, I was able to right the cabinet and warn her not to do that again. She was not injured--merely embarrassed.
When she told me some time later that she was not only going to retire but also to take her name off the substitute list, I, of course, said, "But why?" She tried to tell me, but said she'd rather not try to explain why after 25 years at SPJC (and probably another 20 in the public-school system) she was calling it quits.
After she retired, we kept in touch through letters, in one of which she tried to answer my question about why she retired by spelling out the plausible reasons for her asking that her name be removed from the substitute list because she "didn't want to teach anymore." "Remember," she said, "you asked for it!"
"These are not," she wrote, "arranged in order of preference, but chronologically as I played with Version #1, which came to me suddenly in the 17 syllables shown here:1. The eternal shears of Fate have cut at last the umbilical cord. (Is "Shears of Fate" trite?)
2. At last the Scythe's worn blade has dully severed the umbilical cord. (Don't like the sound of "dully.")
3. At last the Scythe's blade, worn and dull, has severed the umbilical cord. (Is 'Scythe' also trite?)
4. At last the inexorable Blade, both worn and dull, has cut the cord. (Too much emphasis on Blade and not enough on cord?)
5. The inexorable Blade has severed the fearful and tenacious cord.
She added, "Do you have a preference?"
Her letter, dated 2-21-65, includes the following short poem:
Victory in Viet Nam My David stares at torrid skies--
And no one near to close his eyes.
A thousand Viet Cong are dead,
But U.S. casualties were light, they said.
She died several months after she sent me the letter. She never told me she was seriously ill and that that was the real reason she retired and took her name off the substitute list. The "inexorable Blade" had done its job.I still miss Carolyn Parker; however, considering her concern over our debacle in Viet Nam, I suspect she'd be equally upset by the Bush/Chaney/Rumsfeld/Powell/Rice/Rove/Feith based-on-a-lie Iraq War.
Don TigheSURPRISE AT CHRISTMASThere are Christmas cards and Christmas cards, but seldom are they as creative and moving as the one Helen Parramore sent Deedee and me from St. Petersburg. Seems as though she also sent it to the Orlando Sentinel, and since it appeared on the next day's op/ed page, I decided not to use it in our Newsletter. However, on second thought I was afraid many of us may have missed it in the newspaper. So here it is:
THE SEASON OF LITTLE MIRACLES About six years ago I lost a valuable ring. It was a brilliant chunk of gold, like a tree, with my birthstone set in the trunk and six glittering birthstones in its branches, like lovely fruits. It was made especially for me by my three children, to commemorate my motherhood and my family, including their three brothers who had died. Whenever I saw the ring on my hand, it seemed to bring my children together again, protected, under my care.But a stone fell out. I put the ring into its little black velvet bag to take to the Orlando jeweler who had made it. But things got busy and I never made it to the jeweler. The ring in its velvet bag came back to St. Pete with me. Repair would have to wait for my next trip to Orlando. Sometime ater--weeks?--months? I looked for the ring but it was gone.
I searched everywhere high and low, over and under everything. I thought it might have dropped in my car. In its dark velvet bag, it would be hard to find. I tore the car apart. No luck. I thought that if it had been in the car, and I had taken the car to the car wash, then one of the car-wash kids might have it. I slyly checked out everybody's hands every time I went there. Then I called Marie, a psychic I know in Casadega. The ring was not stolen, she said. It's under something, maybe a piece of furniture. You will find it. Encouraged, I redoubled efforts and looked some more; I moved to a new place, knowing I would find it in the move. But I didn't. I had to realize that the ring was gone and I would never know what happened to it. I had to accept the loss. And I did, pretty much, but when I drove by the car wash, I always thought of the ring and cursed out the probable thief. And I still checked their hands every time I had the car washed.
Well, a few days ago I rolled over in bed and reached into the top drawer of my night stand to get a tissue. The drawer stores a few silky undies I seldom wear, along with tissues, hand cream, etc. I am in and out of all the time. I felt a box--small, square, and flat. A note on the top said "jeweler." What on earth? I opened it and saw a dark velvet bag. With goose bumps up my arms, my hair standing on end, hands trembling, I opened the bag and there it was. The ring! My ring!
How can something be lost and be in plain sight for six years? You look for what you expect to see and never ever see the rest. And, hey, you car-wash kids, gosh, I'm sorry. Next time I'll double the tips. 'Tis the Christmas season for sure, full of little miracles. And nobody can explain miracles. They just glitter and shine in mystic beauty.
Helen Parramore
AND ANOTHER LITTLE MIRACLE
Since this is the 17th issue of The Retirement Club Newsletter, and since so far I haven't written or received anything even remotely risque, I was pleased to hear from Helen Parramore in January with news about her retirement activities with the Gulfport Community Theater.
GIVING ONE'S ALL FOR ARTNever, even in my most extreme daydreams, did I ever imagine I would be a calendar girl at age 75 [Helen turned 76 in January '05], or that I would give my grandchildren a Christmas present of a calendar which showed Human their Gramsy naked on a ladder smiling out at the world as "Miss November." But it happened.I have worked with the Gulfport Community Theater since I moved here in 1997. It was a very small theater which for 20 years, had rented rehearsal space from the city for $500 a year. Then, with only 30 days notice, we were evicted. We wandered homeless for nearly nine months, begging and borrowing space wherever we could. When the perfect building came up for sale, we jumped at the chance, although in doing so we extended ourselves financially to the point of utter fantasy. We signed the lease with option to buy and embarked on a series of money-raising activities. We worked hard and had moderate success. We found a benefactor who loaned us money to squeak through one crisis, but we needed a real boost to handle crises to come.
Then our backstage babes, the women who do all the hard work behind the scenes, those women no one knows exist and the world never sees, went to see the movie Calendar Girls. We came out with a resolve: It's time somebody saw us. Could we find 13 women willing to do it? We called a meeting. Some refused because they thought they were too fat or too old or too whatever. Others blanched at the thought of public nudity, because what woman has not dreamed that awful dream of being naked in public? Some agreed at first, then backed out as time drew near. One woman--who never worked backstage at all--just barged right in and insisted she be included. We agreed full frontal nudity would be out, but--as a student of mine once wrote--"backal and sidal nudity" would be acceptable. We should each design our poses to reflect what we did backstage, using scenery, tools, and props to provide descrete, if minimal, coverage.
We asked Spencer Lucas of "Yacht Shots and More" to be our photographer because we loved his work. Spencer refused. "I'd never do that," he said. "My wife and I are Christians!" So we explained more about our project and, after conferring with his wife, he agreed, but only if his wife could accompany him to all the sittings. No problem. We were on our way.
Our trial run occurred when I and another babe realized we needed our pictures taken early because of travel plans. This gave us a chance to work out projection problems prior to the big shoot. Wearing robes and camera-ready makeup, we posed each other with props and in positions which covered essentials. The photographer's wife helped, but he stayed outside until his wife told him we were ready. Then he entered the set, eyes downcast, looking neither right nor left until he reached his camera and glued his eyes to the lens. Click! Click! Click! His job done, he left the way he came in.
One of our babes had a son who was a graphic designer working for a printer in Orlando. Excited by our project, he determined to design our calendar. His company, "Ad Design Services and Spirit Printing, Inc.," made us a generous offer for production. Finally, in late November, we got our calendars. They are wonderful--colorful, witty, wise, and beautiful. Best of all, the calendar itself is a marvelous testament to the spirit of volunteerism, which is the supporting structure of all the arts in all our lives. We are so proud of what we do and what we are.
Would you like to see more of me this year? Send $15 plus $2 postage to Miss November, Helen Parramore, 7550 Sunshine Skyway Lane S. T-47, St. Petersburg, FL 33711. I'll get one in the mail to you faster than Sally can flick her fan. You just gotta expose yourself to art.
Helen Parramore, Miss November
[Dear Miss November, I have in my files somewhere a cartoon showing both frontal and backal nudity. Unfortunately it includes no example of sidal (sidel? sidle?) nudity. Come to think of it, "sidle" nudity would feature not only nudity but nudity in furtive action. If I ever find the cartoon, the Newsletter might take on a spicier quality--perhaps a backal and sidal nudity centerfold with a warning to Christian men not to look at it--unless briefly through a lens. Meanwhile, my $15 plus $2 order has reached you and brought me the "Gulfport Community Players 2005 Calendar Girls," which now is prominently displayed on the refrigerator in our kitchen. All I can say is this: "Va Va Voom!" Incidentally, if nudity is your thing, you might get a kick out of America (the book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction. It's a hoot. See especially "Dress the Supreme Court," pp. 98-99. Christian males may prefer to pass up the Supreme Court display in favor of a page of Winnie the Pooh.]
WHAT WE ARE DOING IN RETIREMENT
Copper Canyon Bottom and Piggyback Train or
Never a Dull Moment in the Riles' Traveling HouseholdSnow was not what we expected when we joined a caravan from a trip into what we thought was sunny Mexico. Yet here we were, two Floridians, our icy white recreational vehicle sitting atop a railroad car zipping through some of the most spectacular scenery imaginable. This was only one of many surprises we encountered on our trip.
We rendezvoused with 50 other travelers in Presidio, Texas. The 24 rigs we drove were an assorted lot: one small truck camper, Class A's [large bus-type campers], Class C's [smaller bus-type campers], and several 5th wheels. We all had one thing in common--adventure. We headed into Mexico on a 25-day tour: our ultimate goal--traveling through Copper Canyon on a piggyback train.
Our caravan was led by an experienced wagon master, a retired tail-gunner, and their wives. The wagon master guided us through border paper work, made arrangements with camp grounds along the way, and organized city tours, meals, and entertainment frequently provided as part of the trip. Last in line, the tail gunner shepherded the rigs, assisted with repairs as necessary, and assured us that every rig reached the night's destination.
Although Copper Canyon is only a day's travel south of the border, it is largely undiscovered by Americans. It is a series of interlaced canyons covering 25,000 square miles. This canyon complex is four times larger and 280 feet deeper than the Grand Canyon. Inaccessible by road, much of the stunning scenery can be seen only from the railroad, which took 90 years to build and is considered an engineering marvel. It climbs to more than 8,000 feet through the Sierra Madre Mountains, winding through 86 tunnels and across 37 bridges.
Before loading the RV's on the train, we explored the canyon from top to bottom by passenger van. After five day's travel on dusty roads with interesting overnight stops, we arrived in Creel. Accommodations in the bottom of the canyon were limited, so our group was divided in half. One group took the seven-hour trip down the canyon in vans; the other group waited with the rigs at the top. Each group spent two nights in accommodations in the remote city of Batopilas; the other group explored Creel.
More than 7,000 feet in elevation, Creel was unusually cold. The group at the top spent the day by the lodge fireplace playing cards with fellow travelers. They awoke the next morning to find four and a half inches of snow blanketing the RV park. The other half traveled down the canyon, encountering fog and torrents of rain all the way to the bottom.
The road descended more than 6,000 feet--almost straight down. Narrow and winding, its one lane has to handle two-way traffic. It twists and turns sharply, using a series of switch backs to descend the steep grade. Looking up, we saw where we'd been; looking down, we knew where we were going. When we met an upcoming vehicle, we had a true Mexican stand-off: Who would back up first? After a tense pause, we backed to a spot wide enough for the other vehicle to squeeze past. Our tires clung to the edge of the rim; our rear hovered over the cliff. At times our vans forded water flowing across the road. Once we had to stop under a waterfall streaming over the road.
The scenery literally takes your breath away. The temperature changes as much as 30 degrees from canyon top to bottom. As we descended, the terrain changed from winter desert to warm and tropical. We stopped for a Mexican lunch cooked on a fire pit under tropical fruit trees. We expected the hotel to be on the rustic side. Instead we found a beautiful stone hacienda clinging to the mountain side. Bougainvillea covered the arched walkways and stained glass glistened in the windows. Most of the ten rooms overlooked a river. The food in the dining room was delicious, and a local band played lively music while we danced.
At the bottom of a remote canyon, the nearest civilization a seven-hour drive up an almost untravelable road, lies the bustling little city of Batopilas, independently living away from the rest of the world. Though shabby now, the vestiges of its glory days are evident in the walls of the old opera house and the grand haciendas built when the city's silver mines yielded more than a billion ounces of pure silver. In its heyday in the late 1800's, Batopilas' residents were rich; and ladies and gentlemen in fine, fashionable clothes attended social events. A young bride once walked to the church on a path of silver bars when rain muddied the cobblestone streets on her wedding day.
The city is an amazing mix of old and new. Today's residents find the streets too narrow for modern cars, occasioning much backing and maneuvering. Grand houses have been partitioned into little stores and dwellings. Workmen were replacing the cobbled street with concrete mixed in an electric drum then spread with shovels. School children in clean, crisp uniforms hurried home, stopping in the grocery for chicharrones and Coca-Colas. Silver shops sold sterling jewelry at old fashioned prices. A mine on the cliff had been closed for years. Men with picks had added new air shafts in anticipation of its reopening. Dressed in white hats, men gathered in a junk yard for a political rally. Cerveza (beer) flowed and speeches blared from a loudspeaker atop a battered pickup truck. An inebriated Mexican tried to entice an Indian man in a traditional skirt to dance. Here in the solitude of the canyon, tightly hemmed in by almost vertical rock walls more than a mile deep, time doesn't stand still but limps slowly into the 21st century.
We returned to Creel and traveled to La Junta where we drove onto a railroad dock where eight connected flat beds were backed level to it. Metal ramps just a little wider than our tires spanned the gap between the dock and the 60-foot flatbeds. The train crew aligned the ramps with our truck tires. We drove the truck onto the flatbed, stopped while the ramps were realigned to our fifth-wheel tires, then pulled the trailer onto the flatbed. We repeated the process six times to move across the connected flatbeds to our assigned car. Two other docks worked simultaneously. When all 24 RV's were loaded, the three sections were joined into one train.
During the night it snowed again. As we pulled out the next morning, our first views from the train were veiled in white. Over the next few days we saw some of the most astounding scenery in Mexico. At the 1,000-foot-long Chinipas Bridge, we were suspended 355 feet in the air with only the width of the rail bed between us and the chasm below. Once the train made a 360-degree loop over itself. Another time it entered a tunnel with the canyon on one side, made a 180-degree turn, and exited with the canyon on the opposite side. In total there were eleven miles of tunnels and more than two miles of bridges. Waterfalls, rivers, mountain vistas, and hillsides covered with blossoming pink trees and kapok were everywhere.
We passed small villages where little houses, often shanties, lined the tracks. The villagers came out to watch us pass. When we waved at them, they excitedly waved back, their faces illuminated with big smiles. Mothers doing the morning wash paused to grin and wave a soapy hand. The children, even at the schools, ran to the tracks. The school supplies we threw them were as welcome as Christmas presents to those children.
We spent the nights in our RV's on railroad sidings. Each morning we traveled a while and then stopped in a town. We climbed down from the train on ladders and explored the area in buses or vans with local guides. Lunches, evening meals, and entertainment were often part of the tour. In Divisadero, one such town, Tarahumara Indian women cooked over metal drums that served as stoves. The chile rellenos were wonderful. Women with babies tied to their backs displayed on the ground bright shawls, handmade baskets, jewelry, and other colorful knick-knacks. They expected tourists to bargain. Most spoke very little English but knew how to make change from either pesos or dollars.
In the canyon, the Tarahumara still live much as their ancestors did for generations before them, cultivating crops on the mountains in the summer and moving down into the warmer canyon in the winter. The women wear brightly patterned dresses with yards of material in very full, ruffle-hemmed skirts. In winter they wear all their dresses in layers. When the weather warms a few degrees, they remove a dress. The men wear vivid blouses and short white skirts that dip into a longer v-shape in the back. Both wear sandals with a thin flexible sole secured to the foot with a thong wrapped between the toes and ankle.
They are superb endurance runners and play a game that requires running for 72 hours non-stop. They kick a baseball-sized wooden ball with their feet for the entire route of the game, which travels up and down very steep mountain sides. The running skills of the Tarahumara came to the attention of Americans who took some to competitions in the United States. They tried the shoes offered by well-known American companies and asked for their sandals back.
The landscape in which the Tarahumara live is layer after layer of mountains, some rising to 12,000 feet. No roads penetrate deep into the wilderness. Using binoculars, we scanned the peaks. On what seemed totally inaccessible cliffs, little clearings appeared with tiny wood or stone huts, corn and bean fields, goats, chickens, and burros. The Tarahumara often use caves as dwellings, the natural openings enclosed with rocks or logs, leaving only a door. Access to many homes is by footpath only, and Tarahumaras scale the vertical mountainsides with ease.
We left the train near Las Mochis near the Sea of Cortez. At sea level the air was balmy, and we spent the last several days of the trip on the ocean. At Guasave, the group hired a boat and guide and cruised through a maze of islands, stopping on one for a picnic lunch and shelling. We went ashore on Bird Island and walked quietly through the cordon cactus where a multitude of birds nest. The air was abuzz with cormorants, pelicans, egrets, herons, and frigate birds. Huge nests snuggled in the arms of the cactus and in the low trees that grow in the sandy soil. Mother pelicans hovered over youngsters in nests, and we gazed with awe at eggs in other nets, being careful not to disturb either the eggs or the parents.
We wandered with a guide through quaint villages like El Fuerte and Las Alamos and visited the former home of a well-known Mexican actress, the late Maria Felix. In Guaymas, we went to a pearl oyster farm and watched men implant tiny mother of pearl beads into oysters before returning them to the ocean. In a few years they will harvest pearls.
All too quickly, it was time to say "Adios!" to new friends and cross the border into Nogales, Arizona. It was a trip on which we woke each morning eagerly anticipating what the day might bring. We were never disappointed. Each day was a new and exciting adventure.
On Retirement
Oh, my! I thought the time would never come, not to me anyhow. I am retiring at the end of this month. Yes, sir, March 31 closes this chapter of my life. I have noticed that people have begun treating me differently. They speak about me in third person and past tense: "He used to teach here." "He used to be on such-and-such a committee." These kinds of comments make me aware that YES, I am retiring. Even the flow of my mail has dwindled. Only my e-mails are coming fast and furious with advertisements of products or services for which I have no need.
I really never thought that retiring could be this hard. Most people congratulate me on this coming event, and I ask myself, "Is this really a good thing?" Maybe I am just one of those lucky persons who really enjoy what I do. I cannot see myself not teaching again--especially now that I have finally learned enough to be a good teacher. Now that I have learned enough to make the connection among so many facts that at one time seemed so disparate. I have finally learned to truly, really, have fun teaching! Ideas seem clearer, concepts easier to teach, examples easier to grasp. I have the same love for my field as the day I started; I have the same passion for teaching. The only difference is that now I do it better than ever.
I have tried my hand at working in industry--twice, for that matter. I hated every single minute. Never, not once, did I work past 5:00 p.m. I never gave my job a single thought during the weekend or vacation. On the other hand, teaching seems to consume my every waking moment. Whether I go to the movies, take a trip, watch television, or read a book, something always begs to become part of my next lecture. An epiphany waits at the next bend of the road.
Though my teaching career seems to be coming to an end, I still have many, many things to enjoy: my wife, my children, my grandchildren, my many hobbies. Welcome to retirement!
Gustavo MoralesWHAT ELSE IS NEW IN RETIREMENT?
High school reunions generally turn up what can be expected: (1) Some former classmates have made it; some haven't. (2) A few classmates have aged gracefully; most have merely aged. (3) After fifty or so years, many classmates have received their heavenly degrees.
Meeting the old flames they once prayed would be theirs 'til death did them part, many find themselves murmuring, as does Garth Brooks in one of his country songs, "Thank God for unanswered prayers." On the other hand, some widows and widowers run into their unattached old flames and marry them.
What one doesn't expect is the unexpected. Here's what Deedee Tighe says about her unexpected experience at her '04 high school reunion. She was graduated from Stonewall Jackson High School (Charleston, WV) in 1950.
NOT EXPECTING THE UNEXPECTED
At last year's high school reunion, I was sitting next to a woman who had noticed my married name, Tighe, on my name tag. She said she'd had during her senior year ('52-'53) at Dunbar (WV) Junior/Senior High School a teacher named Tighe.
She told me, in fact, that her name was Gwena Ranson Riley and that she'd been a cheerleader and member of the Dunbar yearbook and newspaper staff during her senior year. Don, fresh out of graduate school, had for that one year taught English and journalism at Dunbar. He had sponsored both the yearbook and the newspaper. Gwena remembered that Don and I and our year-old daughter Jennifer had hosted at our small apartment the staffs of both newspaper and yearbook. She was at my reunion because her husband was a graduate of Stonewall Jackson.
When I told him about meeti g Gwena, Don resurrected his copy of The Bulldog, the '52-'53 Dunbar yearbook, and we both reminisced about that first year of teaching. Don then sent his copy of The Bulldog to Gwena. Since Gwena still had her own copy, she sent Don's to a Dunbar grad who had lost her copy in a fire. Several weeks later Don got a card from another member of the journalism staff who had enrolled at Concord College (Athens, WV) where Don had gone to teach and I to take care of a two-year-old and get ready to give birth to a son.
Since my reunion, the Dunbar grapevine apparently got busy. Don has heard from three students he taught and worked with 52 years ago. All three said Don ought to attend the Dunbar reunion to be held in '05.
Keese Perry writes to tell us that "many things keep reminding" him of Valencia. He says, in fact, that he still wears his Valencia wristwatch proudly and gets positive comments on it. It still keeps perfect time. He also wears his Valencia jacket when he plays golf and when it looks rainy.
Keese and Charline live south of Ashville, North Carolina, a few miles from the Blue Ridge Parkway, and have taken on a new responsibility, a male collie mix who found them at the local animal shelter. His name is Bodie. Bodie weighed ten pounds in December when they got him, now weighs 20 pounds, and is likely to keep growing. They have enrolled Bodie in puppy kindergarten, where they hope to train him not to bite folks, chew, and dig up their plants. As Keese says, "Our children were never so spoiled or so apt to get away with the outrages Bodie commits everyday."
Keese tells us that their daughter Siri, who lives near them in Ashville, is finishing her Masters Degree in Nursing. She will be a nurse practitioner with certification in two areas of practice. Meanwhile she will shortly marry Roy Craft, father of two sons, graduates of Furman. Their son Mark and his family live near Chicago. Mark holds a PhD in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Utah and has been employed by Baxter Labs since 1997. He and his wife have two children: eight-year-old Nevada and five-year-old Mesa. Keese says, "They are our pride and joy!"
Peggy Phillips writes to tell us that she's been tutoring with the Farmworkers' Ministry in Apopka. Students are from Apopka High School and are in the ESOL program there. Two afternoons a week they are transported to a Luthern Church in Apopka for turoting. There's also a middle school group, but I'm only involved in the high school group--just a few students. Since English is their second language, they struggle with most of their subjects. These children are from low-income families in the nursery or farm industry.
The Farmworkers' Ministry in Apopka was started approximately thirty years ago by several Roman Catholic nuns. The tutoring program, one part of the ministry, is organized and run by a group called Americorps Volunteers, an organization much like the Peace Corps.
Peggy says, "It is inspiring to meet and work with these volunteers, young college graduates who dedicate a year or two of their lives to help others. They are part of an educational component of Americorps Volunteers throughout the country."
Other components include "Habitat for Humanity." Volunteers in Apopka tutor in the schools and also in adult language programs. They do this for a yearly nominal stipend and live with merely basic necessities.
Peggy says, "Even though the students we tutor face many language difficulties as well as many daily family struggles, they appreciate the help we provide."
Peggy Phillips
Send comments or additions to the President, Gustavo Morales
Newsletter hyperlinked and formatted for the Web by E. Rhamstine, April, 2005
