PIECES OF A BIGGER PICTURE

I was a little ambivalent about going to see Bruce Springsteen’s Land of Hope and Dreams show in Pittsburgh in mid-March. People on social media criticized Springsteen’s harsh words toward the current administration and its policies. Others were praising him for his inspiration about the country he knows and loves. 

I just did not know what to expect. Unfortunately, I have allowed myself to be inundated with social media posts, news programs, and articles about the state of the country, and, irrespective of my personal opinion, it has all become too much at times. The world has affected my ability to filter out the talking heads, turn the channel, or swipe the page.

So I was apprehensive about going to the show, worried that hearing one of my favorite artists vent about politics might dim any remaining positive outlook more than impersonal commentators on a news channel’s roundtable. I was wrong, though. 

Bruce was angry, yes. He channeled his anger into his music, opening with a blistering take on Edwin Starr’s "War.” Throughout the show, Springsteen would stop to criticize recent events in our country. Many people would say he was harsh and unpatriotic, while others would call him passionate and inspiring. But do you know what? He always leaves me feeling that there is some hope to be found if we just look hard enough.

Right before his song “My City of Ruins,” Bruce ended his speech with this plea:

“Honesty. Honor. Humility. Character. Truth. Compassion. 

Humanity, thoughtfulness, morality, true strength, and decency.

Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do. They are at the heart of the kind of men and women we are, the kind of citizens we want to be, and the kind of country we want to leave for our children.”

This was Springsteen’s request. We can be critical; we can disagree. That is our right as Americans. But can we retain hope? Can we latch onto that which epitomizes the traits and characteristics we value? We simply must.

I left the concert feeling better. I was surrounded by people who felt the same, people who stood and applauded the principles of our country that the Boss passionately espoused. Some voices you just listen to and feel better.

Days later, I was still recovering from an early morning return to Wheeling after the concert, and I would have enjoyed sleeping in a little longer. My two government classes had already taken their exams, and I had graded about half of them. An extra hour or two would have done wonders.

This poor student had to miss his last day of classes because of a medical emergency. Shortly before going into surgery on the day of his final exam, he emailed me to let me know he wouldn’t be there. I would have been more worried about surgery, but God has a special place for students who always remember to email teachers if they are going to miss class.

He came the day after his surgery to take the exam. So, despite a nausea patch still stuck behind his ear, he showed more energy than I did at 7:30 am, when he was waiting for me outside my door.

As he dug into his exam, he searched his Citizen’s Chronicle for answers to the questions about rights guaranteed in the Constitution. The Chronicle was a standard composition book wrapped in class stickers, quotations, and a bunch of masking tape. Inside, he found his handwritten notes, drawings, pictures, and the amazing story of Billy Rightway.

At the beginning of the school year, I was comfortably uncomfortable being retired from teaching full-time. Central called to ask if I could teach a couple of government classes this school year. I was hesitant at first. An entire year? Government? Ugh.

Betsy had a bunch of old, slightly used composition books collecting dust in her room, remnants of an APush class years ago. I made my plans, took the composition books, and decided to forgo being overly formal and go with real and gritty, maybe even messy. But the bottom line was to do something meaningful and relevant.

The students filled over 62 pages of the composition book not only with the guiding principles and laws of our country but also with their personal takes on a wide variety of topics. What does it mean to be a good citizen beyond just claiming you are one? Who are the people in your life who have modeled this for you? 

What about the Bill of Rights? Do you know what they guarantee to you? When you look around the country or watch the news, do you witness civil discourse, or do you hear insulting rhetoric? Do you feel as if your voice is heard? From this point on, what type of citizen do you wish to be?

These are just a few questions I could ask myself, ones that I thought would be good to ask my students. We walked a fine line, doing our best to objectively examine issues from multiple viewpoints and to listen as one another shared their thoughts. Then we wrote, we drew, we thought, and then we did it all over again.

That was our journey this year.

The following week, prior to graduation, I enjoyed the students’ commencement presentations. They all had an opportunity to share the reflections they had written in English class. Some offered heartfelt tributes to their parents, grandparents, and siblings, acknowledging the roles those loved ones played in shaping who they are. 

They shared elements of their own stories. One person talked about her friend, who thoughtfully created motivational sticky notes for others in the hope that their days would be good ones. Others spoke of the honor of having played a sport with classmates and referring to teammates and coaches as family.

I listened to students who talked about challenges they have fought to overcome. They bravely spoke of individual medical conditions that made every day a challenge. Many voiced the sadness they felt over losing a family member close to them or the fear they have when someone they love immensely has been fighting a battle with cancer. A quiet student told of growing more confident from time spent on the drama stage, while another retold parts of his incredible journey from war-torn Ukraine to America.

And when they were all done, each student returned to an audience that congratulated them with fist bumps and compassionate hugs, some of which were sprinkled with the tears of humanity. I witnessed a small but compelling picture of what the future can be like with the current generation.

“Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do.”

Luiso Photography

SUNSHINE SHUTTLE

The brown paper bag looked amazing. A huge, smiling yellow sun covered nearly the entire top of the brown bag, with the colorful words “you are sun-sational” splashed beneath it. Below that was printed, “Thanks for all that you have done this year!” Tufts of bright lemon paper looked like rays of the sun popping out of the top.

I sipped my chilled glass of ice-cold lemonade, which I had made for myself at the cool lemonade stand across the counter in the lounge, adding some fresh berries and a few drops of blackberry syrup. I was having quite the afternoon.

I retired from full-time teaching three years ago. I never thought I would step back into the classroom again, but teaching only two classes this year is kind of nice. I have plenty of free time to walk the dog more often, play video games for hours on end, and catch up on years of lost sleep.

So when Teacher Appreciation Week rolled around this year, I felt a little guilty about taking part in the celebration. Some days, I am only here for one government class while other teachers are navigating a full load of classes each day. That lemonade sure tasted good, though.

I looked at the bag. The principal stood at the table in the teacher’s lounge talking to me. I know Becky wanted me to open the bag, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her. I was content to sip on the lemonade and imagine what was inside the bag, so I told her I was going to open it at home. 

I lied. Once she left, I peeked inside. Maybe I didn’t want her to see me smile as I pulled out the surprises. 

I quickly unwrapped a Golden Grahams bar and savored tiny bites while checking out my stickers, Play-Doh, and a little rubber duck. But the "pièce de résistance" was something totally unexpected: a personalized laminated round-trip ticket on the Sunshine Shuttle to Dupes Scoops for an ice-cream treat. 

The next day, on an overcast, chilly afternoon, teachers, their eyes worn from the end of the year and their arms crossed, gathered in front of the school after the students had been dismissed.  Survivors of a full day of hyperactive teenagers who would rather be anywhere else began to smile when they saw the Sunshine Shuttle awaiting them.

I masked my own enthusiasm while holding my own golden ticket in front of me like Charlie Bucket. I half expected to see Willie Wonka driving the orange school bus, but Mr. Murphy was the perfect replacement.  Orange, yellow, and white streamers dropping down in front of the bus door invited weary souls to a magical place where today’s pressure was not to be found.

I feel kind of corny writing about all of this. But when I stepped on the Sunshine Shuttle to find it decorated with balloons, small suns, and even more streamers, I felt like a kid again. And let me tell you something, for a pushing 60, underdressed-for-the-weather man in shoes that had lost their arch support, to feel excitement about a trip to Dupes Scoops was something pretty special.

I remember a few specifics from the journey through downtown Wheeling, but for the most part, I just recall the feeling. Many of the teachers jabbered enthusiastically while I kept my arms atop the school bus seat in front of me, silently listening to some happy music playing faintly in the background as I looked out the window.

Throughout life, we often struggle with being “present” in moments. We may not always appreciate the simpler things, see the value in a kind gesture or smile, or acknowledge the road we have taken to arrive where we are. The significance of moments is often found in the time and places we take for granted.

The Sunshine Shuttle arrived quickly, hopefully avoiding the impending rain showers. Teachers are the universally certified guardians of orderly lines. With that in mind, we took our turns slowly disembarking the bus, stepping into the aisle without encroaching on the person’s personal space in front of us, and keeping our hands to ourselves.

Younger educators stood in line with the veterans. Math and science, English and social studies, art and video, staff and admins, all shivered in excitement as they waited their turn at the window. I tried to calculate the number of years of teaching experience gathered there on National Road, but I am a former English teacher who currently teaches a couple of government classes. I can add, but I struggle to keep a tally in my head, primarily because of my remarkable ability to become distracted whenever I am getting ice cream.

My turn came, and I stepped to the window, where I came face-to-face with Dupes himself, Luke Duplaga. Talk about moments. I had Luke in my class nearly a decade ago. Can that even be correct? I tried to do the math standing there, but…well, you know. Ice cream. 

Many teachers lose track of the years; some, like me, have occasionally forgotten names. We don’t forget the time spent together, even if we can’t remember the specific years and faces.  The great gift educators are afforded is the occasional opportunity to witness how a student’s story is progressing, a story far removed from the chapter in which you appeared.

It was good to see Luke. We talked a little, but Dupes still had a bunch of ice cream to hand out, and knowing Luke, I am sure he wanted to get the orders right. So I took my cappuccino crunch waffle cone, said “thank you,” then stepped to the side, the way all good teachers try to model for their students.

The Sunshine-Shuttle headed back to school, escaping the rain at just the right time. So many thoughts and emotions spun around in my head. Looking at everyone on the bus, having one last glance at the decorations and the shiny sun hanging beside me on the seat, I felt good, better than I have felt in a while. 

I was touched by the appreciation the school showed my colleagues and me. Yes, I loved the lemonade stand, the coffee cart, and, of course, the Sunshine Shuttle trip to Dupes Scoops. I will always be grateful for the week we had this year. 

Beyond the treats and gifts, the week gave me another treasure: a sense of gratitude for the career I chose, the never-ending flashbacks to previous classrooms and schools, the experiences of learning and teaching, and, of course, the enduring lifetime connections with students and colleagues.

I had my arms resting contentedly on top of the seat in front of me again on the ride home. I could still taste the cappuccino crunch ice cream at Dupes. “Becky? Can we do this every week?” 

Becky chuckled, “I wish we could.”

Living in the moment, appreciating one another, and being forever grateful. 

GREEN ROOM

The rain bothered me at first, but I found it offered a suitable backdrop for my jaunt back to West Liberty on a chilly day in early March. That day was a late-in-life effort to do some things I have been wanting to do for a long time. 

I had asked Coach Mike if I could watch a Topper basketball practice this season on one of my free days from part-time government classes at Central. He told me I was always welcome, but I seemed to find an excuse not to go. I have been quite adept at making up reasons not to do things my whole life. 

Sure, I went to watch the practice, but don’t tell Coach I had other reasons, more personal ones for my journey up the winding roads WV-88. My trip was more deliberate and contemplative. I have been back in Wheeling for over twelve years now, but I had never really walked across the quad that a younger A.J. walked forty years ago.

I took a hard right up the steep hill near Bonar Hall, where I spent my first year. I passed Krise Hall and neared the turn where I could look down at Beta Hall, half-expecting a cautionary sign reading "Proceed with Caution." Like a haunted house, my senior-year dorm nestled in the afternoon darkness and drizzling rain.

I pushed the wipers a little harder to see the memories of that year. I shook my head at the unfolding stories, chuckled a few times, and then took a picture to show Chaka. I needed to move on for now.

I parked and made my way to the quad. At its center stood the tall flagpole. Gone was the large wooden base where, as a Phi Sig pledge, I had to lean with my knees jutting forward at right angles to “think about it” after a late night of mud-diving or whenever one of my pledge brothers said something stupid. But the flag remained, as were the numerous sidewalks that led students outward to other destinations on campus. 

The Quad at West Liberty University

I took one sidewalk to the bottom floor of the library, where I strolled down the long hallway several times, looking into the empty rooms where I once sat in my English classes. On the main floor of the library, the entryway seemed larger and more spacious. Countless study tables and computers replaced the coziness of the massive bookshelves.

Another sidewalk led to the student union. Where were this burrito place, the corner coffee shop, and the pick and go store when I was a student? Were there still dances on the main floor? Someone removed the pool tables downstairs, and the aroma of stale beer no longer wafted from the little room I remembered as the pub. Nothing appeared to be what it once was to me.

I sat down in one of the many comfy couches that quietly huddled together in a space I recall as electric on a Thursday evening. Students were still on campus, working in class, practicing with their teams, or even working at jobs. Despite the changes and emptiness, the feeling I once had walking through here returned to me. I sat with my memories, wondering if this place remembered me, even a little bit.

I stepped outside, opened my umbrella, and returned to the quad. I stepped onto the longest sidewalk, which ran the length of campus, stopping at Kelly Theater. For the longest time, I have really wanted to visit the theater. I had spent the bulk of my years there acting on stage, taking speech classes, and figuring out just who I was going to be during my college years.

I quietly walked up the steps as if I were visiting the theater for the first time and slowly opened the door. A sense of reverence enveloped me as I stepped into the dark theater. Smaller safety lights illuminated areas around the sloped audience seating. I wanted to walk down the stairs toward the lighted stage, but a self-imposed restraint pinned my feet to the top of the staircase. This spot would be far enough.

Was I the ghost here, unable to touch the memories that flickered around me? The people I saw on the empty stage appeared so alive, but so was I. Bill and I argued as Hildy Johnson and Walter Burns in The Front Page as we did forty years ago. John Reilly winced and repeatedly told me to start again as I struggled with an Irish accent in his Voice for the Stage class. I sang and danced around a huge wooden doghouse with my light blue blanket as Linus in You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

More and more ghosts traveled across the lighted stage as I stood there, enraptured by a life I once lived. The longer I stayed, the more the ghosts peered at me from the corners of their eyes, subtly nudging me to leave and return another time.

The hallway beside Kelly Theater led to other parts of the building: the art gallery, the music department, and a row of lockers leading out the back door. At the end of the lockers, the green room awaited. 

The green room is a place where members of the cast and crew can quietly unwind away from the stage. It was in this room that we could think about the performances we had just delivered and those we had yet to give. It was the crossroads between what was and what could be.

Of course, we were kids then, still learning to lower our voices, particularly during rehearsals or performances. The excitement of life often overwhelmed us. Of course, those were times when my college advisor, Meta Lasch, would descend the metal stairs from her office above the green room to tell us to keep it down or get out. We always stayed.

I looked around the small room, futilely putting together pieces from two different puzzles. As I had hoped all day, I wanted my perception of what stood before me to match my memories of the past, seeking some tangible relic whose significance remained for all but was understood by only a few.

I noticed the couches and the dark walls that were so similar to what I remembered. A locked metal-mesh door cut off the office at the top of the metal stairs nestled against the wall. The door to the theater stood open to the same lighted stage I faced as an audience on the opposite side minutes earlier. I'm not sure I should be here anymore.

“Hi,” I whispered. I did not want to startle the two students who sat on one of the couches. “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

They looked at each other. I felt some doubt and uneasiness emanating from them. I remembered that I was a disheveled 60-year-old man with a gray beard, wearing a damp hoodie, who happened to drop by to “come in for a minute.” That could be creepy in our current world.

“I am sorry. I should have knocked or something. I am just looking around. I graduated back in 86 and just wanted to see how much things have changed. I saw something. I ignored the two students and walked across the room. Mounted on the wall were two large wooden fraternity paddles. At the center were the carved Greek letters:  ΑΨΩ. 

“OMG. You kept these? I can’t believe this. Is Alpha Psi Omega still around?”

One of the students embraced the moment with me. “Of course. Were you in Alpha Psi?”

I moved even closer to the large paddles to read the smaller signatures surrounding the large ΑΨΩ. I moved closer to my past as I scanned the paddles for my name. “I know my name is here,” I laughed like a child unwrapping a special present on this birthday.

I found it right above Cheryl Saseen’s signature. Cheryl wrote her name in a black Sharpie that stood out prominently on the paddle. Mine? My name was a slightly muted silver Sharpie. Why did I write with that color Sharpie? I could barely see my name. Still, this was pretty damn cool. 

I turned back to the student, “Would you mind getting a couple of pictures of me with this? No one will believe this is still here.”  I gave her my phone. “Do you know how to take pictures with a phone?”

She laughed. “I think I can figure it out.” I attempted to move as close as possible to the paddle so I could point at my name, but pieces of furniture were pushed closely together along the wall. “You know what?” my photographer asked. “Why don’t you climb on top of the chair so I can take a better shot?”

“Are you sure?” I glanced out the door to make sure no adult came in to catch me stepping on university furniture. I climbed onto the chair, then contorted my aged body into an uncomfortable position to look back at the camera and smile.

Beta Hall 

The English Hallway

The Stage

Forty Years Ago

REGENERATION

 

Oh no.

It wasn’t there anymore, my fob, the one I needed to start my car.

Ten minutes ago, it was attached to my blue Salt Life lanyard along with my house keys and Wellness Center ID. I felt the lanyard snag on my typically overpacked suitcase as I hoisted it onto the rear bumper of my Explorer.

Bone-chilling air off of Lake Erie filled the empty parking lot of the Hilton Garden Inn. The trucks that had blocked the unmerciful Mid-March winds of 2026 the previous night were gone. Some remaining flurries still swirled around me this Sunday morning. I stood alone in a frigid wasteland in northern Pennsylvania.

As I pushed my suitcase completely into the back of my Explorer, I kept an eye out for pieces of my fob. I spotted a shiny, round battery resting on the concrete, alone with me in the parking lot. But where were the other pieces?

“God. It is so cold,” I began. “What have I done?”

I searched the area for the two pieces of my fob. I found one half snuggled between two uneaten pepperoni rolls at the bottom of a Food Lion grocery bag full of ginger ale, small bottles of liquor, and candy wrappers. 

Once I had the remaining section, which hid beneath my suitcase, I shut the back hatch and began to put the key fob back together. I slow-stepped to the side door, hoping to be finished and ready to exit the cold by the time I reached the driver's side.

Nothing. Nothing clicked. Nothing moved.

I couldn't get into my Explorer. I ran to the back, hoping the hatch was still open. It was also locked, closed by my own stupidity and locked by my own ineptitude only minutes earlier. 

I grew colder and felt my fingers losing warmth. My dress shirt and lightweight vest retained enough body heat to keep me warm for ten minutes or so, but that time had long since passed. 

I briskly walked to the side door of the hotel where I had exited moments earlier. The cleaning man who swept the rug and I had exchanged passing greetings earlier on my way out, back when I was in a more optimistic Sunday-morning mood. 

Locked. Damn. No key card. No cleaning man. 

I gazed through the tempered glass of the door, hoping for someone to walk down the long hallway. The little entrance barely shielded me from the cold, and I winced at the thought of the warmth on the other side of that half-inch of glass. I turned around in the small entryway and looked back out at my SUV sitting by itself in the parking lot.

Jim and Lisa had already gone. My brother likes to get on the road early. Michael, Emily, and the kids. Surely, they are moving slowly this morning. Nope. Gone. What about the Hilltopper team bus? Is there anyone at all?

I was on my own. 

Life often sends us down paths that we must travel alone, not because we have done anything wrong but because we need the journey to evolve, to become a better version of ourselves.

I zipped my vest up as high as it would go, pulled down on my UNC toboggan, and began the long walk around the corner of the building to the front door. I needed a plan. I needed to eliminate one factor affecting my ability to think: the icy cold.

The huge lobby was empty but welcomingly warm. I walked to one of the couches near a table where Emily and Michael’s son, Enzo, and I had put together a Disney puzzle Saturday morning before the Hilltoppers game. We spent an hour there, eating a Rice Krispies treat and looking for the missing pieces to the puzzle that Enzo had dropped on the floor.

Once I had a chance to slow down, I found my understanding of the key fob had improved. Even though I was able to put all the pieces in the right spots, I still struggled to snap the fob closed. Sometimes I think we get so far in life, only to hit more roadblocks.

The nice manager who gave Enzo his Rice Krispies treat stood at the front desk this morning. I waited patiently until she finished her work before bothering her. “Ma’am? Would you happen to have a rubber band? I can’t get this fob to close and need a rubber band to hold it together so I can go home.” 

“Oh, dear. Let me see what I have back here. Give me a minute.” She disappeared through a door behind the desk.

As she did that, I looked around the lobby and over to the Safari Grill, where the bar sat dark and empty. On Friday evening, the televisions around the bar were alive with the excitement of NCAA tournament games. People who know me will agree that I do not typically sit in a bar all night watching games and socializing. I have not been that way since college.

I loosened my self-imposed restraints and spent Friday night planted on the same barstool at the Safari Grill, engaging in a life that I did not want to pass me by.  I started by having an international conversation with a German bottle printer visiting the United States for his job, where we spoke about the differences between our two countries and his love for all that the US offers. 

As the night passed, more people came and went. I shared unused crossword puzzles I carried with me in case I was bored. I talked with the head chef about my delicious Beyond Beef burger. And I actually congratulated members of the championship West Liberty Men’s Basketball Team as they travelled back and forth through the grill to film sessions before tomorrow’s game. I was Norm, sitting at the end of the bar at Cheers, a regular unprepared to leave. 

My night in the Safari Grill was one of the better nights I have had in a long time. And, honestly, the experience continued the next day when I watched the NCAA basketball tournament kicking off here in Erie. Having watched West Liberty all year, I was sad they lost, but I was honored to witness the story the players and coaches had this season. Poignancy lives in bittersweet loss and the challenges life presents us.

So, when the manager came back with a solid, thick rubber band, I knew I had to take back my own story. I could rewrite how I viewed the events of the key fob, the desolation of the parking lot, and my being alone, not just as an undesirable ending to my weekend, but perhaps as a new beginning for something better.

With my key fob held tightly together by multiple wrappings of the rubber band, I once again walked down the hallway I had used nearly an hour ago. I marched to my Explorer with determination and the belief that my repair job would work. Uncle Vince would be proud of how I MacGyvered the fob. I clicked the open-door button multiple times.

Nothing. Nothing clicked. Nothing moved.

Defeated, I began to walk back to the lobby. I asked myself what I needed to do. I'll call Jim, Michael, or my nephew Chris. There is no shame in depending on others. Right? But I knew I could handle this. You’ve got this.

Standing in the middle of the parking lot, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lanyard where the key fob normally stayed before I unceremoniously ripped it off. I saw that key, that one I never use. It is shiny and silver and does nothing but open the door.

I walked back to the driver’s side, inserted the generic key, and opened the door. The alarm started going off. I jumped inside and slammed the door, believing that would shut it off.  It didn’t. 

I pushed the ignition button. Nope. The alarm continued. I repeatedly pushed the hazard button off and on. Nope. Think. Think.

Someone, maybe my son Robert or one of my students, said that I could actually start my Explorer with a fob that has dead batteries. I stuck the fob right beside the ignition. Nope. I felt around for an opening or latch underneath the steering wheel. Nothing. The door? No. Think. Robert always looks on YouTube when he needs to find out how to do something. 

According to a YouTube video, there is a small slot inside the armrest storage area at the very bottom. A person just has to empty all the junk and clutter onto the passenger seat and simply stick the fob with a dead battery in the slot to start the car. 

Ten minutes later, I was driving southbound on I-79. As I traveled the same highway I had on Friday when I arrived, I knew this was a different journey now, one in which I could recall my experience in the Hilton Garden Inn parking lot with humor or angst, but one that has made me a bit more confident about how I handle an unknown future.