For one half hour, five times a week, Care Bear and I watch broadcast television. We have to be on time: 7:00 p.m. sharp, preferably a little earlier. The show is Jeopardy! – and we receive it via an inexpensive antenna. It broadcasts from our local NBC affiliate, KSBY—for free!

There are commercials, however. Many of these commercials are for pharmaceuticals. I usually watch them with the sound off. I find them fascinating.

In a certain Wegovy commercial, people abandon their daily lives to march en masse down the street with other strangers for no apparent purpose. A hairstylist walks out on her job. A record store owner abandons his business—leaving it unlocked. A young aspiring artist gives up painting. A father is teaching his son classic car maintenance when the parade passes by his driveway. Sorry, son! You’re on your own!

What a gem of a commercial!

There are numerous pharmaceutical commercials, some more inspiring than others. Sometimes I think I should call my doctor and ask him about “Aimovig,” just so I can own a food truck and park it by the beach.

The names of these medications are fascinating as well. Because I watch with the sound off, I have no idea how they are pronounced.

But my all-time favorite is the Attruby commercial, narrated by none other than Morgan Freeman and featuring the hit single “Ooh La La” by a band called the Faces. This commercial sets the bar very high. It is the gold standard of its genre. It is narrated by the Voice of God. It features a song that Rolling Stone regularly includes in its “Top 100 Classic Rock Songs” list. I love that song! I love Morgan Freeman! Sound on for this one!

It opens with the reflection of an American flag in a high school windowpane. Morgan Freeman, skilled orator that he is, can barely pronounce “Transthyretin Amyloid Cardiomyopathy.”

A teacher wistfully strolls the halls of the high school. “You’ve come a long way,” intones Morgan. The teacher enters his classroom, but it becomes apparent it is no longer his. He’s retiring. He flashes back to when he was a young teacher. He was good. He taught chemistry. Morgan Freeman walks in and gives him a hug.

Morgan accompanies the teacher to the gym, where his colleagues are waiting. It’s a retirement party. The featured gift is a guidebook to the National Parks. Morgan Freeman concludes by saying, “It’s time to get on livin’!” We then see the chemistry teacher visiting Yellowstone with his granddaughter.

My retirement resembles the one in the commercial in many ways, of course. But if I may be frank, my retirement party was better.

I began celebrating my retirement at the beginning of my final year of teaching. 

My thirtieth and final year teaching high school science was the 2017–2018 school year at Paso Robles High School (home of the Bearcats), where I spent 28 of my teaching years. It was the best year of my career.

It was the last year chemistry would be offered. Curriculum changes were coming. I would be the only chemistry teacher. (There would be no forced collaboration with my peers. I would be completely on my own.) I would be teaching chemistry to those juniors and seniors who still needed it to be eligible to apply to the University of California system. College-prep juniors and seniors. The best.

There would be no state testing. I was told by the administration that they would not be evaluating me, nor would they be visiting my classroom. I would not be expected to attend any meetings (I had stopped attending meetings several years prior, anyhow).

There would be no hoops to jump through. There would be no dog-and-pony shows to perform. High school chemistry students take their education fairly seriously, so they still expected rigor. As always, I was being held accountable by my students and no one else.

As “Twin Week” approached that school year, I was approached by one of my students who suggested that we go as twins. We’ll call him Gale, which can be a synonym for “storm.” You might remember Katniss’ hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, or the running back Gale Sayers. Gale can also mean jovial and merry.

My student Gale was quite jovial. I found his sense of humor very appealing, though I can understand why some teachers may have found it off-putting. Some of my colleagues were frustrated by his lack of seriousness.

Gale was very active in our school’s drama productions. He also loved music. At one point I added him to my family’s Spotify plan, so in a sense he was like family.

When Gale dressed up as me for Twin Week with a shaved head, some of his teachers were confused. Our Teacher of the Year approached me in the copy room. He described how a student of his had shaved his head right down the middle, leaving hair on the sides. Why would someone do that?

My students, Gale and I enjoyed the inside joke so much that Gale continued to dress like an old man and maintain his male-pattern baldness for an entire month. He had to shave his head regularly. I would constantly be “mistaken” for Gale in the hallway by his friends, of whom he had many. He was quite popular. Upon entering my classroom, I would often find Gale behind my desk, conducting class in a professional fashion.

“Can you please take your seat, Gale?” he would sternly ask me.

As my retirement celebration approached, I became apprehensive. I really did not want to stand up in front of my peers and accept a plaque. I knew I would be expected to say something. Although I had grown to be perfectly comfortable (probably too comfortable) in front of a revolving group of thirty teenagers, I was never comfortable speaking in front of my peers.

I was filled with dread. Then I saw Gale walking down the hall toward me. I was struck with inspiration.

Me: “Gale, my man! Can you do me a solid?”
Gale: “Sure, Mr. B. What’s up?”
Me: “I have my retirement celebration coming up, and I am really not looking forward to the attention. I was thinking maybe you could be me, and I could be you. Then I could just sit in the audience and enjoy the celebration. You could walk up on the stage as me, accept my plaque, and give a speech.”
Gale: “You bet, Mr. B. Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
Me: “Ah, thanks, man. It means a lot to me. Don’t forget to wear your matching shirt.”
Gale: “Got it.”

We had matching shirts.

On that Thursday at 3:30 p.m., late in the spring of 2018, we assembled in the All-Purpose Room (a.k.a. “Bearcat Hall”) to celebrate the retirees. I sat with Gale. Gale sat with me. We wore our matching T-shirts. He wore my baseball cap – the one that is emblazoned with “RETIRED” across the front. I had been wearing it all year.

As we chatted, I commented that I was happy he had decided to take my class for a second year in a row. He smiled and reminded me that it was because I had failed him the first time. We laughed. I had forgotten that minor point. Still, I was grateful to have him with me for that final year. He was part of my Spotify family—and a lost twin at that.

I was the last to be honored. Our master of ceremonies (the Teacher of the Year) spoke about me for a while. Then the principal took the stage with my plaque and asked Mr. Boicourt to join him onstage. Gale walked up and joined him. I cheered and clapped.

“Yeah! Mr. B! Woohoo! You rock!” I yelled. Not everyone was in on the joke, which made it even sweeter.

It should be noted that Gale probably did not have the easiest time in high school. He was not always academically successful. He wasn’t always understood by his teachers. He made up for some of this with humor. Sometimes that humor was judged inappropriate or poorly timed.

As we sat together and listened to the retiring teachers who took the stage before us, Gale had really listened. There were skits and songs. A group of teachers danced on the tables. Gale saw us all in a new light.

Gale gave a much better speech than I could have. It was, in fact, the best speech of the whole afternoon. He spoke about his journey and how he had changed. He spoke about the appreciation he had gained for his teachers. When he finished, there was hardly a dry eye in the house.

The master of ceremonies (who happened to be the Teacher of the Year from the copy room) took the microphone and thanked Gale. Then he said, “I think that’s a good place to end things.”

Gale was as good a thespian as Morgan Freeman. Heck, he had the lead in the school’s production of The Little Mermaid (yes, he played Ariel). But on that warm spring afternoon, as I attended my final meeting in Bearcat Hall, Gale was not acting. He was simply speaking from the heart.

Will I make it to all the national parks? I don’t know. I once assumed they were permanent, like granite and the Constitution.

Now I am not so certain. Rangers have been fired. Scientists have been silenced. Education programs have been axed. History has been erased. Visitors have been allowed in greater numbers but guided by fewer hands.

In 2018, I looked to Yosemite as my litmus test that responsible stewardship and brave leadership was still possible. Now I am no longer sure what I would find. These parks were a gift from the past. I worry we are becoming the generation that fails to pass them on intact.

Stay tuned, readers.