A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

As I said, I started junior college in January. I continued to attend the two shorter summer terms, and started my fall semester (they called it a "trimester") in August. But now I had enough credits to offer my services to my old high school as a choir teacher!

I don't recall how I heard about this opportunity. I may have just dropped by for a visit with the principal. In any case, I was to teach choir five days a week, and they would pay me to do so!

I let my favorite choir teacher, Sister Mary George, be my model. I typed up pop song lyrics and, one day a week, we'd sing them together. This was still the last days of the folk era; but the Catholic Church had just embraced folk-style hymns. So I played guitar while the kids sang.

Every now and then, there'd be a "thing", some event we had to perform at (other than high Mass) The above newsclipping (thanks, Mom!) covers a Rosary thing we did, and for which I set the words of a prayer to original music. It was an embarrassingly simple tune and I never wanted credit for it, but for years to come they would perform it and my name was always on the music.

I love the paragraph from the news article though:

The music will be furnished by the St Joseph Academy Choir, directed by Paul Cilwa, who has put the Fatima ejaculation to music; and this will be sung after each mystery of the Rosary.

I've seen my name in print many times, but this is the only time it's been paired with the word "ejaculation", making this article my favorite.

Teaching choir in 1971 marked the beginning of my journey in education, a time when I couldn't yet foresee the path ahead. Although I later immersed myself in programming, those initial experiences with eager students laid a crucial foundation. Whether this early teaching role inexorably led to my career as a contract instructor of computer programming, or merely became an opportunity I deftly utilized, remains a subtle question. Yet, its significance in shaping my professional trajectory is undeniable.