Gore Vidal said of George Santayana, that he was a man in every way admirable. The same can be said of Mr. Jenkins, whom my generation of Old Foleyans knew, affectionately, as “Jenko” and “Jenkins”. As one friend said to me, Mr. Jenkins was “an institution”. There was something about him, an animus, a gravitas, that filled a room, and not a bad word was spoken of him. Perhaps it was his pedagogical style, his rhythmic voice, his talent for nicknaming. (I knew his approach via an elongated call: “Ricardo!”.) Cross country, religious education, and history are all marked by his presence in my memory. Perhaps he had something of the mystical about him, the omnipresent, for Mr. Jenkins would appear at the most opportune moments of our post-school lives. Walking the canal, despondent after university and the death of a friend, we happened upon him fishing. Good cheer and a happy anecdote for friends were the reward for such an encounter with this jinn. So generous with his time, so caring. My friends and I will forever be grateful for the time he gave to one of our more troubled companions, and if that alone were his good deed in life, it would more than justify him. Strange it seems to me that he should pass, because such an institution cannot crumble, only change. I saw him only the other month, walking his dog in Mary Stevens Park. The kindly jinn was older than I remembered but affectionate and my schoolmaster to the last. I spoke to him of my peers, boys and girls he had taught in their nonage, and he was happy to hear of their successful careers. When we parted, I could not help but be grateful that Mr. Jenkins was around, and I counted my lucky stars for that encounter. Hearing of his passing, I have only sympathy for his family. Such a man was more important than any of us, his students, could have known.