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100 Times

by Alan Fox 4 Comments
100 Times

When our children are growing up we see them most every day. Once they’re grown and off on their own, we don’t see them nearly as often.

Every month or so I have lunch with my son, Craig, who is in his mid-50’s. At our last meeting he said, “You know, Dad, we may only see each other 100 more times in our lives.”

I was surprised because I had never thought about it in that practical way. I’m 83, so if he and I share lunch ten times a year, 100 visits would cover the next ten years. My son’s off-hand projection may be close to what we can actually expect.

Years ago, I studied with a psychiatrist, Paul Ware. One of the most important lessons he  taught me was the value of staying current with those I love. He suggested that whenever I leave a friend or loved one I should be completely up-to-date with them. I should let them know that I love them, and if I want to share part of my life or tell them something, I should do it right away. The opportunity may not come around again.

My younger brother, David, died unexpectedly twenty years ago. Even though he and I were completely up to date with each other, I was devastated by his death. I could hardly function for the next six months and continued to actively mourn his death for at least two years. I miss him today and every day, especially his sense of humor and his enthusiasm.

What I learned from the experience of losing my brother unexpectedly – is simple. As per Paul Ware’s advice, I try to express my love, my joy, or my appreciation whenever I feel it. I don’t wait for the next time I might see someone. As I’ve written recently in another blog, lately I’ve developed the practice of smiling, raising one finger, and saying out loud, “Delight.” I do this often! I admit that I’m usually alone when I do it, but emotion is infectious, so I hereby resolve to start saying “Delight” out loud so others can share in it.

In the vastness of time, our single lives pass rather quickly. Let’s make every moment of ours count.

Today.

Right now

Alan

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Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head: Reflections on a Rainy Day

by Alan Fox 1 Comment
Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head: Reflections on a Rainy Day

Outside, the streets are flooding and rivers are overflowing. Karen Bass, the mayor of Los Angeles, has recommended that we all stay indoors and avoid driving during this “historic” rainfall.

Sounds good to me. I’m happy to stay inside on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I’m safe and dry and lying in bed with the fireplace flame dancing.

Looking out my window at the continuing storm, I’m thinking about the song from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.”  Lately, if a song from when I was younger comes to mind, I challenge myself to remember the lyrics. Earlier today, I was thinking about a song that was popular when I was in third grade. I didn’t understand the lyrics at that time (and I still don’t).  “I love you, a bushel and a peck.”  I never knew what the “peck” was but assumed it was a kiss on the cheek. Nowadays, we can look up anything we don’t understand on the internet. A peck, it turns out, is a unit of measurement, roughly two gallons, and “a bushel and a peck” was an expression used back in the day to mean a large quantity.

But since I’m walking down memory lane, and it’s raining, I recall how much I used to love to play in the rain when I was a kid. My mother made sure I always wore a raincoat and galoshes. (Thanks Mom.)

There was a time when I was in my late twenties and thirties when I did not enjoy the rain. I’d invested in apartment buildings, and every single one of them had a roof that might leak. Once, when I was tight on cash I replaced a roof as cost efficiently as possible only to have it fall in during the next rain. I had to replace that roof along with all the ceilings and carpeting. And the new roof still leaked. I think it was the actor Anthony Quinn, who spoke about life as, “The whole catastrophe.”  After that I always used a licensed roofer.

But today I own no apartment buildings anywhere, so I don’t have to gaze out at the growing puddles and complain to Daveen that the rain is going to cost me a hundred thousand dollars.

And though my mother is no longer here to make me wear a raincoat or galoshes, I think I’ll sit this rainstorm out. I’ll stay inside writing and keep warm and cozy by the fire.

But back to song lyrics. Contrary to a popular song from 1972, it does rain in Southern California. In fact, it pours, man, it pours.

Alan

 

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Philippe the Original

by Alan Fox 0 Comments
Philippe the Original

In the Dark Ages, when I was young, my father used to take the family to Philippe The Original – a sandwich shop near downtown Los Angeles known for its French dip sandwich.  The French dip was delicious, but certainly one of the attractions for Dad was also the price.

As I recall, at that time the sandwich cost only 50 cents.

A few days ago I visited Philippe’s and paid $11.50 for that same French dip sandwich. And I don’t think it was just a lapse of my memory, but it seemed there was more bread and less beef than before.

Not only that, but the entire place seemed to have lost much of its former glory. It’s a casual place where you order at the counter. On the day I visited, there were only a few customers and yet the place was still set up with the post and rope stanchions used for controlling the long lines from yesteryear. The ropes traversed back and forth about five times, and with all the lanes vacant it made the space seem empty. It was a bit depressing.

Tom Wolfe wrote that “you can’t go home again.”  By that I assume he meant your childhood home is never the same as in your memory.  I experienced this firsthand when I went with my dad to visit Canarsie, a suburb of New York City where he had lived as a child.  Dad was in his eighties by then and he was distraught to discover that the entire neighborhood had been converted into a large beer distillery.

“I will never come back here again,” he said.

I’ve lived most of my life in Los Angeles – since 1940.  I still remember my mom driving on the brand-new Hollywood Freeway near our home and telling me that she couldn’t wait until I could drive so that she wouldn’t have to.  That was fine with me (as I assume it would be with most sixteen-year-olds).

So, if you find yourself enjoying a night out downtown in Los Angeles, Philippe The Original is right across from Union Station, and has been open for business for more than 100 years.

Despite inflation, less beef, and fewer crowds, I think Dad would still enjoy eating his favorite sandwich there, with a generous side of their potato salad.

Alan

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