Happy Birthday, Dad

On July 14, 1914, my dad was born to immigrant parents in New York City. He lived to be 104, and his father  survived to 94, so I guess I’m genetically headed toward 114. That will be in early March, 2054, just 29 years away.

Though it was  was never discussed, I believe  Dad, in his youth, wasn’t a great student in traditional school subjects. And yet, because he showed musical aptitude,  he became  a very successful studio musician. His choice of instrument was entirely pragmatic. His parents asked his music teacher which instrument he  could play to earn a good living.  The French Horn (Voltone) was not popular at the time, and at age 18 Dad became the  solo horn player at the Minneapolis Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Eugene Ormandy. That was quite an improvement over his own father’s employment, a piece-work tailor in the New York sweatshops. Literally – a sweatshop! There was no air conditioning in the early 1900’s.

When I pause to think about it, I have enormous respect for Dad’s life choices. And while he insisted that my younger brother and I  learn to play an instrument, he discouraged us from pursuing  a career in music.  In retrospect, he was absolutely correct.

There is a well worn joke about a young  man who said, “When I was 18 my father didn’t know anything. But by the time I was 23 he had learned a lot.

And so,  this is   a “Thank you” note.

Thanks, Dad, for your guidance and support. You were an exemplary father, and I have done my best to emulate you. Your example, and your advice, have been at the center of my success. While I did not inherit your deft touch in the stock market, I’ve done well finding s investments that work for me.

I hope you know that I love and respect you.

Thank you, Dad.

P.S.  Regarding the photo, my mother played the trumpet professionally in the 1930’s.

Alan