I’m sitting in my family room on Sunday afternoon, alternating between watching the Wimbledon tennis tournament on television, and the wind wafting through the trees in my backyard. Frankly, I’m not sure which is more engrossing.

Tennis is tennis.  I don’t think I need to explain that one, other than to note that generally I cheer for the American.  Or the underdog.  And for many years the Americans have been both.

Woof.

Back to the trees.

First, I should mention that yesterday I actually took a closer look at a blade of grass. Grass. That’s something we walk on but seldom observe closely.  Perhaps this blog is really about paying attention.

Back to the trees, waving in the wind.  At least ten different shades of green. Beautiful.  And, in the breeze, it seemed as if the trees were having a conversation.

“Meet you at the park,” one said.

“I love to watch the children play,” another added.

It was a perfect afternoon for a convocation of trunks, branches, and leaves in my backyard forest, on an early summer afternoon in Southern California.

I’ve read that in music the pauses between the notes are just as important as the notes themselves.  In conversation the pauses signify that we are taking turns, listening to one another and sharing information, feelings and ideas.  In nature the movement of the leaves lets us know that we are alive and aware, and in the presence of a force that is as awe-inspiring as it is invisible -– the wind. Like life itself, also remarkable, and, in many respects, invisible.

What can I bring to this windy afternoon?

My attention.

I’m remembering the end of Arthur Miller’s play Death of a Salesman, in which his widow reminds us that, even to her mess of a husband,  “attention must be paid.”

The universe is large. But everything depends upon our paying attention. To the leaves fluttering in the sunlight.

Alan

Truly, a name to conjure with. Let me tell you why.

In high school I enjoyed participating in speech and debate. Since this was something I was good at, I eventually won a full-tuition debate scholarship to attend USC.

To be successful in debate it’s important to work on certain skills, such as critical thinking, clear communication, and persuasiveness. But of all the skills one needs to win, I think the most essential is confidence.  The better debaters, including me, always thought we were going to win every single round at every single tournament.

That is, until I met Larry Tribe.

It’s been more than sixty years, and still I remember one of his arguments as if it was this morning.  We were at the Heart of America tournament in Lawrence, Kansas. The debate topic was national health insurance, and my partner and I were up against Tribe and his partner (the team from Harvard) in the first elimination round.

Tribe’s partner quoted Nelson Rockefeller, Governor of New York. My partner, Ken Moes, a fine debater, made the point that Governor Rockefeller of New York wasn’t qualified to speak as a medical authority. We both thought we were doing well.

Then Tribe got up and in his brilliant, rapidly delivered rebuttal, even included a parenthetical remark that probably won the debate for him. Every time I see Tribe, now a retired Harvard law professor, on TV, I can still hear him say, “And as for Governor Rockefeller, we did not cite him as a medical authority, but rather as a (pause for effect) financial expert.”

The audience laughed.

I cringed.

The judges voted for Tribe, who went on to win the tournament.

I’m reminded of that debate every month or two because Tribe went on to become a constitutional law professor at Harvard law School, and to this day is often interviewed on CNN as a legal expert on court decisions.

Needless to say, my partner and I were not able to defeat Tribe. And that is the only debate of my entire career where I can truly admit that I lost because we were up against a better debater.  (My twenty-year-old self is surprised that I’m even willing to write about this.)

I doubt that Professor Tribe remembers me. But I certainly remember him.

Hi, Larry.

Alan

I remember seeing a news photo of Michael Jackson dangling his infant son from the fourth-floor balcony of his hotel room.

The photo was terrifying.

Although I have no memory of ever being “dangled” myself, I’ve always had a fear of edges. Most people would call this phobia a fear of heights, but it isn’t the height that scares me. I’m fine on airplanes. It’s the fear of falling that inhabits my nightmares.

I do remember when I was three- or four-years old marching from the kitchen to the dining room balcony carrying an open umbrella.

“This is my parachute and I’m going to jump off the balcony into the backyard.”

“No you’re not!” My mom said.

That was the last I saw of that umbrella. And I don’t think I was ever allowed out on the balcony again. At least that is how I remember it.  And since I’m 85, and my parents and brother have died, my childhood memories are mine alone. There is no one left to contradict me.

Except maybe Daveen, whose memory is far better than mine. She remembers every story my mother shared with her about my childhood, and has, on occasion, offered a different version of my own childhood memories.

Daveen and I met when I was in my thirties. Thank goodness for that. Because since then, if I need to remember something, I have her to remember it for me.

While I never jumped off the balcony with an umbrella, I do remember other examples of my youthful poor judgment. A friend of mine had just earned his driver’s license, and I had the not-so-bright idea of letting him drive us to the beach in my mother’s car. Of course, we neglected to ask her permission.  So, when we returned, and he parked the car in a slightly different spot, my ever-observant father noticed.  Our “borrowing” of the car led to a fitting punishment. My dad didn’t let me apply for my own driver’s license for another six months.

Yesterday Daveen and I were driving back from a friend’s wedding. It was dark and the road was winding. It brought to mind a tragic situation years ago when Cecile, my assistant at the time, died in in a car accident driving back from a wedding on a dark mountain highway. Her car flew off a cliff—with no umbrella.

I guess we’re never too old, or too young, to make a mistake.

But from now on, I’m going to avoid balconies.

And umbrellas.

And weddings?

Alan