Alan Fox

As many poets know, if you pay attention, the world is full of “found” poems.  I “found” this title at lunch last week inside a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant.  I think it is considerably more thought-provoking than the generic fortunes you usually find inside fortune cookies – such as “Your hard work will soon be rewarded.”

I’ve always assumed that the stage is already there – and our job is simply to enter stage left or stage right and play our roles.  But I’m always – well, generally – glad to have an opportunity to expand my ideas and perceptions, so while I might not be sure what my fortune means, it is certainly worth thinking about.

You create your own stage?  Perhaps that means we each choose the environments in which we will live our lives, and those become our stage.  For me the two most important “stages” in my life are my family and my business. In one I am the founder and in the other I am the patriarch.

On my family stage I am fortunate to have a large family. Most live in the Los Angeles area.  Especially during the Covid pandemic my social contacts have largely been limited to work and family.  Why catch Covid from a stranger?  That’s what families are for.  We get together with our sons or daughters almost every weekend and, we always enjoy each other’s company.  No one drinks, so there is never a drunken uncle at our Thanksgiving celebrations.

In business I formed ACF more than fifty years ago, and that is my other chosen stage.  I, and thirty to forty others, have been the rotating cast that populates the ACF stage.  Several employees have been with me for more than thirty years.  I must admit that, at least in business, I believe in one dictator – I mean leader – at a time, and my role as CEO and president has lasted for more than half a century.  Take that, you term-limited presidents of the United States, (public office is not and has never been one of my chosen stages).

A famous writer who won the Nobel Prize for Literature was asked by a reporter, “How do you feel about that?”

The author replied, “I don’t know.  I haven’t written about it yet.”

That response always rings true to me.  Writing about something brings me emotional clarity and I often know better what I am feeling and thinking after I’ve written about it.

What is your stage, and who is your audience? Who are the other players? Is your stage one you have created for yourself? If not, and it isn’t one of your choosing, perhaps you should, as per the wisdom in my fortune cookie, change stages and create one that suits you better.

That’s something worth thinking about.

Alan

What can I write as an encore to last week’s blog?

Last week I wrote about death.  This week I’ll focus on life – my grandchildren, to be specific.

I have six biological children who now range in age from their mid-thirties to almost sixty.  As every parent can easily imagine, it’s been a trip.  And now I am blessed with ten grandchildren who range in age from 15 months to thirty years.

I will admit that I’m not your standard grandpa, especially since I typically gravitate toward people with whom I can have an adult conversation.  For example, my oldest grandchild, Grace, is now a Resident at a Harvard hospital.  (Yes, I’m bragging.  In that way I can enjoy a small part of her applause, while doing none of the actual work.)

About ten years ago, when Grace was nineteen, I realized that I had never had a real adult conversation with her, so I arranged for us to have lunch.  I was amazed.  She was thoughtful, interested in almost everything, and a delightful lunch companion.  Though Grace is now completing her training as an anesthesiologist, she certainly did not put me to sleep.

Over the past weekend much of the family was together.  I took great delight in watching my grandson Robin who is two years old, give or take.  (I don’t keep track of birthdays, but Daveen does an impeccable job of that.)  Lately, Robin has attracted a lot of attention and laughter by calling out, “Daveeeeeeeeen.”  I think he was originally imitating me, but it’s so funny that almost everyone in the family has begun imitating him.

I’ve read that many people born today will still be alive in the year 2100.  That bogles my mind, especially since in that year Robin would be nearly the age I am today.

I’m remembering two lines from the play Julius Caesar by Shakespeare.  “The evil that men do lives after them.  The good is oft interred with their bones.”  (Shakespeare certainly had a way with words.)

I prefer to amend that line. I believe that the good we do lives after us, hopefully to be continued, and amplified, by our children and grandchildren.

To them — I love you all.

Alan

New friends are great, but it can take thirty or forty years to make an “old” friend.  I met one of my own oldest friends, Jill A., about fifty years ago.  We lived together from 1972 until 1975.

During her last several years Jill lived in a small home in a beautiful forest in Brookings, Oregon, just north of the California border.  The winters were mild, the summers warm, and on the 4^th of July she could see the fireworks on the beach a few miles to the South.

I’m still working part time, and plan to continue indefinitely.  But there have been days when I’ve imagined what my life would be like if was retired and living in the thick woods of Oregon.  I used to own a condo at Lake Tahoe.  One day my brother David called me from the dock where he was fishing.  I thought at the time, “What’s wrong with this picture?”  There I was, at my desk working, and David was at my condo fishing.  Hmmm.

Jill was diagnosed with cancer almost a year ago, though she did outlive her doctor’s prediction of “six months.”

We talked by phone every week or two. She always seemed to be in good spirits, even toward the end when her pain had become nearly unbearable.  When Daveen and I visited her several months ago, Jill was a caring and attentive hostess.

In our final conversation Jill told me that she would say “hello” to my brother for me and also to my father, both of whom she loved.

I’ll always remember our driving trip to Eugene, Oregon to see the Olympic Track and Field Trials in 1972.  She was driving my Porsche up Highway 5.  At one point, she sprang back from the steering wheel.

Jill hadn’t realized she’d been driving 105 miles an hour.  Afterwards, she tried to hold it down to 90.

I guess we live our lives in both the fast lane and the slow, until it’s time for that final pit stop.

Jill, I hope you know how much I appreciate our friendship, and all the time we spent together.

I will always love you.

Alan