Alan Fox

My parents grew up in New York City. They left New York soon after their wedding and drove a 1928 Dodge across the United States to Los Angeles, where Dad hoped to find work as a professional French horn player. The interstate highway system was built in the 1950’s, so many of the roads they travelled were unpaved gravel.

My dad had wanted to move as far away from his relatives as he could. In Los Angeles he and my mom didn’t know anyone.  Though Mom wrote letters virtually every day, we had almost no physical contact with our East coast relatives.  That was exactly what Dad wanted.

When I was nineteen, I qualified to attend the National Intercollegiate Debate Tournament at West Point.  While I was in New York I invited my grandfather Abraham Fox to lunch.

I met Abe at his place of work – an un air-conditioned sweatshop in the garment district of New York, where he was employed as a tailor, working as fast as he could because he was paid by the piece.

He insisted on treating me to lunch.  “We’ll go where the big executives eat lunch,” he said proudly.  I was dressed in a nice suit and tie, my usual attire back then. My grandfather was dressed in a suit of his own, although from the tattered condition of his jacket and the creases in his tie, it seemed likely those were the “dress up” clothes he owned.

When he pulled out a five dollar bill to pay for lunch, I felt a tremendous conflict.  “I’ll pay,” he said.  While I couldn’t embarrass him by insisting that I pay, I suspected this was a major part of his weekly paycheck. At the time I was already earning five dollars an hour as a math tutor.

Of the many lunches I have enjoyed in my life, this was the most poignant and bittersweet.

Grandpa Fox retired to Florida and lived to be 94 years old.  I remain in Los Angeles, which is now filled with Foxes.  For my recent 82nd birthday we hosted 22 family members, not counting those who couldn’t attend.

I can certainly understand my dad wanting to escape from the foibles and conflicts of family, but I feel differently.

Fox Family – I like spending time together.  See you again soon.

Love,

Alan

My mother and father were both professional musicians when they met in the early 1930’s. My mother played the trumpet, my father the French horn. This meant:

1. I was required to learn how to play both the piano and the French horn.
2. I had to be “quiet” at home when my dad was conducting French horn lessons.
3. I was severely discouraged from becoming a professional musician. “That’s not the best way for you to earn a living,” Dad said many times.

When Dad walked by as I practiced the piano, he often tapped me on the shoulder to remind me to color each phrase.  “Each phrase is like a sentence.  Each note, like each word, has to carry its own weight.  It has to be interesting.  Pay attention to each note,” he said.

And here I am, more than seventy years later, still applying that lesson.  I pay attention to every word–a habit that was first a cobweb, then a cord, and finally a cable.

Actually, I think Dad was talking about variety.  I would be bored listening to a newscaster delivering word after word in a monotone.  At the grocery store I fill my cart with many different foods.  And while I might be interested in a sequel, I seldom watch the same movie more than once.

We all need structure in our lives.  At home I like the reassurance of having everything in its place (provided I can remember where that place is).  But I also enjoy the thrill of discovery, which is why I choose a different topic for my blog each week.

The known vs. the unknown.  We all seemed to bounce between the security of the familiar and the excitement of the fresh, something like a two-year-old running out to discover something new, then returning to the security of Mom’s arms.

I think that we can all live a fuller life when we “color each phrase,” paying attention to each moment, and making it interesting.

I wish you a day filled with color.

Alan

The infamous Hatfield-McCoy feud of the 19^th century was rivaled in my lifetime by the 20^th century Fox-Blakeslee feud.  The Blakeslees were our next door neighbors.

I was almost three years old when my brother David was born. My dad asked Mrs. Blakeslee next door to “watch me” while he drove my mother to the hospital to give birth.  For whatever reason, she refused.

Dad was angry, and he held onto his anger.  From that day on he refused to speak to or acknowledge the Blakeslees in any way, and that lasted throughout my entire childhood.

I’ve heard it said that holding on to anger is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.  I agree, and that’s reason enough to release anger.

The nearest I’ve come to a personal feud was about eight years ago when I sent out an email to everyone on my mailing list, inviting them to receive to my weekly blog.  Almost everyone accepted, and I thank all of you.

Two people, however, not only declined my invitation, but also sent me a nasty note in response.  One was my former law partner and the other my former college debate partner.  I couldn’t make this up.

I learned long ago that it’s okay to ask.  And it’s also okay to say “no.”  While I was surprised by their hostility, I just followed their lead, and deleted their email addresses permanently. I won’t be sending them any further invitations.

Happily, Dad did change. I was a teenager by then, but I still remember the eventful evening.  Everyone in the neighborhood was out in the street watching a total eclipse of the moon.  Maybe that had put Dad in a forgiving mood.  Or maybe thirteen years had been long enough for him to boil.  He actually said “hello” to Mrs. Blakeslee, and Voila! – just like that – the feud was over.

There already aren’t enough hours in my life to complete my “bucket list,” and I refuse to waste any time and emotional energy by carrying around a grudge.

I simply smile, enjoy my life, and wish everyone well.

Alan