Alan Fox

My dad died in 2019 at the age of 104.

Last Sunday morning one of my sons called. “Today would have been your dad’s 110^th birthday,” he said.  “Why don’t we celebrate with lunch at Philippe’s?”  That was one of my father’s favorite restaurants. It features French Dip sandwiches and has been a Los Angeles landmark for almost as many years as my dad was alive.

A celebration lunch sounded like a great idea, so a few hours later Daveen and I joined Steven and his son Noah at Philippe’s.  Lunch was delicious. Afterwards I found myself in a contemplative mood.

Back home I rummaged through my office to find a copy of the 64-page paperback book, Essentials of Brass Playing by Fred Fox, which Dad self-published in 1974.

I’ve read that if you want to be immortal you must either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.  My dad did both.  Long before writing his book, he was Solo French Horn of many orchestras, including the National Symphony in Washington, D.C., and the Los Angeles Philharmonic.  He was not only an outstanding French Horn player, but a teacher for the ages.

I observed him teach at many colleges, and so I was able to personally witness the magic.  He began by asking a student playing a brass or wind instrument to play a few notes.  That was all he needed to hear. After only a few notes, Dad would interrupt and begin to make suggestions.  In every case his students became much better musicians after only three or four minutes.

To quote the final paragraph in Dad’s book:

“What is achieved on one note, is then extended to a phrase and then to a solo.  Naturally it takes time and practice to develop the mental endurance to retain this total involvement in every note of a performance.  Without it, playing is mundane, pedestrian.  With it, it is alive and vital.  Once the performer experiences how to make the sounds live, if he is really sincere, he has no choice; he must retain and develop the ‘LIFE‘ in playing!  ETERNAL VIGILANCE!!!!!”

Dad taught life lessons that extend far beyond a French horn or clarinet – lessons on how to live that still resonate with thousands of his students.  And certainly, in me.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  I love you.

Alan

For many years I’ve believed that I don’t much care for dogs. Upon reflection, and based upon recent experience, I’ve decided to change my thinking. It isn’t that I don’t like dogs. It’s that I don’t like having to take care of one.

When I was seven or eight my younger brother and I pestered our parents incessantly to get us a dog. Finally, our dad agreed, and we became the proud “owners” of a black cocker spaniel.

Our father, of course, turned out to be right. David and I were too young for the daily tending that our dog required, and Dad ended up taking care of her himself.

Of course, Dad reminded us often that we weren’t being responsible, which caused more than a little family friction.

Now one of our adult daughters is temporarily living with us, together with her dog Oscar. I actually like Oscar, possibly because he really seems to like me. I spent most of last weekend at home, and he followed me from room to room, sleeping on the floor close to wherever I was. Both of us are “long in the tooth”, and we both like to rest often.

So I’m here to report that you can, in fact, teach an old human (me) a new trick. Even as I’m writing this Oscar just came into my bedroom and lay down beside my bed. And now, I’m smiling and feel that not only do I like Oscar, but his companionship makes me happy.

In the interest of being completely honest, Daveen and my daughter are Oscar’s caretakers. I don’t feed him, so I’m kind of surprised that he likes spending so much time with me. Though I admit, I pet him often, and he seems to like that. As do I.

In conclusion, I can gladly share that I’m still young enough to be able to change old habits and learn a new trick or two.

At some point I may even take Oscar for a walk. All by myself.

Woof!

Alan

I’ll admit that I was a smart ass in law school. But I credit Henry Springmeyer, who taught torts, with helping me see the error of my ways.

Of all my professors, he was the only one who required us to stand up in front of the entire class and present an analysis of the facts and issues of a case.

I was not always ready to be called on to recite. On this day, when I was called out, I was caught unprepared. Unfortunately, this was also the day, my fiancé was visiting the class, which made my performance even more memorable. There was nothing to do but bluster my way through the recitation with my usual impertinence.

The case involved liability for lack of lighting at a railroad station. Alas, I told the professor that he hadn’t provided enough information in his hypothetical case.

“What’s missing?”  He was already irritated.

“Whether it was day or night,” I said.

“Why is that important?”

“Because if it was nighttime there might be a duty to light the station.”  I could hear the class snickering.

“Night,” he spat.

He grilled me for ten minutes, and my responses were, well, miserable. Finally, professor Springmeyer said the magic words, “Mr. Fox. Would you like to sit down and pass to wiser minds?”

He was baiting me. He knew it. I knew it. Everyone in the class knew it.

“Yes sir, I would.”  And I sat down

He then scanned to room filled with my fellow law students. Finally, he settled back on me.

“Mr. Fox. Please stand up again.”

He was not done teaching me a lesson and the humiliation continued. Needless to say, It was not my finest moment.

This was sixty years ago. And it was the last time I was a smart ass in any class.

Perhaps you’re wondering how I was able to pass the bar exam.  Probably because I’m very good at taking tests.

Alan