This morning I noticed a wastebasket in the hallway outside my office.  In it were six or seven trophies my dad had won at lawn bowling tournaments.

By now all of my dad’s “stuff” has been sold, given away, or discarded, with the exception of several pieces of art that are in storage and eight boxes resting in a small space outside my office door.  A few weeks ago I asked a friend to sort out the contents of those boxes, and I’m guessing she decided to trash Dad’s trophies.

I immediately rescued them.

My dad died almost 18 months ago at the age of 104.  One cord that still connects me to him are my memories.  Just yesterday I shared with one of my sons a story about going deep sea fishing with Dad when I was fourteen and both of us caught our legal limit of albacore.

“I’m never going deep sea fishing again,” he said as we loaded our “haul” (20 albacore in burlap sacks) into the trunk of his car.

“Why not, dad?”

“Alan, it could never be better than today.”

True to his word, he never went deep sea fishing again.

Dad played racquetball until he was eighty, the same age that I am now.

“Too many gashes on my head,” he said when he quit.

A few years later he took up lawn bowling.  I remember that he and the two other members of his team once played a match in which they earned a perfect score, which is even more exceptional than a perfect 300 in regular bowling.  It was so unusual that the feat was reported in the local newspaper.

Another cord that still connects me to my dad are his possessions.  His wallet rests in my desk drawer at home.  Copies of the two books he wrote are displayed on a shelf in my dining room.  And his trophies . . . I will not let them go.  Maybe I’ll give them to his grandchildren at some point, but for now I want to keep them.

I have no idea about the names, let alone the lives, of my great grandparents, and I do not expect that my own great grandchildren will remember much about me.  But even though I may be loyal to a fault, I have become more attached to my memory of Dad, and to a few of his possessions, as the fact of his actual presence in my life is attenuated by time.

In the words of Frank Sinatra, thanks for the memory.

You are a Trophy Dad.

Love,

Alan

When I was eighteen I depleted my entire savings to buy my first new car – a metallic blue VW Bug.  It was an economy car, lacking amenities such as a fuel gauge.

As I recall, the fuel tank held 12 gallons.  When there were only 1-1/2 gallons left the engine would sputter to a stop, which meant I had to turn a black handle near the gas pedal to access the remaining fuel.  Every time I turned that handle I vowed to stop at the next gas station.  Sometimes, though, portable gas tank in hand, I had to walk.

Many of us, myself included, are feeling that COVID-19 has depleted our emotional fuel tank.  There is so much to worry about these days. How can we celebrate the holidays with family?  What if everyone isn’t being careful?  Will it be warm enough to eat outside?

The biggest difference between my VW running out of gas when I was eighteen, and my emotional tank running low today, is that refueling our hearts is never as simple as refueling a car.

In each situation we have to first be aware that we’re running near empty. I’ve learned to pay attention to my body for emotional cues.  Am I feeling low energy? Have I lost interest in activities I usually enjoy?

Next, we need to know what solutions might work best for us.  Where is the nearest filling station for your psyche? For each of us the answer will vary.

For me – it might be as near as my mind – giving myself positive messages.  I know I always feel better when I tell myself, “You’re going to have a great day,” rather than, “I hope today isn’t as bad as yesterday.”

I also avoid what I call “The Coloring Book Effect.”  This means that when I’m in a great mood every color seems bright.  But when I’m feeling low everything seems dark — until I’m able to separate the positive emotional wheat from the negative emotional chaff.  When this happens, I can remind myself that life is never all good or all bad.  It’s a mixture of light and dark.

I also know that I feel better when I’m physically active, so I’ve been walking a lot.

Finally, I find that helping others helps me.  I always feel better when I’m caring for someone else.

When you feel depleted I encourage you to find your own way of refueling. Whether it’s baking bread or reading or spending time with family (or your cat), each of us needs to identify those activities that will help us recharge emotionally.

My VW Bug rests somewhere on the scrap heap of history.  I now drive a Tesla, and refueling is just one electrical outlet away.

Safe travels, physically and emotionally.

Alan

This year, Daveen and I postponed our summer vacation because of concerns about COVID-19. Finally, in late October, we treated ourselves to a log cabin near Yosemite for three nights.  Our trip didn’t work out quite as planned.

After a four-hour drive we arrived at Sierra Meadows, Cabin 13, around five pm on Sunday.  When Daveen parked her car I noticed fluid leaking from the radiator onto the asphalt.

A message on the dashboard warned that there was no coolant and the car couldn’t be driven for more than another two minutes.

As it turned out, there was a crack in the radiator.

The silver lining is that we were able to have the car towed to the dealership in Fresno, about an hour away.  Fortunately, one of our daughters had driven up to join us, so we could all use her car for the next few days, and the dealership said Daveen’s car would be ready for pick-up early Wednesday morning, just in time for our return to Los Angeles.

As Daveen was calling for the tow truck we received the following email from Sierra Meadows.

“Pacific Gas and Electric is concerned about the prediction of high winds in the area, and needs to check out its power lines.  Electricity will be shut off for forty hours, beginning at 7:00 pm.”

“Forty hours?” I thought.  Must be a typo.  I laughed.

At 7:09 pm I stopped laughing when our cabin lights blinked out and it was suddenly midnight.  Fortunately, we’d already finished dinner in our daughter’s cabin next door, so it was a quick bedtime for everyone.

Thoughtfully, Sierra Meadows had provided a flashlight.  I wondered how often they had a problem with the power going out.

The silver lining is that the cabin was still warm and the bedroom was small.  Daveen and I were reasonably cozy that first night.

Of course, since there was no electricity for thirty miles around, the only way to charge electronic devices was to plug them into the outlet in our daughter’s car.  Three people, six devices, and slow charging.  Thank you, PG&E.

On Monday we huddled together in bed until mid-morning, then ate a cold breakfast and charged our electronics.  When I put on my hiking boots, which I hadn’t touched in more than ten years, both soles immediately split wide open.  (See photo.)  So much for hiking.

Did I mention that the cabin heater was electric? On Monday night the cabin was ice cold.

The silver lining was . . . I’m really good at finding silver linings, but I’m having trouble here.  If we wanted to camp out we wouldn’t have rented a heated cabin.  The best I can do is report that the electricity was finally restored on Tuesday morning, after only thirty-nine hours.

Our next several vacations will be at home where heat and light are more reliable.

And while I’m not superstitious, and I’m sure that Sierra Meadows is a very nice place when it actually has electricity, in the future I will avoid Cabin 13.

Cheers.

Alan