I’ve always been in a hurry.

Last Friday evening I attended my first theatrical performance since before the pandemic kept me home.  My GPS predicted we would arrive seven minutes before the performance began.  Other than having time to read the program, there was really no reason to arrive earlier, but nonetheless I was in a rush.

I have learned over the years that the journey to an intended destination – in this case my designated seat in the theater – often takes longer than anticipated. First I needed to drive to the theater, then park, then make my way to the theater entrance where I would hand over my ticket and ultimately find my way to my seat.  So, as part of the journey, I always make it a point to enjoy the ride, and not just the moment of arrival.

My habit of hurrying probably comes from my dad who played the French Horn in orchestras that recorded music for movies, such as Around the World in 80 Days.  My father knew that if he was ever two minutes late for work, the entire orchestra would have to wait for him and he would probably not be called back for another job.  He always gave himself plenty of time, so that if his car had a flat tire and he had to call a taxi he would still arrive a little early.

Now I remind myself that arriving three minutes late for dinner is not a disaster.  I even remained relatively calm a few weeks ago when I attended my first football game at the new So Fi Stadium in Los Angeles.  For many separate and unrelated reasons I did not actually sit in my seat until the start of the second quarter.  Grumble mumble.

Normally I would have been infuriated for the rest of the day.  Instead, I was merely annoyed (although I confess to being exasperated earlier when I realized that I would be more than a little late).

I also remind myself that it’s better to drive slowly and carefully, even if it means I will arrive a bit late, than to speed along and risk an accident.  (We all need a workable rationalization now and then.)

Some people live successful lives while being oblivious to time.  My mother was a perfect example of a person who moved though her life unconcerned about how long she spent at any given task. But rushing just for the sake of finishing faster has always appealed to me.

So maybe it’s time for me to complete this blog.  No sense taking more time than I have to.

Alan

P.S.  Five hundred years from now none of this will make a difference.

P.P.S.  Or twenty years from now.

In a sense, our lives are a collection of memories, over which we exercise some degree of control.

The saddest letter I’ve ever read was written by my grandfather to my father, many years ago.

My father’s dad had retired to Florida.  My dad had moved to California to pursue his career in music.  Phone calls were expensive, so they communicated through the best alternative available at that time – snail mail.  After a number of years Dad suggested, “When we write to each other, let’s remember the happy times, and save our grievances for when we meet in person.”  That sounded like a reasonable request to me.

Grandpa responded. “I can’t remember a single happy time we ever had together.”

Ouch!

You might not be surprised to learn that my dad cut off further communication, and did not attend his father’s funeral.  My dad’s estrangement from his father is one reason I made it a point to visit Dad often. We were both committed to sustaining our connection.  Dad called me many times a week, but never stayed on the phone for more than a few minutes.  I imagine he was concerned about taking up too much of my time and risk losing a relationship that was important to him.

I have a lot of happy memories of my father.  When I was young he took me deep sea fishing many times.  Our family vacations were always a treat.  I still remember marveling at Victoria Gardens on Vancouver Island in Canada on one of our week-long journeys.  I cherish the memory of my dad beaming at his 100^th birthday party surrounded by more than one hundred beloved guests.

In curating the moments of my life, I put my happy memories on top.  I prefer to enrich my life each day with joy, rather than grievances from the past and fears for the future.

Let’s laugh at our past mistakes, remain optimistic about our future, and fully embrace all of the happy times we’ve enjoyed.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to share a happy memory with three or four people you see today.

There is a line from Alice in Wonderland where the Queen says, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” But I always seem to misremember it as: “Sometimes I think of a dozen happy thoughts before breakfast.”

It’s never too early, or too late, to remember a happy time.

And while we’re at it, there is no better time than today to create additional happy memories for tomorrow.

Alan

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

It was the middle of the night. We were staying at a hotel in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I had gotten up to use the bathroom, but instead beat a hasty retreat back to bed.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“You came back too quickly.”

I didn’t want to scare her, but thought it best to ‘fess up.  “Well, I saw a spider in the bathroom.  Actually, a very large spider.  A giant spider. A tarantula, I think.  It disappeared into a large crack in the floor next to the toilet.”

We decided to leave the lights on.

After a few minutes, sure enough, the tarantula emerged from its crack, entered our bedroom, and began to climb up the wall opposite our bed.  We both froze in panic. It climbed across the ceiling and came to a stop directly above our bed.  Clearly, it was planning to drop down and kill us.

I was so scared I couldn’t think of what to do or even what I should ask her to do (assuming she wasn’t as terrified of spiders as I was).  We did nothing but watch and wait.

Eventually, the tarantula slowly retraced its path and exited our bedroom.  Maybe it returned to its hiding spot in the crack next to the toilet.  We stayed in bed with the lights on and remained awake the rest of the night.

In the morning my parents arrived in their VW Van to pick us up.

“Please take us to Mexico City,” I said.  “I want to go home.  Now.”

“But you have reservations at beautiful hotels for the next four nights,” my mom said.

I didn’t care. “Mom.  Mexico City.  Please. Now.” I told her about our night of terror.  My mom was already familiar with my arachnophobia.

At seven thirty that evening I gratefully fell into my bed in Los Angeles.

“I’m never going back to Mexico again,” I vowed.

It’s now been more than 45 years, and I haven’t.  I have seen a few rather impressive bugs in Hawaii, but . . . well . . . they weren’t tarantulas.

This is a true story.

Have a Happy Halloween.

Alan