My mother and father were both professional musicians.  My mother played the trumpet, my father the French horn. They met in a student orchestra during the 1930s.  No wonder my dad insisted that I take piano lessons at an early age. But he also advised me to not become a professional musician.  More than once he said, “It’s a lousy way to earn a living.”

There were two pianos in the small living room of my childhood home.  I still remember sitting at one of the pianos practicing when my father, who taught French horn students in the same room, demanded from over my shoulder, “Make it interesting.  Each phrase must be interesting.”

I was still struggling to hit the right notes. Though I knew the difference between pianissimo (very soft) and forte (loud), phrasing was not yet part of my repertoire.  But Dad, as always, persisted.  And it turned out he was right.  He was a great teacher, though somewhat gruff in those days.

“Don’t rush to get to the good parts,” he directed.  “Remember that the notes become a phrase, like a breath, and each phrase must be colorful and interesting.”

When I was in college, headed toward a degree in accounting, I asked my dad, “Do you think I had enough talent to be a concert pianist?”

He thought about it briefly.

“Yes,” he said.  “Definitely.  But you would have had to practice constantly, be on the road half the year, and accept a lower standard of living.  It’s a lousy way to earn a living.”  My dad often repeated himself.

What he didn’t mention was that he knew how much I hated to practice.  With rare exception, I found even the obligatory hour a day unpleasant.  Once I recorded half an hour of myself practicing the piano on my Dad’s new tape recorder.  Then, thinking I could fool him, I played the tape instead of practicing.

On the second day Dad burst into the living room from his bedroom.

“You’re not practicing.  That’s a recording.  I hear exactly the same mistakes over and over.”  So much for that ploy!

In writing I have one essential rule – make it Interesting.  When I read a book, or even a news story, it has to hold my interest.  If not, I skip to something else.  In that respect writing is similar to performing music, every phrase must count.

But ultimately, my Dad was right.  I wasn’t suited to being a professional musician. For years I’ve stared at the two Steinway pianos in my own home, and yet, during the past twenty years, I haven’t played a note.

Alan

When I stare out the window above my kitchen sink I see a lemon tree. Though it grows on my neighbor’s land, its branches hang over our common fence.  For several months there has been a single lemon hanging on that tree, but yesterday morning I noticed it was gone.  I considered mounting a search, but I was in my bathrobe and didn’t care to walk outside, even for a free lemon. And I definitely was not going to climb the fence.

Last Friday, Fritz Coleman, weatherman at the local NBC channel, retired after almost forty years on the job.  When he took the job he told the TV station he was a comedian, not a meteorologist.  They hired him anyway.  The station wanted a weathercaster who was entertaining, and he certainly was.

Yesterday evening, Daveen and I watched a PBS documentary about black holes.  Apparently scientists now believe that a supermassive black hole exists at the center of each galaxy in the universe, including our own. They predict that these black holes, more massive than a million of our suns, will eventually eat everything within their gravitational pull.  I guess that means that in a few billion, or few trillion, years (does it really make a difference?) black holes will consume the universe.

Maybe then there will be another “big bang”.

What do these three stories have in common — a lemon, Fritz Coleman, and black holes?

Each of them has performed a disappearing act from my life.

When I was young, I wrote the following line: “Life is loss.”  I still believe that, but my current view is larger.

For months I observed that lemon up close and personal.  Now it’s disappeared.  Since I have already picked every lemon from my own trees, I guess I’ll have to buy my lemons at the grocery store until Fall.

Thirty years ago when I watched the evening news regularly, I enjoyed Fritz Coleman, both for his whimsy and for providing a weather prediction for the next day.  I watched his final TV appearance last Friday.  Now he’s gone, and today I look up weather for anywhere in the world on my iPhone.

When I was in middle school I studied astronomy.  At that time black holes were just a theory envisioning a mysterious celestial object with such a strong gravitational pull no light could escape. My most specific memory from science class is that on one quiz I named, in order, all nine of the planets of our solar system (those were the days before Pluto was demoted). Because I was a smart aleck, I also threw in the asteroids.  Because I misspelled “asteroids” the teacher gave me a C+ instead of the A or A- that I undoubtedly deserved.

Life is a process of waking up, absorbing data, making decisions, and ultimately letting go. And, like a black hole which we can never actually see (inside its borders), we are truly known only to ourselves, and no one else, before we disappear.

Life is not only loss, but also a wonderful adventure.  I enjoy so many memories, and now those include a lemon, Fritz Coleman, and all of the black holes that vanish the moment they are born.

Alan

I’m sometimes a contrarian.  This Father’s Day, I found myself thinking about my mother.

I remembered the pleasure of her company when I arrived home from school every afternoon. I’d have a snack while Mom prepared dinner and we’d talk for hours.

One memory popped up that I hadn’t thought about for years.  For several months before I was five I insisted that my mother call me The Emperor rather than my given name.  Sometimes she complied with my demand, but mostly she forgot and I had to remind her.

“I’m not Alan.  I’m The Emperor.”

My emphasis was on being in charge.  I wanted to control my life – including my name – as well as to assert my own separateness, at least from my mother.  I never mentioned this to my father because, well, because he was the real “Emperor” in our house and I didn’t want him to notice my not-so-subtle challenge to his authority.

We all recognize at an early age the need to control our own lives.  That’s why, at age two, my favorite phrase was, “No I not.”  Today my favorite phrase is, “Yes, absolutely.”

Many of our activities are anchored in the idea of control.  Daveen enjoys washing the dishes and doing the laundry.  In a recent conversation she told me, “That’s one area in my life where I have some control.”

I thought about it, and realized that I enjoy shopping for groceries for a similar reason.  When I buy the food I can eat what I like.

We place our names on bank accounts to control our money, homes to control our space, and diplomas to demonstrate our mastery.  We differentiate ourselves with our choices, the cars we drive, and our clothing.  But we also recognize, if only subconsciously, that our aspirations forever fluctuate, our success is inescapably infrequent, and our jurisdiction is both limited and fleeting.

Mom – thanks for your love, our family dinners together, and my memories.  You’ve been gone for thirty years now, but in a very important way you will be alive for as long as I am.

I love you.

Alan (The Emperor)