Outside, the streets are flooding and rivers are overflowing. Karen Bass, the mayor of Los Angeles, has recommended that we all stay indoors and avoid driving during this “historic” rainfall.

Sounds good to me. I’m happy to stay inside on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I’m safe and dry and lying in bed with the fireplace flame dancing.

Looking out my window at the continuing storm, I’m thinking about the song from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.”  Lately, if a song from when I was younger comes to mind, I challenge myself to remember the lyrics. Earlier today, I was thinking about a song that was popular when I was in third grade. I didn’t understand the lyrics at that time (and I still don’t).  “I love you, a bushel and a peck.”  I never knew what the “peck” was but assumed it was a kiss on the cheek. Nowadays, we can look up anything we don’t understand on the internet. A peck, it turns out, is a unit of measurement, roughly two gallons, and “a bushel and a peck” was an expression used back in the day to mean a large quantity.

But since I’m walking down memory lane, and it’s raining, I recall how much I used to love to play in the rain when I was a kid. My mother made sure I always wore a raincoat and galoshes. (Thanks Mom.)

There was a time when I was in my late twenties and thirties when I did not enjoy the rain. I’d invested in apartment buildings, and every single one of them had a roof that might leak. Once, when I was tight on cash I replaced a roof as cost efficiently as possible only to have it fall in during the next rain. I had to replace that roof along with all the ceilings and carpeting. And the new roof still leaked. I think it was the actor Anthony Quinn, who spoke about life as, “The whole catastrophe.”  After that I always used a licensed roofer.

But today I own no apartment buildings anywhere, so I don’t have to gaze out at the growing puddles and complain to Daveen that the rain is going to cost me a hundred thousand dollars.

And though my mother is no longer here to make me wear a raincoat or galoshes, I think I’ll sit this rainstorm out. I’ll stay inside writing and keep warm and cozy by the fire.

But back to song lyrics. Contrary to a popular song from 1972, it does rain in Southern California. In fact, it pours, man, it pours.

Alan

In the Dark Ages, when I was young, my father used to take the family to Philippe The Original – a sandwich shop near downtown Los Angeles known for its French dip sandwich.  The French dip was delicious, but certainly one of the attractions for Dad was also the price.

As I recall, at that time the sandwich cost only 50 cents.

A few days ago I visited Philippe’s and paid $11.50 for that same French dip sandwich. And I don’t think it was just a lapse of my memory, but it seemed there was more bread and less beef than before.

Not only that, but the entire place seemed to have lost much of its former glory. It’s a casual place where you order at the counter. On the day I visited, there were only a few customers and yet the place was still set up with the post and rope stanchions used for controlling the long lines from yesteryear. The ropes traversed back and forth about five times, and with all the lanes vacant it made the space seem empty. It was a bit depressing.

Tom Wolfe wrote that “you can’t go home again.”  By that I assume he meant your childhood home is never the same as in your memory.  I experienced this firsthand when I went with my dad to visit Canarsie, a suburb of New York City where he had lived as a child.  Dad was in his eighties by then and he was distraught to discover that the entire neighborhood had been converted into a large beer distillery.

“I will never come back here again,” he said.

I’ve lived most of my life in Los Angeles – since 1940.  I still remember my mom driving on the brand-new Hollywood Freeway near our home and telling me that she couldn’t wait until I could drive so that she wouldn’t have to.  That was fine with me (as I assume it would be with most sixteen-year-olds).

So, if you find yourself enjoying a night out downtown in Los Angeles, Philippe The Original is right across from Union Station, and has been open for business for more than 100 years.

Despite inflation, less beef, and fewer crowds, I think Dad would still enjoy eating his favorite sandwich there, with a generous side of their potato salad.

Alan

What the heck is this photo all about?

Some of you might have correctly guessed that it’s me raising one finger.  I’ve titled the photo “Delight”

Like many of my really good ideas, this one came from an essay in the New York Times I read a few days ago.  The author, Catherine Price, suggested that there is nothing better to do when we’re especially pleased than to raise one finger and say to ourselves and to the world, “Delight.”  Yes!  Out loud and with enthusiasm!  This recommended practice of recognizing delight in such a conspicuous way was inspired by the poet Ross Gay’s Book of Delights.

While I’m intrigued, part of me is telling myself, “That’s too blatant.  Maybe I could just think ‘delight’, rather than actually saying it out loud.”  Most of the time I prefer not to call attention to myself.  Anonymity is safer.  On the other hand, sharing pleasure is a whole lot of fun.

My oldest granddaughter Grace was recently married, and I was asked to present a short reading.  I stood on stage between the bride and groom, and just before I started reading I noticed they were radiant.  I thought to myself, “I’ve never been so physically close to two people who seem so completely happy”.  “Delight!”

My youngest granddaughter is now a little over two years old, and she has no problem running around the house every day sharing her joy.  Yesterday she spontaneously gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Delight!” She also shares, when she falls or is disappointed, her pain.  Loudly.  As adults most of us have learned to be restrained in expressing our emotions.  Try saying, “I love you,” to your partner, for no special reason.  They might get suspicious, but I suggest you try it anyway. It might inspire a “delight.”

I believe that any time in January is fine for a New Years’ Resolution, and so my resolution on this third week of the new year is to vociferously share my delight.  Especially with myself.  I bet I’ll feel a lot happier in 2024.

And if you would join me in this resolution, I would feel even more – I know you’re ahead of me on this – “Delight”.

Alan