What can I write as an encore to last week’s blog?

Last week I wrote about death.  This week I’ll focus on life – my grandchildren, to be specific.

I have six biological children who now range in age from their mid-thirties to almost sixty.  As every parent can easily imagine, it’s been a trip.  And now I am blessed with ten grandchildren who range in age from 15 months to thirty years.

I will admit that I’m not your standard grandpa, especially since I typically gravitate toward people with whom I can have an adult conversation.  For example, my oldest grandchild, Grace, is now a Resident at a Harvard hospital.  (Yes, I’m bragging.  In that way I can enjoy a small part of her applause, while doing none of the actual work.)

About ten years ago, when Grace was nineteen, I realized that I had never had a real adult conversation with her, so I arranged for us to have lunch.  I was amazed.  She was thoughtful, interested in almost everything, and a delightful lunch companion.  Though Grace is now completing her training as an anesthesiologist, she certainly did not put me to sleep.

Over the past weekend much of the family was together.  I took great delight in watching my grandson Robin who is two years old, give or take.  (I don’t keep track of birthdays, but Daveen does an impeccable job of that.)  Lately, Robin has attracted a lot of attention and laughter by calling out, “Daveeeeeeeeen.”  I think he was originally imitating me, but it’s so funny that almost everyone in the family has begun imitating him.

I’ve read that many people born today will still be alive in the year 2100.  That bogles my mind, especially since in that year Robin would be nearly the age I am today.

I’m remembering two lines from the play Julius Caesar by Shakespeare.  “The evil that men do lives after them.  The good is oft interred with their bones.”  (Shakespeare certainly had a way with words.)

I prefer to amend that line. I believe that the good we do lives after us, hopefully to be continued, and amplified, by our children and grandchildren.

To them — I love you all.

Alan

New friends are great, but it can take thirty or forty years to make an “old” friend.  I met one of my own oldest friends, Jill A., about fifty years ago.  We lived together from 1972 until 1975.

During her last several years Jill lived in a small home in a beautiful forest in Brookings, Oregon, just north of the California border.  The winters were mild, the summers warm, and on the 4^th of July she could see the fireworks on the beach a few miles to the South.

I’m still working part time, and plan to continue indefinitely.  But there have been days when I’ve imagined what my life would be like if was retired and living in the thick woods of Oregon.  I used to own a condo at Lake Tahoe.  One day my brother David called me from the dock where he was fishing.  I thought at the time, “What’s wrong with this picture?”  There I was, at my desk working, and David was at my condo fishing.  Hmmm.

Jill was diagnosed with cancer almost a year ago, though she did outlive her doctor’s prediction of “six months.”

We talked by phone every week or two. She always seemed to be in good spirits, even toward the end when her pain had become nearly unbearable.  When Daveen and I visited her several months ago, Jill was a caring and attentive hostess.

In our final conversation Jill told me that she would say “hello” to my brother for me and also to my father, both of whom she loved.

I’ll always remember our driving trip to Eugene, Oregon to see the Olympic Track and Field Trials in 1972.  She was driving my Porsche up Highway 5.  At one point, she sprang back from the steering wheel.

Jill hadn’t realized she’d been driving 105 miles an hour.  Afterwards, she tried to hold it down to 90.

I guess we live our lives in both the fast lane and the slow, until it’s time for that final pit stop.

Jill, I hope you know how much I appreciate our friendship, and all the time we spent together.

I will always love you.

Alan

One of my daughters lives in Boston. Last Saturday, was the coldest day there in many years.  The windchill factor fell below minus twenty degrees.  That’s so cold that, I’m told, your spit will freeze before it reaches the ground.

Both of my parents grew up in the suburbs of New York City.  Since my father was a musician, the two best places for him to find work were in New York City and Los Angeles, California.  Fortunately for my brother and me in 1939, the year before I was born, mom and dad decided to move to Los Angeles.

They traveled cross-country in a 1928 Dodge.  Back then, many of the roads they drove on were still gravel.

As a native Angeleno, I take warm weather entirely for granted.  I still remember how excited I was one Saturday morning in 1952 when Los Angeles actually had snow on the ground.  It was only about 1-1/2 inches, but it was snow.  Alas, I had a piano lesson that morning, so I didn’t even have a chance to make a snowball to throw at my brother (that’s what snow is for – right?) before it melted away.

Last Saturday night my daughter’s basement in Boston flooded. Even though she and her husband kept the water flowing, the far below freezing temperatures caused a pipe to burst. You can see the result in the photo that accompanies this blog.  Fortunately, they are renting the house, and did not personally store anything in the basement.

I should, but seldom, remember to give thanks every day for the fine weather in L. A.  Many blessings in life fall into our laps but taking the time to appreciate my good fortune always makes me feel better.

Of course, Daveen’s parents also moved to Los Angeles from somewhere else.  (Didn’t everyone?)  I’m certainly happy about that.  Meeting Daveen is another piece of good fortune I should take more time to appreciate.

In Los Angeles, where we consider any temperature of less than 50 degrees to be below freezing, we often forget to count the blessing of warmth.

So today I’m doing exactly that.

I’m not going to think about fires, earthquakes, and mudslides until tomorrow.

Alan