About ten years ago a new Chinese restaurant named “Green Apple” opened several blocks from my office.  Their location was barely visible from the street.  I don’t remember how I found it, but I did.

They offered a lunch special with soup, salad, main course, and rice at a thirty percent introductory discount.  That certainly appealed to me.  More importantly, the ingredients were fresh, the seasonings delicious, and their service excellent.

Several months later I was disappointed when the discount disappeared, but I was hooked.  By then I had become a regular.  Today, when I tell my wife that I am going to Green Apple for lunch she will ask me to bring her home their outstanding Kung Pao Tofu.

My friend Deborah and I have lunch together once a week. We alternate between our three favorite restaurants.  One is Green Apple.  After many years of enjoying a culinary status quo, I suggested that we try a recently opened French bistro located across from Green Apple.

Spoiler alert.  We do not plan to return.

The place was empty, other than the young French couple who had opened the restaurant.  The menu was difficult to read and understand, the food was good but not great (buckwheat crepe anyone?), and overall the experience didn’t warrant a return visit.

Years ago there was a hamburger restaurant near downtown Los Angeles that I loved.  When they opened a satellite location in Encino, not far from my office, I dropped by for lunch.  The food was excellent, similar to the downtown location, but the manager behind the cash register was rude.  I remember that he spoke disrespectfully to a man who had come in with a large party.  He then added injury to insult by saying, “If you like the food you’ll come back.  If not, you won’t.”

Wrong. Perhaps he was someone’s brother-in-law, but clearly this manager had never been trained in customer service. I predicted the Encino branch would last no more than one year.  In fact, it closed three months later, no doubt after insulting many never-to-return customers.  No surprise there.

I live in a city where restaurants are outstanding and highly competitive. Isn’t that like life itself?

We all have choices of who we hang out with, and from my point of view the only thing we do with friends every day is customer service.  Are we pleasant?  Do we listen?  Do we let our friends know that we really care about them?

Worth thinking about, and perhaps paying it forward.

Alan

Thanks for all of your thoughtful notes and comments on last week’s blog about my mother, “The Girl Behind the Camera.”   One reader shared his struggle to reconstruct his own family history, now that both of his parents are unavailable.  His father had written a family history, but my friend found it “dry as dust.”  I’m not surprised – this has happened to several other friends who wrote hard-to-read family histories.  So when one of my children suggested that I write our family history, I thought about what that might look like.

My first three rules of writing are, Make it interesting, Make it interesting, and Make it interesting.  So I’m not going to ever write the long family story.  I’ll stick to my standard blog length – 300 to 600 words – and only include those events that stand out in my heart and mind as notable and worth sharing.

One of my earliest memories is from April 12, 1945 (I asked Siri for the exact date).

In 1940 my parents bought a home for $5,700. They lived in that house until my father moved to be closer to me in 2003. Dad was proud because it was on a hillside, and our residence was an “upside down” house with the bedrooms on the floor below the entry.  My brother and I shared one bedroom, my parents shared the other.

I was five years old on that memorable April day in 1945. My mother and I were standing in the shared bathroom between the bedrooms and she was crying.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?”

She tried to control her tears.  “Because . . . because the president just died.”  She was referring to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was first inaugurated on March 4, 1933.  He served four terms as President.

I remember her tears because even at a young age I was sensitive to the emotional state of others.  I often feel that I know a person’s mood when they enter the room.  Of course, in 1945 I was very young and still learning the best way to respond to someone else’s sadness. Since then, I have learned how to deal with emotions, but in some ways I will always be learning.

I don’t remember exactly how I tried to comfort my mother, but I knew “The President” was someone important to her, and I knew what death meant – that he would never come back.

My father always said that his earliest memory was of people celebrating the end of World War I when he was three years old.  I’m still amazed that as recently as last year I was talking to a man who actually remembered an event that happened a full century before.

As Shakespeare wrote, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”  So I won’t say more here, other than to mention that I have been reflecting on my earliest memories, and found many more than I thought I would have.  Of course, memory is subjective – which is something to think about as well.

I don’t remember ever hearing my parents fight (although I know they did). But I I’ll never forget my mother crying.

Perhaps you have memories you’ve carried your entire life. Feel free to share. I’d love to hear from you.  (Best email address is alan@acfpm.com)

Alan

In 1920 an eight-year-old girl answered the door of a photography studio in New York City. She greeted the young man who was scheduled to have his portrait taken. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but my dad is the photographer and he isn’t here so I’ll take your portrait photo myself.” And she did.  Except that she did not know how to take a proper portrait, so she had to fake it.

“We should have the proofs for you next week,” she said as the customer left.

The girl was my mother.  Her father, the professional photographer, was my grandfather.

The way my mother used to tell this story was that her father loved to go fishing, and was not a great businessman.  So from time to time he would be out fishing when customers arrived for their appointment, and she had to fill in.  A few days later he would contact the customer to apologize, tell them that their photographs had not turned out well, and he would be happy to arrange another sitting.

I never asked Mom for more details.  After all, she would always be available to answer my questions.  Or so I assumed. Except now she isn’t, and so all that I know is what I’ve already shared with you. I suppose that the customer had previously paid for the session, so that no income was ever lost. But since I never asked, I can’t fill in the gaps.

I imagine this has happened to many of us. We waited to ask our loved ones to tell us their stories, and after they are gone we wish we had asked for more.

I thought about all this today shortly after the news broke that Kobe Bryant, the superstar professional basketball player, had died, together with one of his teenage daughters and all of the other passengers in a helicopter crash not far from where I live.

Whenever we’re with someone we love, especially our parents, we have an opportunity to form a deeper and more meaningful bond.  One way to do this is to make it a point, as much as possible, to ask about family history.  Since I typically live “in the moment,” I never asked my parents very much about their personal past.  If you challenged me to name even one of my eight great grandparents, I wouldn’t be able to do it.  Sadly, I don’t know anything about any of them.

My mom must have had photography in her blood, because she kept many scrapbooks of photos that she and my father took, especially when my brother and I were children.  I have kept those albums to this day. They include photos from more than one hundred years ago – photos I now wish I had asked her about. Now I feel I’m missing important pieces of my family’s story

I do know that during the Great Depression few women attended college. Not only was my mother among a very select group that did attend – she also earned a Master’s degree from Hunter College in New York City.  I know that her father was a professional photographer, and that her mother was domineering.  Beyond that, I know little about my ancestors.  I could look up information on the internet, but somehow that is not the same as hearing the stories firsthand.

We miss opportunities every day.  Kobe was retired so now the only way to see him play professional basketball is on videos.  But the opportunity to learn more about your family’s history may not come your way another time. As someone who wishes he had asked more questions, I’d like to suggest that you gather as many stories as you can. Then you’ll be able to pass those on to your children and loved ones – when, in turn, they ask you to share.

Rest in peace Mom.  Rest in peace Grandpa.  Rest in peace Kobe.

Alan