During the past few years I’ve been recording hour-long episodes of the popular TV series Shark Tank.  Since this is their tenth season, I have more than one hundred shows ready to go whenever I’m struck by the impulse to use my elliptical machine for a morning workout.  But since this show has now consumed about 80% of my recording capacity, I have dug into the backlog and begun to view episodes from the comfort and convenience of my couch, while recovering from neck surgery.

On each episode, five wealthy business people listen to “the pitch” of four different entrepreneurs seeking cash to expand their fledgling businesses.  Most of the time an offer is negotiated and accepted.  Occasionally the entrepreneur leaves empty handed (always vowing to press on and prove the “Sharks” were wrong not to have invested with them).  Mostly, I agree with the sharks.

Two men who usually sit on the panel of sharks include Mark Cuban, the famous billionaire owner of an NBA professional basketball team, and “Mr. Wonderful” who is known for picking the presentations apart as he explains to each supplicant why they are totally overvaluing their business.  His favorite parting line when his lowball offer is rejected: “You’re dead to me.”  Truly a wonderful guy.

On a recent show one young woman, a single mother of two, was seeking a $350,000 investment for 25% of her dress line for young mothers who wanted to spend more time playing with their children.

“To my four-year-old son,” she said, “a grass stain is the sign of a day well spent.  To me, it’s a large dry cleaning bill.”

Her dresses were quite fashionable, but could still be thrown into the washing machine at the end of the day.  She had been in business for five years, and her annual sales for the previous year had reached $1,200,000.  Even Mr. Wonderful was impressed, though he argued that she had valued her business at much more than he thought it was worth.  This position, of course, is always part of his negotiating strategy.

When asked by one of the women on the panel, the entrepreneur shared her back story.

Though she was a single mom, she was determined to help other moms play more with their young children. She had taught herself to sew even though she didn’t previously know a thing about sewing or patterns.  Her own mother, she said, hadn’t played with her. There had been abuse and addiction, but the mother “did the best she could.  We all have trauma in our childhoods,” she said, “and I needed to leave that behind to pursue my goal.”

At this point even Mr. Wonderful took out his handkerchief to dab tears from his eyes.

One of the women on the panel offered the full amount asked — $350,000 for 25% of the business.  Everyone was thrilled, the two women hugged. The entrepreneur had succeeded where few others had – obtaining her exact asking price.

Surprisingly, as Mr. Wonderful was putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, he said, “This is the best fashion presentation I’ve ever seen in the past ten years.”

Amen, Mr. Wonderful.  Amen.

Alan

Many years ago I arrived to a funeral twelve minutes late hoping I could quietly take a seat in the back. But when I walked into the chapel it was empty. I inquired, and was told that a fight had broken out among members of the family and the service had been, shall we say, short.

I’ve also attended several funerals at which the clergyman began with, “I never had the good fortune to meet the departed, but he (or she) was…”

Somehow, I find that disrespectful.

For my father’s funeral last Tuesday morning we decided to hold graveside services with only family and a few close friends attending.

One of his grandsons was scheduled to return Monday night from a week long vacation on Maui but, alas, the plane leaked fuel onto the tarmac and his flight was canceled. This was at the end of the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Fortunately he was able to rebook himself on a return flight through Seattle and arrived at graveside a few minutes before we began.

Dad’s eight grandchildren served as pallbearers, and everyone told touching tales about Dad, many of which were new to me. Among the last to speak, movingly, was one of his great-granddaughters.

After our brief family gathering my nephew pointed out that my brother David’s grave was nearby. All of us spent a few moments there in silent remembrance.

Unlike the other funerals I mentioned, at my Dad’s memorial the feeling of family unity, spanning three generations, was unmistakable. The man from the mortuary said it was one of the most moving tributes he’d ever seen.

The morning had been quite difficult for me, recovering from two recent cervical spine surgeries, and I was flat on my back most of the following day (although I have been told, repeatedly, “this too will pass”).  It will take months.

But last Tuesday I was comforted to know that the two generations of my family who come after me are in the hands and hearts of articulate, kind, and caring people, and, knowing this comfort will endure forever inside me, I am at peace

My heartfelt thanks to all.

Love,

Alan

For the past few weeks while I was in the hospital, my Dad, who would have been 105 on July 14, was in another hospital where he was being treated for a foot infection.

Dad hated being in the hospital. This time it was even harder on him because Cristina, his regular caregiver (who he adored), was on a much needed two-week vacation.  Also, for an obvious reason, I couldn’t visit him.  He was at home when she returned last Monday. That was a good day for Dad, but the next morning he told his nighttime caregiver, “Get Cristina.”

When she arrived a few minutes later he was non responsive.  The medics from 911 could not revive him.

I know that when someone we are close to dies we often blame ourselves for having not seen them “just one more time” or for not having the opportunity to say “I love you” just once again. I, however, feel at peace.

For many years Dad and I visited regularly and a mutual “I love you” was always a part our temporary, and now final, goodbye.  That is why I sometimes eat my desert first. After all, you never can tell.

I’ve read that the only reliable paths to happiness are to help others, and to feel gratitude. Today is a day for gratitude.

Dad, I’m grateful that you were a large part of my life for almost eighty years.  I’m especially grateful for all you taught me, from an appreciation for how music is created to the importance of saving money, from relaxing my throat and speaking with a deeper voice to the joy in teaching others, and from the cultivation of long term relationships to loving and always being supportive of my children.

It is said that brevity is the soul of wit, so on this Tuesday when I share this blog with you, my family – your family – and I will be publicly sharing our joy in your being with us for so long, and our grief that this sharing has come to an end.

Rest in peace, Dad. Rest in peace.

Love,

Alan