I was watching Saturday afternoon football on TV, and wondering what I would write my next blog about when I received the following email.

Alan,
The buyers have agreed and signed our counter offer. I will open escrow on Monday and be in touch with you, Congratulations!
Bill O.

I thought, “Great!”  But at the same time I felt hollow.

The house I have for sale is located across from the Mission Ranch on Dolores Street in Carmel, California. I was introduced to the quaint, seaside town of Carmel more than fifty years ago by one of my very best friends, John.  The house on Dolores is the first one I ever built. It’s surrounded by cypress trees and beauty. It’s where my family and I celebrated Christmas with friends for more than thirty years. But last year I spent Christmas on a Caribbean cruise – the tradition of Christmas in Carmel finished because of my divorce, and, partly, my own declining interest.

On reading the email that the house in Carmel might be finally sold, I initially thought “Great!” And then I felt hollow.  That’s the way it often is – my mind goes one way, my heart goes another.

The “Great” was from my head and completely justified.  Over the past twenty years, other than for those few days during Christmas, I had seldom visited the house.  Once I showed up in July without giving anyone notice.  The house was a mess.  The caretaker had assumed I would never arrive unexpectedly, and I found the sheets and towels from Christmas still piled on the floor in front of the washing machine.  But by then even Christmas in Carmel had lost its zest, even if the spaghetti sauce I prepared each year for thirty or forty guests had not.

Also, I had blocked the CPA part of my mind from telling the rest of me that the Dolores house was costing me tens of thousands of dollars a day for only five or six days a year of actual use.  Mortgages and property taxes don’t care about Christmas.

“Great!” my mind now said.  “You won’t have to take care of that house any longer.  No more new roofs, no gardener, no painting.  And I won’t have to replace the thirty-five year old carpet (still the original).  Selling Dolores will be a blessing!”

But at the same time there was a hollow place inside me where all the good memories still live. I spent many wonderful hours in that house: playing pinochle until dawn with my father brother, enjoying my young children as they tore off wrapping paper to find their gifts, feeling the warmth of a crackling pine fire during many chilly winter nights.

I hold on to people, and to places.  I simply don’t like to let anything go.

But, hopefully, my Carmel home away from home will soon be owned, probably remodeled, by another family who will bring to it their own dreams, experience in it their own joys, and create their own sweet memories.

As the American Indians use to say, we don’t really own anything.  We only get to use it for a while.

Alan

As I began driving to work this morning I had a random thought.  “This is going to be a bad day.”

Whoops!

How did that saboteur enter my brain?  When I walk into my office would I ever say to a coworker, “Good morning!  This is going to be a bad day”?

Of course not.  I seem to only send that kind of negative message to myself.

It has been said, “As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.”  Should I allow the twig of my thoughts to grow into the tree of a really bad day?

I assume that you are thinking, “No.  Of course not.  Have positive thoughts, Alan, so that you‘ll have a great day.”

And you’re right.  I agree with you.  So as I drove to work I thought of everything I was looking forward to throughout my day.  Frankly, at the top of my list was lunch.

At my desk, partly to avoid actual work, I thought about another statement that almost all of us use often, and this phrase is one of my pet peeves.

“You made me feel . . .”

Really?  You “made me” feel good?  You “made me” feel awful?  You “made me” feel like a million dollars?

If I have to, I’ll choose number three.  But my point is that whatever you do is entirely within your control, not mine.  But how I respond is entirely within my control, not yours.  So you cannot “make me” feel anything.  “Invite?” Perhaps.  “Make?”  No.

From time to time in my business career I’ve been involved in litigation, which is always a waste of time and money.  In many cases the goal of the other side is to “make me” feel miserable.  They haven’t succeeded yet.  I remind myself that I enjoy the thrill of being deposed (as a witness, not as a king).  I believe that a trial is terrific theater, with a real audience and real results.  I appreciate the skill of the better attorney (who I always hope is mine).

When my alma mater USC plays football against Notre Dame, occasionally Notre Dame gets lucky and wins, just to upset me (as they did last Saturday).  But I always remember that I choose to be upset.  I also choose to be delighted when USC wins.  I also remind myself that no one is forcing me to either watch the game or care about the outcome.

I recently received the first really negative comment on this blog.  The comment was anonymous, and began:

“I read your blog often and find it to be awful.”  The four following paragraphs elaborated on that theme.

I admit that my immediate reaction was ninety-five percent rage, five percent shame.  But my second reaction was to wonder, if my blog was so awful to Mr. or Ms. Anonymous, why did he or she keep reading it week after week?  Hmmm.  No doubt an internet troll trying to “make me” feel anger or shame.  Instead, I felt pleased.

Well, Troll, if you are still reading my blog, I’d be happy to hear from you again.  I hope you don’t “feel” frustrated because you didn’t “make me” feel angry or ashamed.  After reading your negative comment, I felt delighted that you and several thousand others are regular readers.

Of course, now that I’ve shared my secret with you, you might not bother to write to me again.  I’m okay with that too.

Today has started well.  It’s going to be a great day.

Alan

On Saturday evening Sprite and I attended my son Craig’s fiftieth birthday party.  My father, a robust 103 years old, joined us. I was reminded of my Dad’s own fiftieth birthday party. It was a surprise (which he hated).

I also remembered Craig’s birthday when he was thirty-five, and the poem I wrote at the time.

The Professor and I visit in his home.  We share memories,
coffee, the dreams we dream.  I buy and sell real estate in California.
He researches and teaches at Duke University in North Carolina.

I lean forward to pay attention to what he has to say.
He asks me, “Are you happy?  Do you have regrets?”
At lunch we explore tenure, morality, the Internet;
we talk of women, money, solitude, love, and women.

It’s his birthday.  I buy pizza.  We watch football on TV.
His alma mater upsets mine.  He laughs as loud
as I did last year.  Always attentive, he assures me,
“I’m more like you than you know.”

The next morning we wake at eight,
shower, he drives me to the airport.
We hug each other at the gate.
“Bye, Craig.  Thanks,” I say.
He says, “Bye.  I love you, Dad.”

It’s easy to forget that every day is a celebration.  No birthday, anniversary, or other peg is needed, on which to hang a treasured memory.

Each new day is warmed by a golden, gift-wrapped sun.

Each morning and afternoon we open the day’s hours, to embrace gifts both familiar and unexpected.

Each evening our celebration is completed by an orange ribbon of sunset.

Happy birthday, everyone.  Kindred spirits all, today is a day to celebrate.

I love you.

Alan