A rainy day in Los Angeles offers a perfect opportunity to consider our legacy — yours and mine.

I’m not talking about the money we might leave to those we love. I am talking about the actions we perform each day to help others. Those acts are our most lasting and important gift to the world.

Years ago a young man asked me for advice. He was planning to start a business in commercial property management — similar to mine, and I freely gave him my time along with my guidance.  Then he asked me to share the templates for all of my contracts. I considered the possibility that he might ultimately become a competitor, but what the heck — I believed, and still do, that we have an obligation to help others to the extent we reasonably can. I gave him a copy of each of our forms. He thanked me. I never saw him again.

Still, I’m glad I helped. You’ve probably read the articles that establish how helping others brings us happiness. I agree.  It brings me great joy to help others.

I also hope that when I help someone, they will pay it forward by helping someone else, although that would be a bonus.  It’s not part of the original deal.

We all help our children, emotionally and financially from the moment they are born. We even continue to help them long after they begin to know more than we do — at about age thirteen. That’s fine with me. Better they should learn from their own mistakes while they are still at home in a somewhat protected environment. But even after they have fledged from the protective nests of their childhood homes – we continue helping them. And they in turn, begin to help us along with helping their own children, and others.

And so it goes. A cycle of helping others is the best legacy any of us can leave. As soon as I finish writing this blog, I’m going to take a moment to listen to the rain, and silently remember, and thank, all of those who helped me along my way. There have been, and still are, many.

My thanks to you for reading (and sometimes commenting) on my blog. I appreciate you.

Alan

When our children are growing up we see them most every day. Once they’re grown and off on their own, we don’t see them nearly as often.

Every month or so I have lunch with my son, Craig, who is in his mid-50’s. At our last meeting he said, “You know, Dad, we may only see each other 100 more times in our lives.”

I was surprised because I had never thought about it in that practical way. I’m 83, so if he and I share lunch ten times a year, 100 visits would cover the next ten years. My son’s off-hand projection may be close to what we can actually expect.

Years ago, I studied with a psychiatrist, Paul Ware. One of the most important lessons he  taught me was the value of staying current with those I love. He suggested that whenever I leave a friend or loved one I should be completely up-to-date with them. I should let them know that I love them, and if I want to share part of my life or tell them something, I should do it right away. The opportunity may not come around again.

My younger brother, David, died unexpectedly twenty years ago. Even though he and I were completely up to date with each other, I was devastated by his death. I could hardly function for the next six months and continued to actively mourn his death for at least two years. I miss him today and every day, especially his sense of humor and his enthusiasm.

What I learned from the experience of losing my brother unexpectedly – is simple. As per Paul Ware’s advice, I try to express my love, my joy, or my appreciation whenever I feel it. I don’t wait for the next time I might see someone. As I’ve written recently in another blog, lately I’ve developed the practice of smiling, raising one finger, and saying out loud, “Delight.” I do this often! I admit that I’m usually alone when I do it, but emotion is infectious, so I hereby resolve to start saying “Delight” out loud so others can share in it.

In the vastness of time, our single lives pass rather quickly. Let’s make every moment of ours count.

Today.

Right now

Alan

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