When I was eight years old my father taught me how to play chess. Naturally, he won every game. And yet, I persevered.

I studied chess books and worked hard to improve my game. By the time I was ten years old, I’d become a pretty good player. Sadly, this turned out to be a double-edged sword. As soon as I started to win consistently, my dad lost interest in playing chess (at least with me). And still I worked to become better.

When I was a senior in high school, I became the president of the chess club. That year I experienced the high point of my high-school chess career.

At a citywide tournament, I was matched against the very best player from Fairfax, a school that had earned the reputation for being the top high school chess team in Los Angeles.

After the one-hour time limit, our game was still unfinished, so the Fairfax faculty advisor, who was running the tournament, hovered over the chess board to adjudicate our game.  That means he studied the position of each player’s pieces and decided who would have won the game if it had continued.  I was shocked when he called the match in my favor.  But, hey, a win is a win and I was able to advance to the next round.

When I was 31, I returned to playing chess recreationally and entered several tournaments.  My chess career ended for good, however, when I realized that very few women played tournament chess, and it was not the best way for a single man to meet the woman of his dreams (that would be Daveen, of course). To this day I don’t know if Daveen plays chess, or even checkers for that matter.  But we have found other ways to amuse ourselves.

I’m thinking of introducing some of my grandchildren to chess, but only until they start to beat me.

Sic transit gloria mundi.  Translation – “thus passes the glory of the world.”

Alan

My parents grew up in New York City. They left New York soon after their wedding and drove a 1928 Dodge across the United States to Los Angeles, where Dad hoped to find work as a professional French horn player. The interstate highway system was built in the 1950’s, so many of the roads they travelled were unpaved gravel.

My dad had wanted to move as far away from his relatives as he could. In Los Angeles he and my mom didn’t know anyone.  Though Mom wrote letters virtually every day, we had almost no physical contact with our East coast relatives.  That was exactly what Dad wanted.

When I was nineteen, I qualified to attend the National Intercollegiate Debate Tournament at West Point.  While I was in New York I invited my grandfather Abraham Fox to lunch.

I met Abe at his place of work – an un air-conditioned sweatshop in the garment district of New York, where he was employed as a tailor, working as fast as he could because he was paid by the piece.

He insisted on treating me to lunch.  “We’ll go where the big executives eat lunch,” he said proudly.  I was dressed in a nice suit and tie, my usual attire back then. My grandfather was dressed in a suit of his own, although from the tattered condition of his jacket and the creases in his tie, it seemed likely those were the “dress up” clothes he owned.

When he pulled out a five dollar bill to pay for lunch, I felt a tremendous conflict.  “I’ll pay,” he said.  While I couldn’t embarrass him by insisting that I pay, I suspected this was a major part of his weekly paycheck. At the time I was already earning five dollars an hour as a math tutor.

Of the many lunches I have enjoyed in my life, this was the most poignant and bittersweet.

Grandpa Fox retired to Florida and lived to be 94 years old.  I remain in Los Angeles, which is now filled with Foxes.  For my recent 82nd birthday we hosted 22 family members, not counting those who couldn’t attend.

I can certainly understand my dad wanting to escape from the foibles and conflicts of family, but I feel differently.

Fox Family – I like spending time together.  See you again soon.

Love,

Alan

My mother and father were both professional musicians when they met in the early 1930’s. My mother played the trumpet, my father the French horn. This meant:

1. I was required to learn how to play both the piano and the French horn.
2. I had to be “quiet” at home when my dad was conducting French horn lessons.
3. I was severely discouraged from becoming a professional musician. “That’s not the best way for you to earn a living,” Dad said many times.

When Dad walked by as I practiced the piano, he often tapped me on the shoulder to remind me to color each phrase.  “Each phrase is like a sentence.  Each note, like each word, has to carry its own weight.  It has to be interesting.  Pay attention to each note,” he said.

And here I am, more than seventy years later, still applying that lesson.  I pay attention to every word–a habit that was first a cobweb, then a cord, and finally a cable.

Actually, I think Dad was talking about variety.  I would be bored listening to a newscaster delivering word after word in a monotone.  At the grocery store I fill my cart with many different foods.  And while I might be interested in a sequel, I seldom watch the same movie more than once.

We all need structure in our lives.  At home I like the reassurance of having everything in its place (provided I can remember where that place is).  But I also enjoy the thrill of discovery, which is why I choose a different topic for my blog each week.

The known vs. the unknown.  We all seemed to bounce between the security of the familiar and the excitement of the fresh, something like a two-year-old running out to discover something new, then returning to the security of Mom’s arms.

I think that we can all live a fuller life when we “color each phrase,” paying attention to each moment, and making it interesting.

I wish you a day filled with color.

Alan