According to a recent news story, only about half of the adult population in the United States is married.  Apparently, many people live together without any formal confirmation of their relationship.

I recall an evening early in my career when I was actively soliciting new investors.  One of my best investors was a doctor at Kaiser, and he’d arranged a meeting for me to introduce about 20 other Kaiser doctors to my commercial real estate investments.  As I recall, four or five ultimately became investors.

After my successful presentation I drove home. At that time, I was not married.  In fact, I was living by myself.   I wanted to share my success with someone, but, alas, there was no one at home with whom I could share my good news.  I felt the aloneness of the moment acutely and it dampened the joy I’d felt earlier.

I sometimes think of myself as a loner, but that’s not really accurate.  In business I don’t like voting partners. But, in fact, I enjoy being a member of two groups – my extended  family at home (all six of my children live in the Los Angeles area), and my “work” family at ACF. There are weeks when I spend more time with “my family” at the office than I do at home with my wife and kids and grandchildren.

I have read that many older people, mostly men living alone, can go for weeks without talking to another human being.  That seems terribly sad to me.

I believe that most of us enjoy our lives more when we are able to share our successes, and commiserate about our failures, with a close friend or family.  So, here’s a toast to those who are fortunate enough to have relationships that we enjoy, and one in which we also find support. And here’s a reminder to those who aren’t so lucky – it’s never too late to establish new friendships. They might be the best investments you’ll ever make.

Alan

P. S. Daveen and I were first married almost 50 years ago. We’ve been living together again for several years now.  But we are officially getting married again in September.  How’s that for romance!

Joseph Oroop: an interesting name, and it comes with an interesting story.

Both of my parents were professional musicians. They began their careers in the 1930’s during the Great Depression.  My mom played the trumpet. My dad originally studied the violin but did not play very well.  His parents asked his teacher what instrument he might play only moderately well and still be able to earn a living as a musician. The answer was the Voltone (French horn).  They were told that it was a difficult instrument to master but there were few professional French horn players at that time, and they were greatly in demand.

Dad practiced the horn six hours a day during the summer, and three hours a day while he was in high school.  His efforts paid off. He earned a job as First horn in the Washington, D.C. philharmonic when he was only 18.

With two professional-musician parents, it should come as no surprise that I was expected to play both the piano and the French horn – although not professionally. At my parents’ urging I also studied musical composition privately with Joseph Oroop. His studio was located on Barham Boulevard.  All these years later, every time I pass Barham on the 101 Freeway I think of him. He taught me an important lesson.

One day after a session, Oroop confronted me. He began by saying that that I puzzled him.

“Most of my students love composition and begin working on their own original pieces.  The ones who don’t drop out quickly.  You’ve been studying with me for more than three months.  You haven’t caught “on fire”, and you haven’t quit. You just do what I assign, nothing more, nothing less.  What’s up?”

I thought about his question for a few weeks.  And then I quit.  I realized that I lacked the requisite passion and was clearly not destined to be a composer.  To this day I believe that it takes exceptional talent to compose music.  As the founder of Rattle, a literary magazine, I also think that to write poetry or music well, one must be especially gifted.

The lesson here, one we all face repeatedly in life, is when to give up.

Sometimes the answer is “Never.”  But when the answer is “Soon,” you might convert that to “Now.”  Is there something in your life that you are choosing to do regularly even though you don’t really like doing it? You have my permission to stop.

Unless your life partner disagrees, of course.

Alan

My dad died in 2019 at the age of 104.

Last Sunday morning one of my sons called. “Today would have been your dad’s 110^th birthday,” he said.  “Why don’t we celebrate with lunch at Philippe’s?”  That was one of my father’s favorite restaurants. It features French Dip sandwiches and has been a Los Angeles landmark for almost as many years as my dad was alive.

A celebration lunch sounded like a great idea, so a few hours later Daveen and I joined Steven and his son Noah at Philippe’s.  Lunch was delicious. Afterwards I found myself in a contemplative mood.

Back home I rummaged through my office to find a copy of the 64-page paperback book, Essentials of Brass Playing by Fred Fox, which Dad self-published in 1974.

I’ve read that if you want to be immortal you must either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.  My dad did both.  Long before writing his book, he was Solo French Horn of many orchestras, including the National Symphony in Washington, D.C., and the Los Angeles Philharmonic.  He was not only an outstanding French Horn player, but a teacher for the ages.

I observed him teach at many colleges, and so I was able to personally witness the magic.  He began by asking a student playing a brass or wind instrument to play a few notes.  That was all he needed to hear. After only a few notes, Dad would interrupt and begin to make suggestions.  In every case his students became much better musicians after only three or four minutes.

To quote the final paragraph in Dad’s book:

“What is achieved on one note, is then extended to a phrase and then to a solo.  Naturally it takes time and practice to develop the mental endurance to retain this total involvement in every note of a performance.  Without it, playing is mundane, pedestrian.  With it, it is alive and vital.  Once the performer experiences how to make the sounds live, if he is really sincere, he has no choice; he must retain and develop the ‘LIFE‘ in playing!  ETERNAL VIGILANCE!!!!!”

Dad taught life lessons that extend far beyond a French horn or clarinet – lessons on how to live that still resonate with thousands of his students.  And certainly, in me.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  I love you.

Alan