My mother and my father were both professional musicians.  In fact, they met as teenagers in an all-star high school orchestra. My mother played the trumpet and flute, my father the French horn. As you might expect, as a child I was encouraged (I might say required) to learn to play both piano and French horn.

At thirteen, my parents signed me up to study composing with Joseph Oroop, a passionate man with an unusual name.

The best part of the lesson was the streetcar ride to and from Mr. Oroop’s home.

One day Mr. Oroop questioned my participation.

“Mr. Fox,” he said, a bit formally.  “I would like to know something.  You have taken harmony lessons from me for three months.  My other students are either very enthusiastic and bring me their own compositions, or they drop out.  You are a mystery.  Each week I give you an assignment, you go home, you work on the assignment, and you bring it back.  But so far you haven’t gotten excited and started to compose any additional work, and you haven’t dropped out.  What’s going on with you?”

I was surprised, but thought he asked a very good question.  I considered it for a week, and at my next lesson told Mr. Oroop that I was dropping out.

While I would have liked to become a brilliant composer (or a brilliant anything for that matter), I lacked both enthusiasm and any great ability for composing music.  But I did learn an important lesson from Mr. Oroop. It’s not enough to simply go through the motions.  It’s important for each of us to figure out what we like to do and what we have an aptitude for.  Hopefully, we can match the two.

Of course, I often have to learn the same lesson more than once before it sticks.

Toward the end of my first year of law school Professor Richard Wicks, who taught contract law, called me into his office.

He was not as formal as Mr. Oroop, but delivered a similar message.  “Alan, you’ve been in my class for almost two semesters.  You are always prepared, you answer my questions when I call on you, but you certainly aren’t working up to your ability.  You’re not enthusiastic.  I encourage you to get more involved and start enjoying the study of law.”

I didn’t drop out of law school, but I also did not become more enthusiastic.  Perhaps I should have, at that time, worked more diligently to follow my passion to become a writer.  I did that twenty-five years later.

The title of this blog is ripples.  Like a stone dropping into a pond, each of us causes ripples, for better or for worse, in the lives of those we know.  And often we never find out the effect that we have had.

There are many ripples in the lake of my life, and I give thanks to Mr. Oroop and Professor Wicks for taking the time to notice me, and caring enough to help me find my calling.  I hope to pay it forward by helping others to do the same.

Alan

Santa Ana winds.  Wildfires in Southern California.  Mandatory evacuation of the entire city of Malibu.  A 7:30 am phone call from my son on Saturday morning.

“We are evacuating now, and we’ll be at your house as soon as we can get there.”

This was how I found out about the Woolsey fire last Saturday. In less than three days, it has burned more than a hundred square miles and destroyed more than one hundred and fifty homes.

Four hours after his phone call my son, his wife, their three young sons, and a barking Portuguese Waterdog arrived at my home.

“We may have gotten rid of our ant problem,” my son said.  “A number of houses in our neighborhood burned to the ground.  Our house is almost certainly one of them.”

“Oh, no.”  I began to think about the implications.  How would they all cope with the loss of their home?

Fast forward to Saturday evening. My son delivered the news.

“One of our neighbors stayed to protect his house.  He just told me that our house is still standing.”

What a day!

I thought about a psychology exercise I had learned while I was studying for a graduate degree in Counselor Education.

The instructor told us to write down ten of the people or things we loved most in our lives.  I don’t remember my list, but I’m sure it included the people who were important to me – my wife, three children, parents, and brother.  It probably did not include many, if any, physical things because I decided when I was young that I would reserve my emotional energy for the people in my life, not things.  After all, things can be repaired or replaced.  People cannot.

“Look at your list, and imagine the tenth item leaving your life,” the instructor said.

I did.  I felt a little sad.

“Now go to number nine, then number eight, and imagine those people or items leaving your life, one at a time.  We’ll take a few minutes for this.”

Ten minutes later there were many distressed students in the classroom, including me.  Even though this was only an exercise of the imagination, I felt devastated.

“Now close your eyes for a few minutes to fully experience what you have lost.”

After a painful five-minutes, the professor continued, “Now start with the tenth item on your list and imagine it coming back to you.  Then go on to each of the others until all ten are back in your life.”

When number one on my list returned to my life I was smiling broadly.  All ten had returned and I was absolutely thrilled.

Yet, what had happened?  In reality, nothing.  There was no objective change in my life.  But my subjective change was monumental.  I felt an attitude of enormous gratitude.  This was a memorable lesson for me.

Many recent studies have shown that we can create happiness in our own lives by feeling gratitude, or by helping another person.

My father, a vigorous 104 years old, tells me that at the end of each day he says, to no one in particular, “Thanks for another beautiful day.”

It’s all a matter of your attitude.

But it looks like my son and his family still face an ant problem when they return to their home.

Alan

Last Thursday evening I was seated in a theater waiting to see the stage production of World of Dance, a show I enjoy watching on TV.

I was there with a close friend, one of my daughters, and her husband.  We had all enjoyed a wonderful dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant (one of the best in Los Angeles).  Our seats were toward the front of the orchestra section, though not quite in the center. There were several preshow “warm-up” acts that were reasonably good.  After an intermission the main show began. I think.

I don’t remember clearly, because I was so annoyed.  “Annoyed” is an understatement. I was angry.

The woman seated to my left one row in front of me, and immediately in front of my daughter, was taking a video of the performance.  She held her cell phone high over her head, directly blocking my view.  I was fuming.

But what to do? At every live show I have attended there has been an announcement banning photography.  The auditorium was dark.  I would have had to leave my seat and search for an usher or someone else to help me.  I waited.  Maybe the woman just wanted to video the opening act to remind herself where she had been this evening.  She certainly wasn’t watching the dancers. She focused her full attention to her cell phone.

Apparently her cell phone had a great view.

I was reminded of an experience in a movie theater years ago.  Three people in front of me were talking loudly during the movie as if they were in their own living room.  I asked them to stop talking but they only laughed at me.  So I called an usher who spoke with them, and then suggested I take another seat.  The theater was full, and I refused.  Eventually the rude group stopped talking.

But back to the dancing.  I was worried my daughter was as bothered by it as I was.  And then the woman directly in front of me also started to video the performance!

Simultaneously, my daughter and I finally tapped the woman in front of my daughter on the shoulder.  We were a tag team – I touched the right shoulder, my daughter touched the left.

“You’re blocking my view,” I said.  She was immediately responsive, sort of.  She lowered her camera a few inches, still interfering with our view of the performance.

At the next intermission, we found an usher, who spoke with both women.  Then she reported that because there “hadn’t been an announcement” there was nothing she could do. The usher helpfully suggested we change seats if we were disturbed.

Fortunately for us the two woman stopped recording toward the end of the show. Maybe their cell batteries died.

Whoopee!

Tonight I’m going to watch a televised football game at home.

The videographer will be at the game.  I will be watching from my bed.

Each of us will be where we belong.

Alan