One of my daughters lives in Boston. Last Saturday, was the coldest day there in many years.  The windchill factor fell below minus twenty degrees.  That’s so cold that, I’m told, your spit will freeze before it reaches the ground.

Both of my parents grew up in the suburbs of New York City.  Since my father was a musician, the two best places for him to find work were in New York City and Los Angeles, California.  Fortunately for my brother and me in 1939, the year before I was born, mom and dad decided to move to Los Angeles.

They traveled cross-country in a 1928 Dodge.  Back then, many of the roads they drove on were still gravel.

As a native Angeleno, I take warm weather entirely for granted.  I still remember how excited I was one Saturday morning in 1952 when Los Angeles actually had snow on the ground.  It was only about 1-1/2 inches, but it was snow.  Alas, I had a piano lesson that morning, so I didn’t even have a chance to make a snowball to throw at my brother (that’s what snow is for – right?) before it melted away.

Last Saturday night my daughter’s basement in Boston flooded. Even though she and her husband kept the water flowing, the far below freezing temperatures caused a pipe to burst. You can see the result in the photo that accompanies this blog.  Fortunately, they are renting the house, and did not personally store anything in the basement.

I should, but seldom, remember to give thanks every day for the fine weather in L. A.  Many blessings in life fall into our laps but taking the time to appreciate my good fortune always makes me feel better.

Of course, Daveen’s parents also moved to Los Angeles from somewhere else.  (Didn’t everyone?)  I’m certainly happy about that.  Meeting Daveen is another piece of good fortune I should take more time to appreciate.

In Los Angeles, where we consider any temperature of less than 50 degrees to be below freezing, we often forget to count the blessing of warmth.

So today I’m doing exactly that.

I’m not going to think about fires, earthquakes, and mudslides until tomorrow.

Alan

Every photo tells a story.  But some can unlock a treasured, and perhaps forgotten memory. Such is the case with the photo accompanying this blog – which was recently sent to me by Carolyn who was married to my brother David for many years.  Carolyn asked where it was taken and how old we were.

Looking at the photo brought back a cascade of happy memories.  I immediately recognized it as being taken at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii.  We had toured the naval base there in 1952, so my brother and I would have been nine and twelve respectively.

I remember the year because my father was a musician, and he had accepted a job with the Xavier Cugat band touring Japan and the Philippines for three months, leaving my brother and me at home with mom.  Their tour ended with a week of performances in Honolulu.

In 1952 there were no cellphones, so regular communication was difficult.  Mom decided to take David and me to Hawaii to meet Dad.  We stayed there for a week at a small motel near the beach at Waikiki.  Although he was surprised to see us, I’m not sure my dad would have approved the cost of the trip if he’d been asked in advance, but ultimately our vacation was memorable for all of us.

I remember swimming in the ocean near the Royal Hawaiian hotel during a rainstorm.  My dad pointed out the obvious – in Hawaii it was warm enough to swim, even while it was raining.  That was an experience that both surprised and delighted me.  It was a treat, especially for a 12-year-old kid.

Years later, when I returned to Waikiki as an adult, I was shocked.  The small motel and empty lots had long since been replaced by multiple high-rise buildings.  Clearly, Waikiki had increased in popularity over the years.

Some of my fondest memories are of our family vacations.  One year we drove from Los Angeles to Seattle then boarded a ferry to Vancouver Island to visit Victoria and the renowned Bouchard Gardens.  On the same trip we also visited the dormant volcano at Mount Lassen in California.

I hope that you and your family have enjoyed many trips together, and that from time to time you run across photos that still hold wonderful memories – a lasting reminder of those happy times.

Alan

How can you tell which office desk is mine?  I offer two clues.

First, if I’m in the office, I’m probably sitting behind it.  That seems obvious.

But secondly, unlike any other desk in my three-story office building, mine is always the messiest.

Years ago, I grew tired of searching through the multitudes of paper covering my desktop for the one piece of paper I needed, even though I usually knew exactly where it was.  So I spent an afternoon working with my assistant to clear everything off my desk.  We went through every paper and filed each one in its proper folder. When I left my office that day I was very pleased with myself.

I should have started an office betting pool as to how long my desktop would remain orderly.  Perhaps if I had bet on forever my desk would still be organized today because I don’t like to lose a bet.

But alas, my desktop remained clear for about nine months.  Then, one afternoon as I was leaving for the day, I noticed one piece of paper out of place on the desk.  This sparked an internal argument.

“Deal with that piece of paper right now, or it’s over,” I thought.

“I don’t want to.” I thought back.

I’ve noticed that whenever I argue with myself, I lose.  Of course, I also win.  In this case I was right about what would happen if I didn’t listen to myself. I left the paper on my desk, and the next day there were three pieces of paper out of place, and the next day fifteen, and then… It has remained cluttered ever since.  And “ever since” means about twenty years.

I’m writing this at home where, as you might expect, my desk is also cluttered.  Fortunately, my two large computer screens here hide most of the chaos.  But if I really looked, I bet I would find papers from four or five years ago. Sigh.

I also suspect that a standing joke in my office might be, “If you can’t find something, go look on Alan’s desk.”

Thank goodness for computers which force me to save documents in searchable files where I can easily find them.

That is what I call progress.

Alan