When I was active in high school and college debate I used a lot of evidence to support my arguments and I often referenced or quoted an expert to back up my position.  During the years when I was actively involved in debate (1955-1961), no expert predicted the future beyond 1975.  Accordingly, that date became a kind of time-barrier in my mind.  I thought that after 1975 we would all metaphorically drop off the edge of the earth, like Columbus sailing to America.

A second time-barrier that I didn’t even think about then, or ever, was my 80^th birthday, which actually snuck up on me last week.  As a kid and teenager I didn’t know anyone that old.  In fact, anyone older than 60 was ancient.  Right?

No more.  I’m not ancient.  I’m just experienced.

Though I experience lower back pain when I walk, an occasional mental recess when I try to remember names or places, and difficulty hearing conversation in a noisy restaurant, I still feel great.

Seriously, though, it’s difficult for me to be serious about my age.  After all, my dad lived to be 104, and for the last 50 years he didn’t seem to be much older than I was.

On my 80^th birthday Daveen and I shared a memorable dinner with friends, and I started to think about the important lessons I have learned during the past eight decades.

1. Everyone has different preferences and values. Daveen and our three daughters are Vegans.  They could be right.
2. The only person who suffers when I get upset is me. So I am seldom bothered by anything I can’t control.
3. I am not in charge of what happens to me, but I am in charge of my reaction. See #2.
4. Many people care about me, as I care about them. That’s a large part of what keeps me going.
5. Different ages, different stages. I’m throwing out or giving away clothing and treasures that I’ve accumulated over many years.
6. I’ve led a complicated life.  Now it’s time to simplify and relax a little.  I prefer working an eight hour day rather than a twelve hour day.

Happy Birthday to you, whatever day of the year that may be.

Alan

When I was eighteen, I received a $1,000 bequest from my grandmother.  It was a godsend.  I used the money, together with all of my savings, to buy a new car.

My proud purchase was a metallic blue VW Bug that cost all of $1,800.  I had found the best price from a dealer eighty miles from my home. On the drive back, the Bug was really sluggish and wouldn’t go any faster than 45 miles per hour.  When I parked my new car on the street in front of my home I discovered the reason – I had left the emergency brake on during my entire trip.

Fortunately, no great damage was done, and once again I offer grandma my thanks.  Today I drive a Tesla that accelerates so fast it’s ludicrous. I’m not sure it has even heard of an emergency brake.

Now I’m preparing to distribute what remains of my dad’s estate which will go in equal shares to his eight grandchildren.  I’m sad to think that the sum total of what my dad accumulated during his entire 104 years on this earth now rests in a single bank account.  A long life, reduced to eight bequests to his closest remaining family.

Dad, is that all you, or I, or anyone else, leaves behind?

Absolutely not!  Your essential bequest is so much more.

You left behind immeasurable, non-monetary gifts, including the gift of life to your two sons and eight grandchildren.  You left behind unforgettable memories of travel. Our 14-day driving trip from Los Angeles to Victoria, B.C. when I was sixteen was my favorite. You left a legacy of wisdom. Whenever I complained to you about the problems of my business you would say, “If there weren’t problems they wouldn’t need you.” Mostly you left the treasure of your love for all of your family, your many students, and countless friends. Last year almost 100 students, friends, and family members gathered for the celebration of your life.

In a few weeks I will be mailing out eight checks.  While they will be welcomed by your grandchildren, I’m sure that when the reckoning of your value and contribution is totaled up, all of us will appreciate most your flair, your being there for us, and the many years we enjoyed together.

Thank you.  Each of us should be as fortunate in the bequests we leave behind.

Alan

February 13, 2020

Dear David,

Today would have been your 77^th birthday.  I’m sorry you won’t be here to celebrate with us, but Daveen and I keep a box of the Bubble Bears we bought for your funeral, and we’re going to take them out and blow a few bubbles today in your honor.

I’m not sure that will do you any good, but it will help us to know that as long as we are alive those who love you will remember, each in their own way, your enthusiasm, warmth, and love of life.

Our lives today are different than they were in 2003, although in many ways they are the same.

All of us are seventeen years older, and there is a difference between being 15 and 32, or 63 and 80 as I will be in a few weeks. David, that’s enough time for your oldest niece to grow up – from age ten to becoming an MD in residency at an Ivy League hospital.

My days seem long when I think of all I fill them with, but short when I calculate how many have come and gone between your birthday today and your unexpected death — 6,067 days ago.

My days are the same in that we live in the same neighborhood, appreciate the same restaurants, and still enjoy a family Christmas celebration together each year.  So in some ways you’re only missing more of the same, perhaps with a little more daily exercise now, to keep our bodies moving.

We enjoyed dinner recently at a sushi restaurant with Dr. Fan, who recalled that you had an appointment with him two days after you died.  His office called your number but, of course, there was no answer.  At dinner Dr. Fan said, philosophically, “Some patients don’t like to see the doctor.”  He’s retired now, and has referred us to a young doctor who is excellent.

I know that your life-long quest was to avoid growing old, and you succeeded.  Frankly, being a “senior citizen” is not all bad.  I have a deep sense of acceptance, especially of myself, so my physical state is, well, it is what it is, which isn’t acceptable.  My mind is working fine, and my mood is generally excellent.

Dad died last May at the age of 104.

As you know, you and I learned to live very much in the moment.  I still do, so I seldom say I miss anyone.

I will say that I miss you.  I always will.

Love,

Alan