This Father’s Day will be my 24th one. I only had 15 Father’s Days with my dad so I’m aware not to take any one of them for granted. But this Father’s Day will hold extra meaning for this may well be the last one my two sons will be home to celebrate with me in person. Son Number One leaves in 3 weeks for Salt Lake City, while Son Number Two leaves in 3 months for San Luis Obispo.
As s child, I still recall being super excited to celebrate both Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. After Christmas and my birthday, those were my two favorite special days of the year because it provided me an opportunity to thank my parents and show them how much I loved them.
Following in the footsteps of my older brother and sister, we would make our own greeting cards, and decorate the walls with oversized signs before they woke up in the morning. The highlight of the day, however, was watching them react to our cards, most often tearing up.
We weren’t the type of family who hugged a lot or said “I Love You” so the cards quietly, deeply exuded our feelings.
The greatest gift my parents gave to us three kids was in teaching us to be decent people. None of us kids ever got involved in serious trouble or drug use or unexpected pregnancies. To this day, the three of us remain close and much of it has to do with Mom and Dad.
Likewise, all my wife and I wanted in rearing our children was for them to be happy and successful people who contributed positively to society, knowing right from wrong.
We wanted our kids to be aware of the world’s wonders which is why so many of our family vacations were at national parks.
We also wanted our kids to have an interest in what was happening in the world so that they would be good citizens.
That’s why I would enthusiastically share with them a newspaper story or a “60 Minutes” segment of compassionate individuals such as the athlete who visited sick children in hospitals without publicity, or of the centenarian lawyer who helped defeat the Nazis and who still gets emotional thinking of the horrors that he saw.
As the days grow short before their departures, is there anything else I can do as a father or words of wisdom to pass on that I overlooked? Any old movies or songs that I need to play for them before they forever go out of my influence? One more Sinatra song? One more Astaire dance?
As each of them embark on a new journey—one to start a career, the other to start college—all my wife and I can do now is be observers. We had our two decades’ worth of bringing them up; now they are on their own.
Last Father’s Day, we traveled up to Montecito to eat breakfast at a favorite restaurant, an activity I normally abhor due to the crowds. But we hadn’t done much traveling for the previous two years so we made the nearly two-hour drive north to Lucky’s.
We asked the waitress to take a photo of us which has now become my desktop’s wallpaper, an image I see each morning I turn on the computer. And we will make the same venture up north this Father’s Day, and sit at the same exact table as we did last year, and have a new photo to memorialize the day. Just the four of us. And always have a memory of how happy our little family was before the little birdies left the nest.
[Note to Readers: If you were wondering what happened to my bi-weekly posts, my life got incredibly busy the past several weeks as you will read.]
I will always remember this week in May for the rest of my life. One day, my son has his college commencement, and by the end of the week, my other son will have his high school commencement. And I am a nervous wreck. Because not only are they both graduating, they both will be leaving home within a couple of months of each other, leaving my wife and I empty nesters.
The oldest just got his first job in his career after graduating college. However, he will have to move to Salt Lake City.
The youngest just accepted admission to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. However, he will have to move to the Central Coast.
All of this is positive, good stuff for sure.
So why the stomach aches and sleepless nights?
Because I am a parent.
Since I’m the world’s worst worry wart, I lay there in bed each night wondering: Is there anything else that I should teach my sons about life before my parenting influence expires?
Lately at birthday dinners and Mother’s day, I have made it a point to inform my family that “this may be the last time we four are all together.”
It sounds melancholy, but I want every one of us to absorb and appreciate the final moments as the lifespan of the four-member Crosby household comes to a close.
Of course, hopefully our sons will add to the mix partners and grandchildren.
In the meantime, my wife and I will play our version of Back to the Future as we return to the early years of marriage, just the two of us.
I knew this day was going to come, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.
I’ve spent so much time preparing my children for their independent life that I paid little attention to how we will live our life without them.
Two years ago, life was life. People went to work, children went to school. Folks went out to eat, attended sporting events and concerts, and traveled.
Two and a half months into 2020, the main news story was the presidential campaign between Trump and the crowd of Democratic candidates who were running against him.
Otherwise, life was humming normally.
Then, life stopped.
People didn’t go into the office, children stayed home from school. Restaurants closed, athletes played games without fans. Technology through streaming entertainment and Zoom sessions was all that connected us to the outside world.
The world was hunkered down inside because an invisible intruder was right outside our front doors. Covid-19.
By the time February 2022 rolled in, finally people started to feel more normal. The majority of us were vaccinated and we all grew to accept that Covid would be part of our lives though in a less lethal way. Going outside our homes and back into our normal routines without masks and gloves were not going to kill us.
Sure, consumer goods now cost more money and many items such as car parts and furniture are still taking much longer to arrive, but kids are back in school and many people have returned to their offices.
Then just as the world was regaining its footing, normalcy stopped again a few weeks ago when Russia invaded Ukraine, a massive war effort that had not been seen since the end of World War II. Suddenly, world peace was shattered and the threat of World War III has re-appeared.
Those of us 77 years old and younger have been very lucky to have lived during a time in human history when war on this scale was nonexistent. Oh sure, the fear of nuclear war hung in the air during the Cold War. And the Korean, Vietnam and middle east wars happened, but they paled in comparison to a world war.
But what we are witnessing in Europe, an aggressive Russia blindly invading another country, is disturbing.
Just when the nearly two-year feeling of unsettledness began to dissipate, the world seems shaky once again. It is one thing to fear a despot like North Korea’s Kim Jong-Un; quite another when it is Putin who has tanks rolling down city streets, bombing apartment buildings and hospitals.
Why does the world have villains like Putin?
One hopeful thing to keep in mind is this. No matter the challenges that have faced humans during crises, people have gone on with their personal lives. They continue to graduate school, get married, have children and find enjoyment within their own small existence even if it seems the whole world around them is crumbling.
A word that is used too often these days but worth embracing is compartmentalization. Yes, people need to be informed what is going on in the world, but that doesn’t mean one’s own life needs to be consumed with those troubles. You have to put away in your mind war and climate change and all the inequities that exist in society and not have it negatively impact the joy you can find in living your life.
Each of us may be lucky enough to live 70, 80, 90 years on this earth. We can’t control 99.99% of what goes on during our lifespan. However, that other 00.01% is in our hands. It is that infinitesimal part where we build beautiful memories of friends and places, holidays and babies.
Yes, get involved with making the world a better place by donating time and/or money. But if each person only put forth the effort to live their lives with decency and dignity, that bright light will shine on others. Just look at the courage of the Ukrainian people, standing up to evil no matter how mighty Russia may be.
How lucky most of us are that we don’t have to wake up to bombs exploding, seeing our neighborhoods in pieces.
Somehow those people, many with young children, are continuing with their lives even if it means leaving their homeland and husbands behind, traveling on crowded train cars to Poland. They have learned the hard way that they must persevere, must find an existence for their children that is safe so that they will live a full life.
This is eerily reminiscent of what other Ukrainians had to do over 100 years ago when the Cossacks were murdering the Jewish people. My maternal grandparents grew up in Kiev, and despite losing loved ones, they made their own treacherous trek westwardly through Europe traveling on a crowded ship across the Atlantic Ocean to Ellis Island. They, too, had the survival skills to go someplace where their remaining children could live their lives in peace.
No matter what my problems may be in my life, they don’t compare to what horrors my grandparents witnessed.
If it wasn’t for their survival and perseverance, I would not be sitting here today writing about their story. In a way, my grandparents conquered the Russians without using any weapons. And so shall the Ukrainians.
[said with a sigh] Now, I guess I’ll put some gas in that Plymouth.
So listen: I’ll leave the key in the sewing machine.
Greg, if you’ll drive Debbie to the car, she can drive it home.
I guess I’ll have to go to Hemet today, but I’ll try to be home before six, as Mom wants to go to the May Company.
I love you all very, very much so please take care of one another.
This was an audio recorded message my Dad left behind one morning in June of 1970.
It’s only 43 seconds long.
That is all us three kids have of our father’s voice.
A voice we haven’t heard for nearly 50 years. That is when our father died on Jan. 27, 1973 from lung cancer one month after reaching 60 years of life.
Dad often left handwritten notes behind on the dining room table whenever he left the house and all three of us were still asleep, our mother already gone to her 7:00 a.m. hospital job. His fatherly instinct to reassure his children that nothing has happened to him illustrates the type of loving dad he was.
I vividly recalled that Dad had left behind a vocal “note” to us kids one time. That morning, he must have been in a rush and decided recording a message would have saved time.
That recorded message of Dad’s was the impetus to get the old Columbia reel-to-reel tape machine repaired.
The 60-year-old tape recorder has been in my family since I was a small child. After my brother and sister moved away, it has always traveled with me, the youngest child, as I have moved. The last time the machine worked was 30 years ago.
When I went through cleaning my garage last summer, I was looking forward to plugging the old machine in to hear all 36 reels of tape again, each lasting an hour. I especially was interested in finding the few snatches of my Dad’s voice.
The tape recorder with the capacity for 7-inch reels has a twin auxiliary speaker with the same dimensions as the main machine: 16”x15”, 10” high.
The big difference between the two black boxes was the weight. I need to use both hands to pick up the main machine which weighs 35 pounds. The surface has a tacky feel to it, and the smell of the machine is one of childhood. A persistent hum like a heartbeat can be heard when turning it on.
So when I brought it out from the bottom compartment of a worn stereo cabinet that’s against the back wall of my garage, I set it up on the backyard patio where I have an electric outlet to plug it in.
To my major disappointment, the machine did not turn on. I looked at the thick gray power cord and noticed how the outside rubber had worn away. The machine had always worked reliably before, but time had finally taken its toll.
Imagine trying to find a store that would fix a reel-to-reel machine from the early1960’s. I might as well be looking for a blacksmith.
The internet did not provide me with much help. I could not find an image of my machine let alone any information that the Columbia company, famously known for recording music, ever manufactured their own machines.
Maybe I could find a place to rent a reel-to-reel machine especially in a media market such as Los Angeles?
Well, I did locate one place in North Hollywood which rents them out. However, when I saw the machine, it was a professional grade rather than a home consumer version, too complicated for a non-sound engineer like me to operate.
Surely, there would be a library which had reel-to-reel equipment for visitors to play audio recordings.
The Los Angeles Central Library in downtown does have such a room, but due to the pandemic, it has remained closed for two years.
Finally, at my local camera store (another relic from the past), the owner located a man who would repair the machine at the princely sum of $600.
What could I do? It was my only option to ever hear these tapes again, the only option to ever hear my father’s voice again.
Most people alive today have a hard time grasping that once upon a time there weren’t any recording devices except for audio tape.
Home video didn’t become common until the 1970’s; digital formats arrived in the late 1980’s.
So having a home audio recording device was a major deal. That is why so much of what us kids recorded 60 years ago sounds silly to hear today, inconsequential nonsense just because we had the ability to place a microphone in front of a TV speaker to record a whole movie that we could at least hear again.
In the 1960’s, if there was any movie or TV show you wanted to view again, you had to wait until it reappeared either on the big screen or the boob tube.
Other recordings were of us three kids pretending to be a DJ on the radio. We would introduce current songs playing on Top 40 radio stations and introduce them. The only worthwhile thing from these tapes is that it provides a time stamp when they were made. I was able to look up a song and find its released date. After all, oldies radio stations did not exist back then so all the popular music being played was new.
When 8-millimeter home movies became popular in the 1950’s and 1960’s, people could permanently record their loved ones on film, though without sound.
However, not until consumers had video camcorders in the late 70’s was it possible to record both sound and picture.
And that is what makes those 43 seconds of audio tape of my Dad so precious. Yes, we do have home movies in which he appears, but they are silent. And he is the one family member who was the least filmed of all five of us because he was the primary cameraman.
Once I picked up the repaired machine, I anxiously started playing each reel. Unfortunately, most of the tapes have incorrect labeling requiring me to listen to each 30-minute side.
Since so much of the taped material is not worth archiving, I quickly tired of listening to every bit and began fast-forwarding a few minutes at a time so that I didn’t go past any important recording.
On the third day I hit pay dirt. I was fast forwarding a tape, then stopped it. When I pressed “play” again, I heard my Dad talking to me—for the first time in half of a century. It was chilling and thrilling.
There was his gravelly fatherly voice, full of emotion, recorded with the microphone quite close to his mouth giving it an intimacy and aliveness.
His voice sounded older than the late 50’s chronological age that he was. The cancer may have already begun growing inside of him. But nothing could diminish the love that he always had for his children.
Immediately I had both my brother and sister on two separate phones and told them, “Listen to this,” then played Dad’s recording.
It was a special moment for all three of us. There was Dad alive again speaking directly to us.
It was as if he was talking to us from beyond especially the last part where he firmly reminds us to “please take care of one another,” emphasizing “please.” He didn’t like it whenever us kids fought one another; he loved us too much to have to come home with reports about our behavior that day.
He would have been pleased how close all three of us have remained in the decades since his death. Perhaps the void he left tightened the bond.
My sister pointed out that it wasn’t just a coincidence that as I was scanning this audio tapes, I happened to stop at one point in fast-forwarding, pressed play, and there was our father’s message to us from a half of a century ago.
Over 60 years ago, the film “West Side Story” was released to much acclaim, earning 10 Oscars including for Best Picture.
Now, famed director Steven Spielberg has made a remake of the classic Jerome Robbins/Leonard Bernstein/Stephen Sondheim musical, directed by Robert Wise, and one of the finest movies ever done based on a popular Broadway musical.
If any other filmmaker did this, I would have shunned the film. But I can’t not see a Spielberg movie so I went ahead and saw it.
Overall, I liked it and thought Spielberg did a wonderful job. He has the rare gift of knowing how to photograph a musical, a job often botched by modern film directors, by framing the full length of the dancers so the audience can take in all the movements. And I loved the way the opening and closing credits were designed using cityscapes.
Still, as I exited the theater, I was left with the same question I had when I first read he was doing this: why do it?
Several changes have been made for the 2021 version: all actors are cast based on their ethnicity, the scenes with solely Puerto Rican actors are spoken in Spanish, the role of Doc has been replaced with his wife Valentina, and the backstories of Tony and Bernardo have been changed.
Some of these changes are fine while others aren’t. For example, the idea of casting 89-year-old Rita Moreno (who won Best Supporting Actress in 1961 as Anita) as the new character Valentina was inspired. First, it makes a beautiful connection to the original film. Second, giving her “Somewhere” to sing instead of Maria and Tony deepens the call for tolerance, not only for the main characters but for all couples who have mixed heritage including her late husband, a beautiful coda to Moreno’s film career. It is the emotional epicenter of the film.
Less successful was the new information that Tony was in a jail for a year for almost killing a man. And now Bernardo is a boxer. Both of these backstories muddle the plot.
While the dancing in the new film is quite good, it doesn’t match the Jerome Robbins’ choreography of the original. I was most disappointed with how much critics have raved about the 2021’s dancing. It made me wonder when was the last time these critics saw the Jerome Robbins’ choreography or the athleticism of many of the dancers especially Russ Tamblyn? Critics should know their history.
While I thought the dancing in the new version was good overall, the “America” number being a highlight, I was more impressed with Spielberg’s use of intimate tracking shots which made the dances more exhilarating than they were.
The weakest scene in the new version is the most critical scene in the musical: the student dance where Tony and Maria first meet. In Wise’s version it is quite magical and dreamlike, with vibrant colors. In Spielberg’s version it is unremarkable behind the bleachers with too much talking.
Neither version casted Tony with an actor that is memorable which I found odd since that was usually the one blemish often mentioned (besides the fact that Natalie Wood’s singing was dubbed) was Richard Beymer’s blandness. For me, Ansel Elgort is too slight of an improvement to make much of an impact.
And while in today’s times a major deal is made about casting Maria with a Puerto Rican actress, to me nothing compares to the charm of Wood.
If there was no earlier version of this musical until now, I would be more enthusiastic about this version. I wish Spielberg would try his hand at another musical, but one that wasn’t already made into a movie.
Each year when the Christmas season begins, I vow to soak in as much goodwill as I can. Whether it is through hearing songs that transport me back to a time when I was little boy, or spending time with my family reminiscing about our past Christmases, or TV shows or movies that always touch me.
It is a melancholy feeling knowing that with each year’s joy of celebrating the holidays means one less year I will have in my life’s limited time clock to celebrate.
Which is why I overdo the celebrations each year, stretching myself to watch one more “Ozzie and Harriet” Christmas show, begin playing Christmas music a few days earlier into November, putting up the outdoor deer and sleigh on our front yard around Thanksgiving, going out one more night driving around blocks to capture the joy of the neighbor’s light displays, or keeping the Christmas tree up one more day to take in the pine smell, oxygen for the soul.
My wife and I recently bought a Countdown to Christmas decoration which requires us to place a toy Santa doll into each pocket of the month of December ending on the 25th. It seems just as soon we begin on Dec. 1 all of a sudden it is Dec. 21. Time goes by too fast.
I want to keep pushing a “pause” button so that I can continue baking cookies, listening to the music, visiting favorite restaurants decorated with colors and sounds, and spending time with friends and family.
At this time of year, I childishly hold on to the crazy idealistic belief that people of all kinds make an effort to be kinder towards strangers. There is only one human race. We have so much in common, why waste our time fighting one another as if we were from a different race?
As many songs say, why can’t this Christmas feeling stay with us the whole year through? Why do we accept ugly behavior for 11 months of the year, just to wait for one month to act human, to hold a door open for someone, to allow a driver ahead of us, to donate time or money for those less fortunate?
I just saw a piece on CBS’s Sunday Morning show where a wealthy benefactor visits impoverished neighborhoods to give $100 bills to those needy people. And what stood out to me wasn’t when the camera captured his handing out the money, but when he spoke kindly about a complete stranger, telling a mother how much a wonderful person she was to her children. That is when tears streamed down their faces as well as mine. The money was just an excuse to touch other people, reminding them that their lives matter, no matter who they are or how they live.
I wish I could soak in more stories like this one for it reminds us of how charitable we all can be towards others.
With January around the corner, however, we will have to wait again for December to see these stories that ring emotional bells within us; in other words, to feel humane.
Raise your hand if you ordered an appliance in recent months and had to wait or continue to wait for its arrival.
Welcome to my club.
Back in September, something happened which led to my wife and I ordering a new refrigerator.
No, the condenser did not stop working.
After 27 years, our first and only refrigerator has lasted as long as our marriage. Before we had children, before we had dogs, before we had the house we have lived in for 22 years, there was this basic but humble white refrigerator in what used to be the standard configuration: top freezer section, bottom fridge section. It was made by GE back when GE products were quality appliances (not true anymore—we are on our third over-the- range microwave in 20 years).
The event that happened that led to a new refrigerator purchase was spilled yogurt.
One morning as I reached beyond my son’s gigantic tub of yogurt to reach for the half and half for my coffee, my hand came back with the carton of cream—and the yogurt container came out with it, lid flying off, gooey white slop slapping its way into every nook and cranny in the kitchen.
As I was on my knees wiping away the mess, I noticed that the insulation on the bottom of my refrigerator had disintegrated, worn away, withered like an old man.
“Well, it’s time for a new refrigerator” sprung out of my mouth to my wife.
And now the fun begins.
We live in a 1953 house whose charm we have embraced since we bought it. When we renovated our kitchen over 20 years ago, despite the granite countertops, islands and stainless steel trends that were gaining steam at the time (and now has turned every kitchen into a carbon copy of everyone else’s), we stood fast and put in new tiles, installed beaded white cabinets and kept our white appliances.
Since we did not enlarge the kitchen footprint, a visitor would think the kitchen is small. But for us, like Goldilocks, it is just right.
However, do you know how difficult it is to find a white refrigerator these days? It’s like locating a car with a stick shift.
Plus, the built-in space for the fridge is not quite as tall as 70 inches, meaning, 90 percent of the refrigerators even in white would not fit.
That’s where Guillermo comes in.
He is the manager or our local Pacific Sales store. In late September we came to him with our dimensions and requirements and he was able to locate one, only one, refrigerator that checked all the boxes.
It was a Fisher & Paykel, a New Zealand company I never heard off even though they have been business since 1934. The only drawback was its staggering price that was more than all of our currently appliances combined.
“Oh well,” I rationalized, “this will be the last refrigerator we will ever get.”
The order was placed and, lucky us, the computer showed one in stock and would be delivered within 3 weeks.
Two days before the October delivery date I received a call from the delivery company notifying me that the warehouse did not have the product.
One thing I learned about Guillermo is that no matter how many phone messages I leave, nothing gets his attention more than me appearing directly in front of him; even with a mask on, he knows me.
It turned out that the computer showing the in-stock fridge was an error.
The new delivery date was December 3.
As I changed the monthly calendar attached to our freezer door, my wife and I’s excitement increased, anticipating our new refrigerator. Since it would have French doors, no longer would the passageway between the dining room and kitchen be blocked whenever someone opened the fridge. My wife even designed how our food items would be organized in the new space. At least we would have it arrive before Christmas.
Like déjà vu, my phone rang on Dec. 1. No fridge. New delivery date: Feb. 4, 2022.
During this journey, I have read enough stories about the worldwide supply chain crisis to make me a guest on “60 Minutes.” I have called Fisher & Paykel directly a few times, each time a customer service representative contradicting what another told me. One woman informed me that the product I ordered was now “obsolete.” The man who answered the phone in Costa Mesa, the U.S. headquarters for the company, said that it wasn’t so.
Guillermo has assured me that a fridge with my purchase order is attached to a freighter making its way towards the Port of Long Beach. Too bad I don’t have a honing device so I can track it’s journey across the Pacific on my laptop.
I know we are lucky that we still have a working refrigerator. Other people have had to settle buying something that they didn’t want in order to have a fridge.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Old Betsy (the pet name for our still working GE fridge) doesn’t give out in the meantime. Hopefully she is not the jealous type.
The year 2021 will be known for many things with the number one item at the top being the endless coronavirus that stubbornly is still hanging around preventing normalcy to return.
However, something lighter and brighter also happened in 2021: See’s Candies celebrated their 100th anniversary. To commemorate the event, the company issued special new candies each month, available for a limited time.
During the pandemic, I consumed more See’s than I normally would in 2-3 years—the ultimate comfort food. One reason for my lifeline to See’s was that a person could easily order candy and have it home delivered during the quarantine period when most businesses were shut down.
The first See’s Candies shop I knew was on San Fernando Blvd. in downtown Burbank. My mom would take our family there a few times a year.
See’s would usually be the chocolate of choice for Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day presents.
Over the years my tastes have changed. As a kid, I always preferred the milk chocolate cremes over all other selections. Towards the middle part of my life, I leaned towards the pre-boxed nuts and chews assortment over the cremes. Now I hand select my favorite dark chocolate pieces: Scotchmallows, almond nougats, butterchews, walnut squares, and, of course, Bordeauxs.
What is extra special about See’s is how little has changed no matter which parent company runs it. One can only pray that this remains true.
Every See’s Candies shop is identical in design no matter what city you are in. The black and white motif, the uniforms of its employees, the sound of chocolates delicately placed in protective corrugated wrappers, the smell (oh, the smell) that enrobes you like a piece of chocolate. The delightful display case of all the goodies that goes on forever, and the self-serve shelves of pre-packaged goodies.
The one thing that has changed over the years is that only women used to work in the stores. Now you will see some men. I prefer the ladies serving chocolate, thank you very much. Why? Because it reminds you of a mother figure and even a Mary See figure serving you the delicacies, you know, the person who adorns every box, the person without whom this 100-year-old candy company would have never existed.
It was her son Charles who started selling his mother’s candy in Los Angeles back in 1921.
Living in a time when so much change flashes by us in a blur, how comforting and soothing it is knowing that See’s Candies remains steady. No shortcuts in its ingredients. And still rather affordable for quality chocolate.
Believe me, I have tried other candy companies. Whenever I travel, I look for the local chocolatier and taste their wares. I’ve hunted online for the “oldest” candy store in a vicinity and ordered from many. There are several delicious boxes of chocolates out there—my second favorite is Lowery’s in Muncie, Indiana (which still rolls its pieces by hand)—but few match the taste, the size (the See’s pieces are larger than most) or the consistent quality than See’s Candies.
May it last another 100 years. And may the final thing I eat before I die be a dark Bordeaux chocolate.
When New Yorker Irving Berlin wrote the opening to his iconic “White Christmas,” he was suffering from a warm December day while vacationing in Beverly Hills.
The introduction, rarely recorded or known, goes like this:
The sun is shining, the grass is green The orange and palm trees sway There’s never been such a day In Beverly Hills, L.A. But it’s December the twenty-fourth And I am longing to be up North
All my life I have been in the South, Southern California that is, and have only known warm or even hot holidays. Forget a white Christmas; I’d settle for a sunny but brisk 65-degree holiday.
Unfortunately, the chance of a cold or rainy Thanksgiving or Christmas is extremely rare. If the temperatures stop rising at 79 degrees, I consider it better than the 93-degree Thanksgiving that sweltered Burbank in 2017.
Watching those TV commercials with people bundled up in sweaters and parkas, making their way through snowy landscapes taunts me: that fantasy has never materialized.
And with the way the weather has become warmer in recent decades, the future looks hotter.
I know that me griping about warm weather during the fall and winter months places me among the minority of Angelenos. I am never happy when a weathercaster appears joyful describing a warming trend or gloomy when predicting a few raindrops in the forecast.
Here we are a week before Thanksgiving and I’ve only had one fire in the fireplace so far because the nighttime temperatures have barely edged below 55 degrees.
For me, cooler days invigorates me while the hot ones depletes my energy even with indoor air conditioning.
I keep promising myself that one of these Decembers I will trek to a colder climate and spend a week in a mountain cabin and actually see it snow on Christmas Day.
In the meantime, I’ll have to live with not Christmas in July, but July in Christmas.
Have you ever had one of those days? You know, where everything seems to go wrong.
Mine began with taking my wife to her pharmacy to pick up some medicine.
Usually it takes 20 minutes or so for this prescription to be filled. But after that time passed with a text that her order was ready, my wife went back inside to check on what was going on.
The woman at the counter told her that they didn’t have her medicine in stock after all and for her to return tomorrow.
Flustered, we went home. Why didn’t the employee notice on the computer screen that the medicine was out of stock when my wife first checked in?
Shortly after returning home, you probably can guess what happened next.
Yep, the pharmacy texted my wife that her prescription was ready.
If only that was the worst thing that happened that day.
When we got home, we had an ant attack in our main bathroom. For the past few days we monitored a few ants here, a few there, and applied poison to where we thought they were entering. Obviously they are cleverer than us in finding new ways inside.
So we killed the ants, cleaned up the mess, sprayed again.
A short while later when my son was washing clothes, my wife went to that same bathroom with the ants to discover that we had backup in the toilet, shower and tub.
Just 6 weeks earlier we had our main line rotor rootered.
Plus, two days earlier we had the plumber rotor rooter the clean out next to our laundry room and thought that problem was solved.
Luckily, the plumber was able to come out a short while later and snake the main line.
However, that was just step one on solving our ongoing sewer line issues.
Clearly, something is wrong with the pipe from our house to the city line. This will entail hiring another plumber who has a camera who can videotape what is going on in the line. Most likely, this 68-year-old house has its original claypipe. I researched the longevity of clay pipes: 50-70 years.
In other words, I’m going to have to replace the old pipe with new PVC pipe that will deter roots from penetrating. Unfortunately, my line is at least 100 feet long. I covered my eyes when I found online that this excavation and replacement can range anywhere from $3,000 to $6,000.
I needed a drink.
As my wife was calming me down from all this excitement, since the temperature outside was also rising, I put on the air conditioner. It wasn’t working. Great!
I added that phone call to my other list of calls to make in the morning.
But we’re not done.
My wife discovered that our other toilet had overflooded. But our main line was just cleared.
It makes one fantasize about putting the house up for sale and moving to a brand new home anywhere.
Ah, the pleasures of home ownership!
There are times when one is glad that there are only 24 hours in a day.