The Royal Palm trees are magnificent here in Beverly Hills. On my run this morning, I found Palm Street, a neighborhood of mini-mansions with the distinctive touch of beautiful, towering royal palms lining each side of the street. In fact, I counted 126 of the three-foot diameter giants on each side, and the name of the street appropriately changed once they finally ended. What was remarkable to me was that they all appeared to be planted about the same time and that all were still in place like sentinels guarding each finely manicured yard. Little yard signs were a prominent fixture, reading, “It’s your Doo-ty…Pick It Up!” If Tinker, the Poopingest Pup on the Planet, was here with me on this trip I would be busy adhering to this request. Thankfully, my dog “dooties” are minimal when we travel, a wide deviation from the daily routine as a home body. Home or away, the running streak is a constant, standing at exactly 3400 days. 

I’ve decided to make my posts a little more visual going forward, so I plan to add a few more photos. This is the first time I’ve included two on a single post. I still feel like I’m a pen pal to an invisible friend, but mostly I’m just satisfying a need to write. You never know, these words (and now pictures) may live on long after I’m gone. If I should go to heaven, if there truly is one, I should at least have access to the cloud they are now saved on. Anne Frank did not have that advantage when she was constructing her diary on paper. I mention this because I find her to be a reoccurring influence on my writing. I finally got to see the Anne Frank exhibit at the Museum of Tolerance today. It was closed for the Jewish Holidays when I visited Los Angeles last fall. (See Post #299 and #300), so I made a point to go. When I went to buy a senior admission ticket, the woman behind the counter told me it was closed. I objected, explaining that I was from out of town and could not get in the last time. She explained that there were construction odors, but finally sold me a ticket. I thanked her and then countered by joking that I could “tolerate” the smell.

I have now visited the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam, read Diary of a Young Girl, and spent about an hour at this exhibit. I’m struck by the memories of her relatives, who were shocked by the maturity that were reflected in the words of this young teenage girl. They did not know her at all until they read her diary. She was better able to express her feelings thorough the imaginary diary friend Kitty than she was to her real life family and friends. Sometimes our words are more powerful than our voice, and I continue to find satisfaction in reflecting on my experiences through this blog. Every once and a while, I find a gold nugget and maybe you will too! Anne wanted to escape from her isolated life as a Nazi prisoner and grow up to be a writer, hoping that her words would live on forever. To paraphrase, she wanted to live-on after death through her words. This is the immortality that every writer seeks. Will I eventually be worthy of such an achievement? Thanks, Anne, for the inspiration.