In this issue
For the past few years, I have been working quite hard on a major research project: finding one ugly grandchild within these United States.
Everywhere I go, the response is ubiquitous: No one has an ugly grandchild. My deadlines are fleeting, my funding will dry up and my research project is doomed.
The blind love affair between grandparents and grandkids seems universal. Only one person has taken me aside to whisper, “I don't have any ugly ones, but I know someone who does....” And even he refused to name names.
Tom Hunt, Anita's Cocina
Succession planning is a tough process because it never ends. Just when you think it's finally finished, some unexpected event forces you to rethink the whole thing. Maybe it's an unanticipated buyer. A divorce. Or—as happened at Wang Laboratories, Schwinn bicycles, Learjets and Steinway pianos—your sudden recognition that your chosen successors may not have what it takes. Then it's back to the drawing board.
On April 30, 1975, the day the government of South Vietnam fell, Helene An and her three young daughters escaped to Manila on one hour's notice. There she was reunited with her husband, Danny An, a colonel in the Vietnamese Air Force. A month later the family flew to San Francisco. Helene was a descendant of the Tran family, once Vietnamese royalty, and Danny belonged to a prosperous family of industrialists and bankers. But they arrived in America empty-handed.