Remembering My Dad

When I was around 10 years old, I got really concerned about your habitual smoking. There was no Google yet and I had to rely on the bits of information from Mom's scolding (you must admit, those long sermons from Mom were informative) to indeed believe that smoking is bad for one’s health. One day I read an article in the newspaper, decided to cut it out, like you did on published court proceedings, and posted them on the refrigerator. I wish you'd read it. I know you did. You were just not the type who'd be convinced with write-ups on how smoking kills. We’d always remember that intractable disposition of yours. You lived life as you pleased. You knew then that life is short.



Rightmost, in black tie and white polo, is my Dad in 1963. He was 19 years old and with him were his brothers and cousins.