I miss my dad. He died at age 94 — way back last century. He was long-lived and
clung on, despite some 25 hospitalizations of at least a week’s duration.
But before you surmise this column is going to be one of those “I Remember
Mama” themes, let me assure you it is not. Throughout most of life (his),
I was far from his favorite son (there were five of us children), and Dad’s
younger brother moved in with us on the death of their mother.
But I’m introducing too many characters into this play, so I’ll say only that
Tio Juan could take any two digit number and multiply it by another
double-digit number and have the correct number even before my sister Bingy or
I could work out the answer with paper and pencil.
A ran into a man today who said he often read my columns and had lived for
years on my block on Railroad Avenue, the area I call “Tough Street.”
Long ago I christened my street because my friends and I may have fought a lot
among ourselves, but if gangs from other parts of town came knocking, my
friends and I became instant cohorts. Continue reading