See, my father was a very demanding man, also loving and indulgent, generous to a fault—and fun.

More to come….

First a comment on comments: I do love comments. Thank you, Pat Cooley, wherever you are.

I still haven’ t finished today’s blog. I have a few letters to write.

Till soon.

Well, not that soon. I wrote a couple of letters and then I needed to recharge the laptop battery so I sat out on the balcony to recharge me with an ice cream bar and a big novel I’ve been reading in my spare time (hah!).

Now, about my father. He had a demanding father, too. My grandfather wanted to be entertained by his family at dinner. So they all learned to perform, in a way, and cheered each other on. All of them were delightful dinner companions in later life. My father had an additional reason for wanting a happy dinner hour.

Just the good news, please.

As a family doctor he heard sad stories from sick people every day. So he wanted good news from his family, not necessarily funny stories, but not sad ones. I was actually sent home from school twice, once with mumps and once with chicken pox. My father had checked me out in the morning,, pronounced me well and I was sent off.

We were supposed to be well, just the two of us, my brother and me, and bright. I was four years younger than my brother so I didn’t have as broad experience as he had. He had eclectic reading tastes. He had anecdotes and interesting facts that he learned from his reading. That’s when and why I learned hat I had to justify my existence every evening at dinner-time. I reported my achievements at school: a good grade on an essay or a test, something I had learned how to do. I couldn’t make things up because there were always regular report cards that my father would check.

That pressure to achieve has stayed with me all my life. I goof off, which I have been doing a lot lately, and I have failed to justify my existence.

Well, today I wrote a blog.