Hey Dad,
Right after my sixteenth birthday, you rented a car and packed us three girls up for a trip to Long Island, where you grew up, where you met and married Mom, and where all three of us were born. It was the first time you had taken us back since we moved to Maine in 1983 and you were super excited to show us where you grew up, and for us to visit with your family and friends

My memories of that whole trip are, on the whole, good. I remember how proud you were of us as your friends saw us for the first time in years, some of them the first time in decades. I remember how excited you were to find us good egg creams, since you lamented the fact that you didn’t have a seltzer tap at home to make them the way they’re made at a soda fountain. You took us into the City and we walked everywhere. You took us all over, including to Central Park West to Strawberry Fields (that was in the height of my obsession with The Beatles) and several Late Night with David Letterman hot spots (you were quite the Letterman fan). On the train back to your brother’s house, you scared the crap out of a young woman by sharply telling her to stop popping her knuckles. That was a huge pet peeve of yours and after you apologized for scaring her, you explained that the sound of popping joints just made you cringe.

You also took us to the beach that week. I think it was the first time I had ever spent any time on a sandy beach and you decided to teach us how to body surf. While patience wasn’t always your strong suit I remember how patient you were with us that day; you helped us pick out good waves and watched us to make sure that we didn’t get hurt. I remember I got super sunburned (one of the few truly bad sunburns I’ve ever had) and how you teased me about it. We didn’t take many vacations, this being one of two memorable ones I can remember taking with you. I wish there had been time for more.