My dad was born on October 10, 1914 at 14th & Clark in St. Louis in the apartment above the saloon his family owned. As an adult he was tall and a bit pudgy in a way I’ve never been. His hair was always unruly; his clothes nearly always wrinkled.
He wore two shirts a day and shaved twice a day. He had a piercing, intense gaze, a keen intellect, and a good sense of humor. He loved to travel, loved exotic cuisines, worked harder than anyone else I’ve ever known, and was scrupulously honest. He loved to debate and encouraged it in his children. He spoke German as fluently as a native—learned at school, not at home.
He died rather suddenly at too-young an age. I’ve never gotten over it and I don’t think my siblings, all younger than I, have either.