Mayor Daley’s police broke my father’s arm when they rioted during the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. It was a memorable evening, but not all the memories match.

Stephen Barber, the only child of Clement and Margaret Barber was born at 4.30 am on Saturday,  December 24, 1921, at the American Mission Hospital in Tanta, an industrial town in the Nile delta where they ginned cotton and baked bricks.

My parents are buried on a wooded ridge above the headwaters of the James River in Virginia, he in a traditional casket and his favorite kimono, she, or more precisely her ashes, in a bottle of Roederer, her favorite champagne.