Dad could do everything. I remember him walking on his hands for us after coming home from work. He could still juggle in the last months of his life. His first love was golf and he was great at it. We would go the driving range, and you could hear the hush from nearby duffers when he crushed one with that beautiful swing of his. He also played great tennis, and said when he was in college, he played eight sports with his fraternity, to his Dad's dismay. He taught or tried to teach us all he knew -- dragging us to raquetball courts in the winter, and driving ranges and swimming pools in the summer.

He was constantly learning. He took a sculpture class; he macramed plant hangers (when that was something people did); he studied German for his business -- putting a sticker "der hund" on the dog; he played the clarinet after retiring; he read the plays of Tom Stoppard; and had to read Carl Hiaasen books out loud to share all the funny passages. He baked yeast bread, and wonderful cakes, and his Saturday pancakes were the best.

He could fix everything, build anything. He built our back deck when I was little, made our kitchen table, and made a sculpture for our garden. One test was cutting our dog's toenails, After it went horribly wrong one time -- he rushed little Alex outside to dunk her bleeding foot in the snow -- that became the vet's chore.