In our family, credentials (as in doctor, lawyer, Indian chief) were (too) important. Life began ... after medical school.  Showing up at family events in the 1950s forward was like being on American Idol, surrounded by Simon Cowells dressed as uncles, aunts, cousins, extended family and friends, who peppered you with the Jewish cross examination: What are you studying (already)? Where will you go to school (already, why not Harvard)?  When will you graduate (already)? What will you be (already)?  When will you marry (rich, already)?  

A lot of pressure combined with love and salty, fatty foods.  As the youngest cousin, coming up was a tall ladder to climb, not to mention painful challenges in my immediate family that made it even harder. Despite the odds, I persevered and completed my Ph.D. at Columbia University (aka, I finally arrived).  I never knew how other people reacted until one day, many years later, Allan told me something sweet and powerful:  1) I was a hero because it was a miracle that I did it under the circumstances that I did, and 2) that his dad, darling Uncle Abie, harrassed dear lifelong family friend and neighbor, Willie Prezant, about it.  He harangued him and cornered him at the pool, saying, "Willie!  You know what?!  You know my niece, Laurie?  She got her doctorate! You hear?!  Listen, Willie!  Laurie, she's a doctor!!!!"  So sweet.  Thanks, Al.  Thanks Uncle Abe. 

One summer's day in the 1960s, our neighbor's daughter, Pauline Alpert, a typical brainy, liberal child of the '60s, engaged in a long political debate with my father, Harry.  The two sat outside on lawn chairs under the sun for what seemed an endless amount of time, when Pauline saw Allan approach.  

Exhausted, she got up and asked Allan to please take over the debate.  "Sure," Allan said, and sat down next to my dad, as Pauline lumbered away, spent.
Allan, who knew my father well, simply asked, "Uncle Harry, is there anything I could possibly say that could change your mind?"  "Nothing," my father replied. So Allan said, "Good, then let's eat." and off they went, laughing together, to grab a bite, while Pauline, bewildered, shouted back, "That's how you took over the fight?!"

One summer, I was in a group share house in Belmar at the Jersey shore with my close friend, Joyce Parseghian, who was also my roommate in the city.  Allan knew her and they got along famously.

Joyce was interested in a guy named Art who ran hot and cold and wasn't giving her the attention she wanted, so Allan came up with a plan.  One weekend, he said that he would take his son Mike, then about 8, deep-sea fishing, and they'd bring us what they caught (blue fish), which they did, in the middle of the night.  Allan told Joyce to invite Art for dinner, saying we had fresh-caught bluefish, and when he was there, to make him jealous by telling him that her date, this great guy named "Mike," caught it the night before for her. Worked like a charm!  We never mentioned that her date, Mike, was my 8-year-old cousin. 

(Meantime, poor little Michael was seasick the whole time, in the middle of the night on a boat, out on the choppy ocean, surrounded by older men and fish.  Sorry, Mike. It was for a good cause.)