July 2, 1995.  My dad took me to see “Phantom of the Opera” in Philly at the Forrest Theatre.  We were way up in the balcony so he bought me a pair of $10 binoculars.  I was in awe.  I’d memorized the words, the music – I’d perfected my own blocking and motions in my mind… and then I watched it play out the way it was actually, formally intended.  Afterwards, we went to Friendly’s, and my dad thought it would be funny to embarrass me by rolling some of my little brother’s toy cars across the table at me.  He got about ten seconds of chuckling in before I grew beet red, and he finally took mercy on the poor 12 year old girl in front of him.

“Human life is composed of memories and hopes interwoven with the fleeting moment. We cannot live in the past because it is not ours, it is set and we cannot change it. Nor can we live tomorrow today, for we do not yet possess it. We have only the present moment.” -my dad, from his thesis, 1956.

My dad was the best man I’ll ever know.  And for that, I’m very fortunate.  Fifteen years with him as my dad, I’d choose over fifty years with anyone else, hands down.