Having said that, I will try and kick it off with one of my own. It is somewhat daunting to cull fifty-five years to pull out an exemplary memory at the risk devaluing the others. However, as I drift over the timeline, there is a period that comes particularly into focus. 1968. I was eight, an age when the first memories that are somewhat reliable are formed, and when you still believe that everything your dad says is true. Looking back, I can see the rack of meerschaum pipes, the old rolltop desk from which a multitude of businesses were formed, and the Eames chair in which the meerschaum pipes were smoked.

And there was the kitchen table in the back. There dad would tell me stuff. Some of it boring, like anything to do with business; some of it exciting, like how sweltering hot it was under the riot gear when manning the lines during the riots or why his hand was bandaged because a ferocious dog tried to prevent him from cuffing its owner; and sometimes a fatherly bequest such as some sage advice on equality given before I boarded the bus when Berkeley became the first voluntarily integrated school district. I didn’t question it; it just seemed like truth. And for some reason, that is the memory that crystallized for me.

Forty five years later, I came to appreciate why; the sage advice wasn’t just about the times and the situation, it was about life; it was about treating people with respect, tipping well, and not whining. And I came to appreciate it because that’s how he lived, and indeed, how he departed – fully engaged and on his own terms.

I do have survivors guilt for my younger siblings who did not have the supreme luxury of growing old with him as I did. I miss our Sunday calls, and the everyday events that were fodder for our conversations have become dulled and less relevant for lack of a recipient. But the grief is tempered by a profound and enduring gratitude that I was lucky enough to have him as my father.