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were visiting. He once took me with him to Asia, and when he was done in Jakarta, he assigned me the job of arranging a trip to Borobodur. I found us a “local” hotel, and after a day there discovered why each of the small huts that served as our rooms was surrounded by an 8” high curb. The rains opened up just at dinnertime, but Dad was ready to eat, so he rolled up his pant legs and we waded to the dining building, propped our feet up on chairs in the flooded room, and were able to dine.

At home on Sundays, he would often cook a fabulous stew, carefully adding neat piles of meat, potatoes and vegetables, one after the other, culminating with seasoning the whole pot with a bottle of beer. And the Christmas roast was his affair.

My father was a lot of fun. He loved people and could remember names and stories for decades. He worked hard, leaving home at 7 AM, and rarely returning before 7 PM, but would still have time to help me with my math homework—extravagantly using a whole sheet of paper to help me see and write out all the steps in even the simplest calculation—a process which gave me a love of math, a subject I majored in at college at Cornell. My sister became an architect, I a science film maker.”

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