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In that photograph, as in all others in which he appears, however informal, my father positioned himself so that the empty right sleeve of his coat cannot be seen.

In many ways, they were quite different. Mother was a book worm. I am sure that, literally, as soon as we were out of the house and on the way to school in the morning, she opened a book and read steadily until the late afternoon. She could lose herself so completely in a book that she was not conscious of the time. She would look startled when one of us told her it was nearly five o'clock. "Heavens," she would say, "and I haven't done a thing about dinner. Now let me think..." She momorized passages from the Bible and from her favorite poet, Tennyson. Another favorite was George Bernard Shaw. He would have been richly rewarded if he could have heard her laughing as she read some especially mordant line in his plays. Mother was a dreamer, a pixie who lived in the world of her impish and lively imagination.

My father on the other hand was essentially a man of action, an outdoor's man, practical, strong-willed, very