April 1 is never really April Fools Day, for me, but rather it is the birthday of my grandpa Abe, the person I most liked to have pick me up and hold me when I was a little boy. He died of cigarette smoking in 1972, but today is the 99th anniversary of his and his monozygotic twin’s births, in the Bronx to fairly recent Jewish immigrants from western Russian Empire unpleasantness.
The family trade was printing, so he did stuff of the layout and printing variety in his occupational endeavors.
He painted as a hobby, and liked Tchaikovsky and, judging by his record collection, Beethoven, though I only remember Tchaikovsky. For breakfast he always had light toast, with orange marmalade, and I think cream cheese, though I don’t remember for sure. I don’t remember what he had to drink.
